Faith and fortune

"I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value."
(Hermann Hesse)

I was playing Phil Ochs' haunting "There But For Fortune" this morning when today's date dawned on me. Folk singer, activist and unequivocal humanist Ochs wrote the song in 1963, fifty years ago. Thirteen years later, his disillusionment with humankind and his personal demons drove him to take his own life. I've always found it bleakly sad that a young man who defended universal human rights so passionately would perceive his own life so without value or salvation at the age of thirty six.
And today is the twelfth anniversary, for the want of a more fitting word, of "9/11". Ochs' words resound eerily across half a century:
"Show me the country, where the bombs had to fall;
show me the ruins of the buildings, once so tall,
and I'll show you a young land
with so many reasons why;
there but for fortune may go you and I."
More than a decade ago, the tallest of the tall crumbled and the most powerful nation on earth was brought to it's knees, in grief, despair, fear and faith. Yet this 11th September, as the new and gleaming World Trade Centre building points skywards once again, the United States and others debate the most reasonable response to the reports of gassed and burnt children in Syria.

My Mum used to say "There but for fortune", or sometimes "There but for the grace of God". She essentially meant that the misfortunes of others could so easily happen to us all: be thankful for the gift of life and it's blessings. I used to wonder whether the grace of God could be seen as fortune or favour; can faith and fortune ever overlap? 

I have an atheist friend who, year after year now, has demanded what God was doing as the planes hit the Twin Towers. He will no doubt be questioning the existence of a higher power today, as the terrible aftermath of chemical warfare seeps from the tea-time news. My response to him has at least always been constant. I believe that God created mankind and gave us the gifts of life, knowledge and willpower. Man has repeatedly chosen the ways of war, segregation and destruction. Man commits atrocities, not God. Man's use of knowledge and reason can not only limit the devastation of what we sweepingly deem "acts of God", but could limit the impact of future disasters. I mean no disrespect to anyone in saying again that if we all truly believed in a loving God, we could not take up arms against each other His name, regardless of whatever that name might be.

Faith is an acceptance of fortune, but not complacency. I honestly believe that faith opens doors that mankind can't even get a handle on. Today the incisive shard of light that is the One World Trade Centre rises from Ground Zero as the tallest building in the western hemisphere. It's a defiant beacon in the face of terrorism and natural disasters; many fortunes may be made and lost there. As I type this, New Yorkers are gathering in it's long shadow to commemorate the moment the first plane hit the Twin Towers. We rebuild beautifully and respectfully, as we debate, apparently endlessly, whether we should bomb and break elsewhere.
Whether you sympathise with politicians of any flavour or none, whether you are a fan of Barack Obama or not, their anxiety over Syria as fellow human beings is palpable on this day. We can prevaricate and protest and preach and we can pray. There but for fortune go you and I.

"We may lack riches, but the greatest fortune is what lies in our hearts."
(Dean Koontz)

"There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat."

(William Shakespeare)

 

 

"There But For Fortune"  Phil Ochs

Pride without prejudice

  

"What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars."
(William Wordsworth)

 

