Being ready - Jane

"Miracles come in moments. Be ready and willing."
(Wayne Dyer)

 

The French-born, passionate writer Anais Nin noted that: "Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage." I've felt oddly diminished recently by unexpected animosity from a neighbour; staggering how pettiness can seem to impact on every area of daily life. It's made me shrink a little back into myself in the past month or so: my willingness to trust has wilted; the usually bright sleeve I wear my heart and soul on is held a bit closer to my side.

The upset prompted a visit to Portsmouth last Thursday; my sister was window-shopping and I wanted to take her to the Catholic cathedral of St John the Baptist. While we were there, my sister and I silently wrote prayer requests for a lovely lady called Jane, who'd become critically ill after battling a debilitating condition for more than a decade. Jane has been a friend to my family for most of my adult life: married to my brother-in-law's best friend, she seamlessly became my sister's closest confidante; she was also extremely kind to my mother when her own health and enthusiasm were failing.

In more recent years, I've come to know Jane better myself and often felt she was a natural ally and a font of stoic humour and warmth. She's always been a lively and tireless woman. Never knowingly unacessorised, her effortless elegance belied the hands-on occupations and long hours she worked to help make her family tick. With a voice perfectly pitched somewhere between Joanna Lumley and Sue Lawley, she delivered one-liners and venomless sarcasm with the widest grin. Her smile made me more comfortable with my own rather large gob. Jane has always reminded me of a bouncy but slightly concerned Head Girl: she seemed ready for anything, wanting to grab the day by the collar.

She probably wasn't ready for an infection in her big heart, in the prime of life, but until relatively recently she's soldiered on, swishing her shawl around her impatiently and cheerfully correcting my table etiquette.

Last autumn, Jane was present with her husband Brian as my sister's mother-in-law's ashes were interred; by now, she was in a wheelchair, which she clearly objected to but endured to get from A to B. My brother-in-law was trying to keep things together as he said a few words about his mother. Jane suddenly interrupted him very emotionally: "Tell her you love her Gordon; tell her you'll miss her everyday!" I hadn't seen Jane for a while and there was a passion and urgency I hadn't appreciated before: something had changed. I'd written a poem for Evelyn, which I read quickly. As we all turned to leave the cemetery, Jane asked me to write something for her when the time came. Upset, I told her I would, but that would be a long way off. She said quietly that no, it wouldn't be long at all.

A little less than a year on and I'm having to write that poem.

 

 

As my sister and I sat eating garlic bread at Portsmouth harbour, her mobile started up. Having been hospitalised with acute heart failure, the medical team had agreed with Jane that there was nothing more they could reasonably do. She had been transported home to be with the family she adored; all but palliative medication would be withdrawn. Anxious to clarify what was happening, I spoke to