The celebration now known as "Brighton Pride" is now in it's 40th year. Incredibly, the first march or parade was a smallish affair organised by the Sussex Gay Liberation Front in 1973; a mere seven years earlier and such a gathering of predominantly openly"out and proud" homosexuality could have culminated in custodial sentences. As in recent years, this Brighton Pride Weekend of 3rd and 4th August saw gay police officers from the city marching at the height of the parade. For the sixth successive year, they were joined by gay officers from the Hampshire and Isle of Wight constabularies, men and women and all proudly in uniform.
The Pride festivities are now organised by a specially created community-interest company, enabling and producing events that celebrate lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and trans-gender lives. The weekend now extends beyond the parade and the music festival in Preston Park to include a city-wide arts and film festival. Brighton Pride always aims to raise not only awareness, smiles and spirits but also funds for local community groups and charities. These essentially include HIV and AIDS support groups. As a former voluntary carer and fundraiser for the Terrence Higgins Trust, I'm always heartened to see THT's friendly and inclusive presence at such events. This year, it's estimated that more than £40,000 has been raised for the collective "Rainbow Fund".
In fact, general inclusivity across the parade and celebrations was bright and evident in Brighton this year. I was working over the Pride weekend and didn't really intend to join the parade or activities, but the theatrical enthusiasm was infectious. The theme of the festivities this year was gay icons across the arts and media. I found myself queuing in my local Aldi behind two male Monroes and ahead of a variety of Freddie Mercury and Cher lookalikes. Even iconic-wannabees fancy a bargain. I wandered past what I refer to as my local cheap-frock shop, only to find they were offering multi-coloured tutus as "buy one get one free". The rather skimpily curtained changing cubicles were full of delightful but quite large gentlemen taking advantage of the tutu sale: I had my doubts about their ballet credentials.
My one unwitting concession to the very sunny Pride weekend was to wear a homestead sundress and a straw cowboy hat from the 99p Shop. Along the walk home I was serenaded and yeehaw-ed at by a variety of cowboys, cowgirls and Native American Indians. Clearly, I had forgotten about the impact of the (beautiful) film "Brokeback Mountain"; and the cherished close partnership of The Lone Ranger and Tonto. As I emerged back onto Lewes Road, a Lady GaGa, Bugs Bunny, complete with carrot, and two very male, very bare-chested nuns tickled me as I went past their group. Turns out that Sally Field as The Flying Nun is a definite gay icon - who knew? The tickling incident was a bit of a shock although not unpleasant; I still haven't worked out where dear ol' Bugs Bunny fits into all this.
Attendance estimates for the weekend seem to vary wildly this year too; from the very conservative police figure of 30,000 to the extravagant 150,000 from some of the official sponsors. As with most things in life, the truth rests somewhere in the shade of the two extremes. As George Bernard Shaw suggested, life is not so much about finding yourself as it is about creating yourself. Obviously the good-natured openness and tolerance I witnessed locally extended across the city and over the whole weekend: there were about forty arrests in the city that weekend, probably the same as on any other hot summer weekend at the seaside.
When I first moved to Brighton, I found the tone of Pride quite different. Always promoted as a family celebration, it started to feel a little exclusive to me as a heterosexual female; although I felt saddened rather than threatened. My sexuality and my beliefs, including my Catholicism, sit very comfortably with dear friends made over the years who happen to be gay and the respect and affection I have for the gay community in Brighton. Essentially, I believe Brighton Pride must be inclusive to all ages, genders, sexualities and values to remain valid as well as supported. The point is that every gay man and woman is someone's son, daughter, brother, sister, possibly someone's parent; a police officer, a nurse, your neighbour, a friend.
I have no problem with Brighton Pride being proud, as long as it remains valiant rather than becoming arrogant. I'd actually like to see a celebration of self-worth extend beyond the gay community in Brighton, indeed beyond the city. A few days after Pride 2013, I've had to yet again complain to the city council about the street I live in being used as a little city dump. One person leaves a broken vacuum cleaner in the road, another person leaves a chair, then a large broken mirror appears propped up perilously against the side of a house. The street cleaner still isn't cleaning one side of the road, presumably because of the debris on the pavement.
This area is made up of whole streets of largely rented properties and this is the heart of campus country. After an attempted break-in at my little house the other week, a well-intentioned policeman sympathised that my area is disadvantaged and therefore resentful He noted that if people haven't grown up here or simply feel "dumped" here, the lack of strong roots can destroy the growth of future community. I do feel that when folk have no sense of connection with where they find themselves in life, there's no concept of pride in where they live and sadly, sometimes in how they treat others.
"Pride" is a widely used yet perhaps little understood word. With a negative connotation, often synonymous with "hubris", it refers to an inflated sense of self, often at the expense of all else; in Christianity, one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Yet the word itself originates from the Latin "prodis" - "to be of use or service". Through time, this evolved into the Old French and English words for valiant and noble.
With a positive connotation, pride can refer to a sense of attachment towards one's own choices, beliefs or actions, and towards others. It can be the worthy product of self-reflection, a sense of appreciation, a feeling of fulfilment or belonging. There's a sense of exaltation in the mindset behind Brighton Pride which I feel St Augustine himself would have appreciated. His take on pride without prejudice was that we should have a sense of our own "excellence", to the glory of God who created us; including that bouncy young man so wonderfully dressed as Bugs Bunny. And my fabulous bargain Stetson.

 

 

"Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves; vanity, to what we would have others think of us."

(Jane Austen)

 

 

 

 

The Rainbow Fund
Sussex Community Foundation
Falcon Wharf
Railway Lane
LEWES
BN7 2AQ

info@sussexgiving.org.uk

 

www.brightonpride.org

 

www.tht.org.uk

 

  

"Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real."
(Thomas Merton)

"Pride perceiving humility honourable, often borrows her cloak."

(Thomas Fuller)

 

"Pride does not wish to owe and vanity does not wish to pay."
(Francois de la Rochefoucauld)

 (Photo: Gigi, album)
Yeehaw x

"Wake Me Up When It's All Over" Avicii

 

 

The drop and the ocean

 "Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground."

(Rumi)  

 

 

I don't like what snails invariably want do to my garden, but I am quite fascinated by and respectful of them. I've learned that they re-trace their steps across, through, up and under obstacles and natural or manmade boundaries to return to their most fruitful habitat. You could relocate them in a wilderness five minutes walk from your backyard, but if they feel they're meant to be contentedly chomping their way through your lettuces, they'll do their darnedest to return. If this takes them several days over rocky ground or a busy road, so be it: for such tiny, fragile little messers, they are fearlessly determined, with a do-or-die attitude.
Although the snail is probably the slowest creature on earth, the species has survived for millions of years. Unable to hear at all, they rely on touch and an exceptionally sense of smell to follow their own path back to snail-happiness.

I suppose they're actually little mollusc travellers, their caravans on their backs. The same self-secreted track they follow "home" also enables them to repair wounds and regenerate cells. Elements of snail-trail have been used in some "wonder" anti-wrinkle creams; I shall be keeping to my Nivea, thank you.

I do believe that we humans carry "home" on the inside: and that God, Spirit and the universe if you will are within us all. If we open ourselves to our capabilities and have faith in ourselves and the love of a higher power, we can find our way over any rocky ground to realise our home. It may be the very house we were born in or hundreds of thousands of steps away from family and what should seem familiar to us. Each path will be different in the detail if not obviously in direction.

Faced with calamity in my working life again, my immediate reaction has been dismay and a weary "Why?" Yet truthfully, I haven't been content with what I've been doing and know I'm capable of doing more. Better the devil, drudgery or simply apathy you know? A comfort zone is often little more than a closed but otherwise unprotected box. And those nearest to us frequently have surprisingly strong, closed opinions when we change direction in life: it threatens the sense of familiarity and mutual status quo.

In particular, when we take a damaged soul under our wing, they can seem suddenly ruthless in their desperation to prevent us from altering our path; not yet willing to contemplate their own. For all their frailties and fractures, they can almost become bullying, although they have first-hand knowledge of the inexorable damage done by constant denial of purpose and the crushing of someone's spirit. Just like stepping on a hapless snail, however accidentally; with his disproportion tenacity and remarkable sense of direction destroyed by a single misplaced heavy step, he will die where you tread.
I've been reading a lot of Rumi, the 12th century Persian poet and mystic. I've found it comforting to absorb his themes of salvation through both romantic love and the love of God. Passion and divinity are intertwining vines in Rumi; his soul is both his conscience and his compass throughout life.

Today, Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī would be seen to be a Sunni Muslim, yet his writings are embraced as ecumenical in nature. He felt religion was a very personal experience and that the urge to reconnect with Spirit should be the pinnacle of life towards which everything moves. Ever conscious of it's divine origin, Rumi was passionate about preserving the dignity of life and honouring the truth of our paths and others: "The nation of Love has a different religion of all religions - for lovers, God alone is their religion."  His writing transcends ethnic and national borders: within the past five years, he's been described as the most popular poet in the United States.
Taking favourite lines from all over Rumi's teachings and poems, from different periods of his life, I've brought them together in my own personal affirmation; I find it as beautiful as any poem and as uplifting as prayer. Career paths and other trusted structures and channels through life may suddenly twist and turn menacingly or simply appear to fall away. Breathe deeply: your home is within you and the SATNAV in your ear may not be tinnitus or the onset of a psychotic disorder; it might just be your guardian angel.

 

 

 

 

 

"You are the drop, and the ocean.

You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.

 Are you jealous of the ocean’s generosity?
Why would you refuse to give this joy to anyone?

Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

The wound is the place where the Light enters you.

Suffering is a gift. In it is hidden mercy.

Sorrow prepares you for joy.
The moon stays bright when it doesn't avoid the night.

Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure. 

Maybe you are searching among the branches, for what only appears in the roots.

I searched for God and found only myself. I searched for myself and found only God.   Only from the heart can you touch the sky.
If you want to be more alive, love is the truest health.
Remember, the way you make love is the way God will be with you.
Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood.
Reason is powerless in the expression of love.
Set your life on fire. Seek those who fan your flames.
Judge the moth by the beauty of the candle.
Christian, Jew, Muslim, shaman, Zoroastrian, stone, ground, mountain, river; each has a secret way of being with the mystery, unique and not to be judged.
The fault is in the one who blames. Spirit sees nothing to criticize.
Spend less time with nightingales and peacocks.
One is all talk, the other only colour.
Look carefully around you and recognize
the luminosity of souls.
Sit beside those who draw you to that. 
You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?
Birds make great sky-circles of their freedom.
How do they learn it?
They fall, and falling, they're given wings.
Try something different. Surrender.
Give up to grace.
Sell your cleverness and buy bewilderment.
The ocean takes care of each wave 'til it gets to shore. You need more help than you know.
Wherever you are, and whatever you do, be in love.
Let the beauty we love be what we do.
There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Stop acting so small. You are the universe in ecstatic motion.
Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder. Help someone's soul heal. Walk out of your house like a shepherd.
Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth.
Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.
No one can take your place in existence,
or in absence.  
Never will a lover's body be found buried in the earth.
To love is to be God.
Ask all from yourself.
The garden of the world has no limits, except in your mind.
Do not be lonely for you carry the whole universe within you.
But Love is the whole thing. We are only pieces.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere. They're in each other all along.
Be grateful for whoever comes, because each has been sent as a guide from beyond.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that, and I intend to end up there.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
And still, after all this time, the Sun has never said to the Earth,
"You owe me."
Look what happens with love like that.
It lights up the sky.”

 

 

 "Home"  Gabrielle Aplin

 

  

 "Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure.”

(Rumi)  

 

 

Keep the earth below my feet

 

"The true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground."
(G.K. Chesterton)

Due to my technical difficulties in recent weeks, I've had thoughts for a particular post flapping around in my full little head since the feasts of the Ascension and Pentecost. I started thinking about our notions of heaven and earth and what store we might set by any separation or unity of the two.
The ascension of Jesus to heaven has always provided atheists and sceptics with massive heartburn. Bible critics point to the mythical cosmology of the New Testament in particular, citing the structural convenience of heaven above, earth as the middle ground and the depths of the underworld below; furthest removed from the celestial realm. Sceptics have also suggested that accounts of Jesus' ascension tidily discredited any possible ongoing claims of Jesus appearing within the growing Christian community. Yet the tradition of Jesus' ascension, professed in both the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds, is certainly accepted and respected across the Catholic, Orthodox and Protestant churches. The bodily ascension is seen as an obvious and unequivocal sign of Jesus' humanity and divinity, of his participation in our story and God's power and love.

Jesus refers to heaven and the Father there throughout his ministry, accepting his inevitable return and promising us the same rise. Sounds a bit too pie in the sky to be feasible? We wordy humans refer to heaven constantly as we respond to both the minutiae and more unusual stresses or pleasant surprises in our daily lives. It's very, very hot in Brighton at the moment, but far from drawing comparisons with any fiery pit down below (and I don't mean the Antipodes), Brightonians and tourists alike exclaim that this is "heavenly weather", "heaven on earth". My neighbour described her leafy back garden as "paradise" earlier.
 It seems most of us grow up with the notion that there is a heaven "up there": somewhere over the rainbow; even higher than the sky, beyond the sun, in another dimension; infinity and beyond. We can calculate and probe the centre of our earth; we can salvage from the ocean floor. We know how to make fire and usually how to put out flames. Yet no rocket can ever really touch the sky. "To infinity and beyond" may conjure up ethereal realms but nitty gritties such as maths and physics are always in the elusive mix. We can hazard a guess at what the Neanderthals preferred for midweek dinner, but we can't quite calculate the edges of the universe; where our world might end and another could begin.

I like the Pentecostal symbolism of Spirit enfolding air, water and fire: the rushing wind that heralds Spirit, the water of baptism and the tongues of flame that anoint and inspire the Apostles. I understand now that the fourth element, earth, is found in the Apostles themselves. Man is grounded and of earth itself. And it's essentially a wonderful place, unimagined and still misunderstood by us, for all our scientific and philosophical digging. Whether you subscribe to the Big Bang Theory, the Bigger Big Bang Theory, or believe in creation by a higher power, we did not make this earth which supports our vast ambitions alongside the most microscopic, ancient ecosystems. Of course there are inherent extremes of temperature and terrain across this planet, but so many of the world's crisis and problems are due to man's mismanagement and lack of safe-guarding.
People starve, not because of some vaguely discriminating natural law or the survival of the fittest. A huge proportion of the finest arable land is used to grow grain to feed an increased animal population to satisfy meat consumerism. In the United States alone, 175 million tons of cereals and vegetable protein, suitable for human consumption, is fed to livestock bound for just 28 million tons of animal protein, often in the form of "fast food".

I assure you this is not a vegetarian rant. In what we constantly refer to as developing countries, the use of land to create and maintain an artificial food chain has resulted in misery and famine for millions of our neighbours. One acre of land used for local cereal or vegetable production will respectively produce five and ten times more protein than one acre used for meat production for market elsewhere. In the case of crops such as soya, the probable increased protein yield is thirty times more.

The terrible human consequences of the shift of focus from food to feed were dramatically evident during the Ethiopian famine in 1984. Ethiopians starved in front of our TV cameras, but Ethiopia was harvesting a wealth of linseed and rapeseed for European livestock. We wept as the redoubtable Michael Buerk reported on famine and desolation on an epic, biblical scale. The region held by many to be the location of the Garden of Eden was described as "hell on earth".

Ordinary people responded with what was seen to be extraordinary kindness. A dishevelled potty-mouthed Oirish punk called Bob shouted, swore and sweated and celebrities suddenly found their own feet of clay could actually help kick political butts. The BBC and CBC footage from 1984 still makes me cry: as it did for so many other people, "Live Aid" changed me and the way I saw the world, man and God. I remember the concerts as though they were last week, not thirty years ago. Unfortunately, the famine in that region and others has proved endless. Charity surged and continues to flow but common sense and economic justice still don't amount to much for governments and the corporate world.
It's both a tragedy and a travesty that 80 percent of the earth's hungry children live in lands with food surpluses which are fed to animals bred for consumption by the affluent. It's a terrible irony that tens of thousands in the so-called First World die every year from diseases exacerbated by affluence: heart disease, strokes, diabetes and some cancers. Many years ago, a lovely old man in a loincloth and blanket pointed out that the earth has enough to sustain man's needs but not his greed; we nodded at Gandhi's wisdom and smiled at his naiveté.

On this glowing, fine day, I truly don't wish to put anyone off their barbecued beef or even their bean burger. Yet under the same unremitting blue sky, military experts warn today that Britain must "be prepared to go to war" in Syria to effectively end the conflict there and keep chemical weapons out of terrorist hands. The United Nations has already called the conflict in Syria the worst humanitarian conflict of the past twenty years, estimating 100,000 fatalities so far. Millions of Syrians have already fled or been displaced and hunger and disease breed in their tracks.

Man should never be prepared to go to war: it's a chillingly pointless statement when you strip away ideologies and strategies, flags and uniforms. We tend our gardens and man our borders for personal preservation. The ancient indigenous populations knew that we belong to the earth rather than vice versa; we are indeed borrowing it for and from our children. Herbaceous borders are lovely but boundaries and division confine as well as protect. It riles me particularly when people say:"You guys believe in God - why doesn't he stop the war?" God doesn't start war; if all men really believed in God, heaven and hell and themselves, they wouldn't start it either.

It's seen as human nature to seek comfort, provenance and heaven on earth. Walking across the Level here in Brighton, I see folk seeking enlightenment or oneness with the universe through various cultivated substances. The Sanskrit word "nirvana" literally means "blown out", as in a candle, referring to the stillness and peace of mind which remain after desires, dissentions and delusion are extinguished. But you can't drink your way to Spirit, or smoke your way to heaven.
I do believe that we encounter people, places and events that help us on our individual paths to heaven. If we're fortunate, we recognise our soul mates along the way. If we're blessed, our soul mates recognise us back. There's much beauty to be found on earth and much more to aspire to beyond. I believe we should embrace and cherish this world rather than reaching to pull the next down to us, like a fruit-laden branch to be plundered and muddied.
 

"On earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it."
(Jules Renard)

 

"Aim at heaven and you will get earth thrown in."
(C.S. Lewis)

 

www.cafod.org.uk
www.careinternational.org.uk
www.doctorswithoutborders.org
www.oxfam.org.uk
www.savethechildren.org.uk
www.syriarelief.org.uk
www.unicef.org.uk
www.wateraid.org
www.worldvision.org.uk
 
 

"Below My Feet"  Mumford and Sons

"Keep the earth below my feet;
For all my sweat, my blood runs weak.
Let me learn from where I have been;
Keep my eyes to serve, my hands to learn."
(Dwane, Lovett, Mumford, Marshall)

 

 

"And forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair."
(Kahlil Gibran)

 

 

Great and small

"Three things will last forever--faith, hope, and love--and the greatest of these is love."

(1 Corinthians 13:13)

 

Sometimes, things just fit together in this wee blog; just as sometimes in life, tiny baby steps take us to a place where the bigger picture may suddenly be hugely appreciable. I'm indebted to my gorgeous friend Christine, who I first met when we were mini-kilted convent girls and re-united with on here, for sharing the "Ten Ways to Love" with me. I'm also grateful to my new friend Anthony for sharing the wonderful "drummer" version of "How Great Thou Art", performed by members of the World Outreach Church. I don't know much about WOC, beyond that they're an interdenominational and pastoral ministry, originally based in Tennessee, USA: you can find them at: www.wochurch.org. As a frustrated drummer who hasn't got her bodhran organised yet, I've listened to this version of a much loved hymn over and over until finding the right post for it.
The words and music here seem to compliment each other seamlessly; a real marrying up of the simplicity of little ways of grace and the greatness of being. And in fact, Christine's marriage to Colin and Anthony's with Abby are both inspirational unions: this post is for them.
I've had a couple of friends moan that some of my posts are too long. This may or may not be shorter, but how long is a piece of string before it ceases to be a piece and becomes a length? Similarly, my sister and brother-in-law fret that my blog seems too Catholic; other Catholic friends, who are infinitely more learned about the church then me, feel "it isn't Catholic enough". All I can say is that I try to make this blog as open and honest as possible because that is what I crave from people and from life. Brighton, friends, being Catholic, animals, poetry, flowery frocks, Springsteen and treacle tart all make me happy. I suspect at least some of these things will make some other people happy too; for others, this humble blog will never be enough of one thing or may seem too much of the other.
I'm actually hurting about something right now, critically aware of my own smallness. This blog generally and this post at this particular moment are my own little steps to the bigger picture; if it can soothe somebody else then I also feel blessed by that.
The little steps in the Ten Ways to Love are literally as old as the hills on the Sinai Peninsula. They may appear removed from the grandeur and solemnity of the Ten Commandments, but look again. If we could all truly achieve these Ten Ways to Love, surely we wouldn't need to be reminded not to lie, cheat, steal or harm?
May each sunrise bring you hope and every sunset, peace. May all your little steps bring you into being as great as you can be.

 

"How Great Thou Art" World Outreach Church

 

"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."

(Mother Teresa)

"Do the difficult things while they are easy and do the great things while they are small. A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step."
(Lao Tzu) 

"For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love."
(Carl Sagan)

"Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see".
(C.S. Lewis)

"One sees great things from the valley; only small things from the peak."
(G.K. Chesterton)
 

"Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message."

(Malcolm Muggeridge)

 

  

 

"Blessed be"

"You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy."
(From "The Desiderata", Max Ehrmann)





Yesterday, 21st June, was the Summer Solstice. A solstice occurs twice a year when earth's semi-axis is most inclined towards the sun, when the sun reaches the highest position in the sky as seen from either of the poles. The summer solstice occurs on the day that has the longest period of sunlight outside of the polar regions, although the solstice itself is effectively an instant in time. The word derives from the Latin for sun-stopping - "solstitium".
The June solstice marks the first day of the summer season in the northern hemisphere. On this day, the sun doesn't rise precisely in the east, but rises north east and sets to north west, enabling it to be in the sky for a longer period of time. In the southern hemisphere, the June solstice is the shortest day of the year, when the sun is furthest from the equator.
The solstice has remained a special moment in the annual cycle of the year since Neolithic times. The solstices and equinoxes were essential to the development and maintenance of calendars. The seasons and weather played a huge role in people's lives, particularly in the cultivation and harvest of crops. Over the centuries, the June solstice has been a time of ritual, celebration and festivities. In parts of Scandinavia and the Baltics, it's the most important holiday time after Christmas and New Year's Eve.
Originally a pagan holiday, in Christianity the mid-summer solstice became associated with the birth of John the Baptist, whose feast occurs on 24th June: the gospels imply that John was born six months before Jesus. The celebration of St John's Eve evolved from the ancient festival of Midsummer's Eve; summer solstice. On this night, people gathered "magical" golden-flowered plants such as Calendula and St John's Wort, still renowned for their healing properties. Bonfires were traditionally lit to guard against evil spirits, and witches were said to be seen gathering or meeting with other mystical beings. In the 7th century, St Eligius warned the newly converted people of Flanders against pagan solstice practices, saying there should be no dancing or leaping on the feast of St John the Baptist.

 

Across Europe there are various locally adapted solstice celebrations around the feast of St John. In Ireland, many towns have midsummer carnivals and in rural areas bonfires are still lit on hilltops for St John's Night. Bonfires are also lit on the high hills of Cornwall. The week-long festival "Golowan" is celebrated in Penzance and runs from the Friday nearest to the feast of St John: the festival was originally called "Gol-jowan", after the saint. Midsummer festivals are celebrated in many parts of Scotland, notable the Scottish Borders. St John's Eve traditionally has a mystical significance and inspired Sir Walter Scott's well known ballad of that name.
No self-respecting neo-pagan would pass on a trip to Stonehenge at summer solstice. My blogger friend Annie was there to see the break of day yesterday, along with 20,000 similarly spirited people. Annie is a lovely girl who says she is a "leaped" rather than lapsed Catholic: she says she's jumped back to the celebrations of nature and Spirit which existed before Christ was born but don't contradict the existence of the Creator or of the Son of God. I have a lot of time for Annie. I've always felt an affinity for Desmond Tutu's very simple vision of "The God who existed before any religion"; who was not concerned that a deeply spiritual man such as Gandhi was not Christian because He was not a Christian. When Annie emailed to say she was going to Stonehenge, I asked her to say a couple of prayers for me at dawn; she said the Our Father, the Hail Mary and the Gloria Patri. Once a Catholic, eh Annie?
Stonehenge is now known to have been a Neolithic burial place some 8,000 years before the birth of Christ. By 3,000 B.C. the henge was a sacred place and also a mighty sundial and celestial calendar. I've only been there once; the stones were already roped off from visitors, but I felt it was a common holy ground. There are further celebrations planned there over the next few days: this June's "supermoon" is seen as auspicious by many. The moon's own orbit of the earth is oval, so at certain points it can come much closer to us. Scientists say that supermoons are the result of coincidence; this solstice weekend, the supermoon will coincide with the full moon on St John's Eve. The moon should be thirty percent bigger and therefore much brighter than usual. The next supermoon will be in August 2014.
When I email Annie, I sometimes end with "Blessed be" instead of the usual "God bless" to good friends. I appreciate it's a combined greeting and farewell used by many pagans, but I comfortably use it as a Catholic. It's primarily a blessing, a wish for goodness; what could be lovelier than that? I see a lot of so-called New Ageism around Brighton, often cultivated in the shadowy place between despair and hopefulness. There are a lot of younger people who seem drawn to the old ways of wicca, almost in rebellion against Christianity and mainstream religion as a rite of passage.

I have no problem with the term "wicca"; in fact, I respect it's origins in the old Saxon and Norse words for wisdom. Wiccans, also giving rise to the name for witches, were originally those who knew about the land, the elements and the stars. The forefathers of herbalists, homeopaths, astronomers, chiropractors, acupuncturists, spiritual healers.... Sageness, intuition and mysticism gave way to suggestions of sorcery. Everything light will have it's dark side if people look for shadows, whether that be to hide in or to expose others.
I tend to mention my Scottish granny Barbara because I often think of her, although I never met her. Her way of knowing things, apparently passed from her own mother, was accepted by Mum although she worried that I'd inherited it. In short, it spooked her, but it's never disturbed me. When I was at convent school, some girls messed around with teenage spells and even ouija boards; the latter in particular horrified me. I'm quite clear that I should never have any truc with them: I don't believe you should ever take it upon yourself to call people, past or present, or material things to you. What your heart knows and your soul recognises are within you by the grace of God. We should protect our own wisdom and instinctive knowledge; I appreciate faith as the deepest intuitive feeling a person may have.
The solstice marked a double-whammy of firsts in Brighton. English Heritage unveiled a Blue Plaque yesterday at Tyson Place, just down the road en route to the pier, commemorating Doreen Valiente, called the Mother of Modern Wicca. This is apparently not only the first time  a Blue Plaque has been notably dedicated in the field of paganism and wicca, but also the first to appear on a council block. Only in Brighton blah blah. It's been said that pagans were the original Green Party; perhaps they'd have responded to the recent refuse dispute in a more emphatic and organic manner.
I don't know much about old Doreen. She was originally from south London, born to religious parents; she absconded from her convent school when she was just fifteen. The Anti-witchcraft Act of 1736 was repealed in 1951 and she then spoke very publicly about being a witch. She distanced herself from any malicious works and was keen to emphasise that wicca shouldn't be employed to create darkness or misery, stressing that it had nothing to with the "black  arts" or Satanism. Apparently her neighbours at Tyson Place regarded her as a "white witch" and a good person. I see no harm in Doreen's Blue Plaque. Perhaps I could have one for wittering.
Personally, I don't believe in the strength of black magic, unless we're talking chocolate. I don't believe in curses, but I understand the great harm caused by ill will and malice. I don't believe in sorcery but I believe in blessings. I believe that prayers are wishes put to God and that miracles are magical. I believe that each soul has it's own history and it's own path. The universe is a vastly beautiful place created primarily to unfold the mysteries of love to us: nature is God's work and therefore sacred. I believe we carry the seen and the unseen within us as well as all around us. None of this seems to dilute my own Catholicism. I feel sure that Annie's prayers at the henge on the solstice were intended for and heard by the same God I pray to at church or in my garden.
The creatures I've heard and fleetingly seen moving around my garden at dusk are not the Little People but in fact some tiny toadlets. They seem to have taken up residence in spite of Ginger from next door and Jonathan Seagull and his hooligan mates. I've been told by a delighted Annie that they've come because they sense protection; apparently toads are very loyal creatures. So I've now set about making them a small waterhole and a toad-house. In return, they seem to be naturally dissuading East Sussex's tenacious slugs away from my garden. This morning one of the little toads burped at me before he scurried away to shelter. I think it was a greeting. Blessed be.

 

*To Annie, Croce and Dempsey the cat*

  

 

 

Summer Stolstice Prayer

(Anonymous)
In gratefulness we lift our eyes;
With loving thoughts in heart,
We give thanks for all things good.
For blessings the Creator imparts.
Let our hearts be ever glad.
For beauty that abounds
And gives a taste of heaven's glory
When summer comes around.

"Crystal" Stevie Nicks
 

 

"Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.
"No-one else has access to the world you carry around within yourself; you are its custodian and entrance."
(John O'Donohue)

 

Flowering

"Sometimes beautiful things come into our lives out of nowhere. We can't always understand them, but we have to trust in them."

(Lauren Kate)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

"Even the merest gesture is holy if it is filled with faith." 

(Franz Kafka)

I've already said that my posts are a little lagging on here at the moment. Last week, my first rose of the summer burst open in my little back garden. It's since been followed by other equally full,  brazenly yellow roses; then fuchsias  the strawberry plant (in it's third year) and other perky little bits and bods. The first rose was so gorgeous that I had to take a photo of it. Just a couple of weeks before, the rose bush was still skeletal and thorned. My roses are late this year, having survived another winter of prolonged wet and wind and then a reluctant spring, even wetter and windier.

A very lovely lady called Martina recently read some of my blog and asked me where I got my faith from. I was immediately silenced by this, which doesn't happen often, because my knowledge of my faith or anything "holy" is rather holed.  I just didn't have a ready answer. The following day, my rose unfurled. 
My favourite colour is red, but my favourite flowers are actually yellow, from daffodils to hypericum to sunflowers.  I love bright yellow roses and most of the roses in my garden are intentionally sunshine coloured. Dorothy Frances Gurney's assertion that one is closer to God in a garden than anywhere else has really resounded with me since I moved down to Brighton. My little house has many inherent faults and much work to be done, but it has a garden. The concrete and weed postage stamp out back probably sold the property to me. 
I think it's fair to say that the previous owner didn't extend much time or tenderness to the garden. It harbored untended jasmine, laurel and pear trees, and one very hooky and hard-headed rose tree (pink). These have been befriended and the whole area planted and populated. It's wild and quite willful and a work in progress. It's responded to my coaxing and determination with colour and a tenacity not bottled by B and Q or Homebase. It crackles with birds and bees, spiders and snails and now a toad; it has a life of it's own. I sit out there at night with a cuppa as the solar lights and lanterns flicker out. In a town that's struggling to come to terms with disillusionment and dilapidation, I'm lucky to have a roof over my head and totally blessed to have my back yard.
It's occurred to me that my fascination with the natural world and the wonders of science that baffle my little brain have strengthened my faith over the years. The prerogative of atheists to cite the big bang and the initial squib of evolution doesn't dilute my belief in God; the enormity and minutiae of the universe and beyond don't seem at odds with my idea of a greater design and a higher power. My roses come through snow and ice to meet each new summer; my pear tree was dark and woody and apparently barren but only needed a little clearing and encouragement to grow into the abundant fruit-bearer it was always intended to be.
Along the seafront towards the Peace Memorial, there's a streak of graffiti that confirms that "shit happened". And so it does; and often to good people. I'm trying to be a better person but I'm now comfortable and relieved with being ordinary. Along with so many other ordinary people, I've shed a lot of tears in the past three or four years; too many, not of joy. But smiling is a reflex that doesn't rust easily. I've also learned that it rains a great deal in East Sussex; folk greet the sun like a prodigal child. 
In fact, Martina and her husband Frank and their bright, tight family of siblings, babies and elders are hugely inspiring to me, and to others I'm sure. There's a tangible faith in their family and love for each other, their endless enterprise for business and their concern for community. So, people like me get some of our faith from people like you and yours, Martina.
I often say, whether anyone is still listening or not, that religions are cultivated by man but faith is naturally occurring. Our history bears the hopefulness of our future, seen and unseen. There's a world of infinite and resilient beauty beneath our daily dust. Ask any rose.

"Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies."

(Mother Teresa) 

"The Rose" Andre Rieu & Orchestra, with sopranos Suzan Erens, Carmen Monarcha and Carla Maffioletti.

Postcards from the edge

"A person without a sense of humour is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble on the road." 

(Henry Ward Beecher)

Due to medical treatment, work and IT problems (never anything by halves, the GigiOnSea motto), I've really fallen behind with posts on this little blog! I seem to have several posts in the pipeline but none of them have made their way out into the sporadic sunlight; a bit like most of my bright ideas, hopes and wishes. Pleasant diversions are so often a downfall; but there's always much to be gained from a smile which costs nothing. Various friends have sent me "seaside" saucy-postcard humour over the past few weeks and I thought I would feature some of them as a personal encouragement to British summertime.
British publishers were first granted Royal Mail permission to manufacture picture postcards in 1894. The earliest cards featured famous landmarks and picturesque views or photographs and drawings of celebrities of the times. However, as travel by steam locomotives proved increasingly popular and affordable, British seaside destinations generated their own souvenir industry; the "Wish You Were Here" picture postcard became a staple product. 

In the 1930s, saucy postcards were at the peak of their popularity, selling around 16 million a year. The cartoons traditionally relied on innuendo and double entendres; stereotypical characters such as vicars, nudists, hen-pecked husbands and larger ladies featured heavily (no pun intended). I've inherited my love of what I'd call "Carry On" humour from my Dad. It's probably why I'm so taken by Brighton's own Max Miller. Yes, a lot of the humour centres around the human body, it's functions and frailties and our related sensitivities; but it's a naughtiness rather than obscenity. There's a simplicity and infectiousness in laughter that is ever-ready. I think naivete in humour, as in affection and even in faith, can be a delightful and humbling quality.

In the 1950s, the Conservative government of the day was concerned with an apparent deterioration of British morals: it decided to crackdown on saucy postcards.... A decade later, in the more liberal and seemingly swinging 1960s, the cartoon postcard was revived and even gained a new reputation as an art form. A further demise has occurred in more recent years as the artistry itself and certainly the humour has deteriorated. There's certainly a finely drawn line between bawdy and obvious bad taste; seaside humour was intended to nudge all, not wound some to tickle a few. Many original saucy postcards are now collected as works of art or kitsch, but they also document social and economic history as well as fluctuating values.
High on the Conservatives' moral hitlist in the 1950s was London artist Donald McGill, known as the King of the Saucy Postcard. He was educated in Blackheath in south London, close to my convent school. He married the daughter of the owner of the local music hall in Greenwich and spent most of his life in Blackheath; a Blue Plaque now commemorates his previous home there in Bennett Park. He was originally a naval draughtsman, whose hand-drawn greetings cards for his family gained wider acclaim. 

In 1954, then in his late seventies, McGill was targeted by the censors and tried under the 1857 Obscene Publications Act. He was found guilty and fined; it devastated the burgeoning saucy postcard industry. Many cards were destroyed and several companies were bankrupted. When he was in his eighties, McGill would give evidence before the House Select Committee which was set up to amend the 1857 Act.
One of his designs, featuring a bookish young man and the caption: "Do you like Kipling?" still holds the world record for marketed postcard designs, selling over 6 million. He produced tens of thousands of designs; many are now auctioned as works of beauty and historical commentary. Yet Donald McGill earned no royalties from his work; when he died in 1962, his estate was valued at just £735. He's buried in an unmarked grave in Streatham Park Cemetery, south London.
There's a wonderful quote about humour from American psychologist and writer William James, brother of novelist Henry James. He likens the sense of humour to common sense in dancing mode. I think this really applies to the earthiness of saucy postcards. Personally, I've never bought the idea of God as a detached, sombre old man. Creation itself is filed with God's humour: He constantly does the impossible in unexpected ways and with the unlikeliest people. He created sex as a natural urge for pleasure and procreation; sex may well make fools of many, but I'd rather it was a source of mirth, not misery.

"Common sense and a sense of humour are the same thing, moving at different speeds. A sense of humour is just common sense, dancing."

(William James)

 

 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I have never understood why it should be considered derogatory to the Creator to suppose that he has a sense of humour."

(William Ralph Inge)

"She Moves In Her Own Way" The Kooks (Brighton's finest seaside skifflers!)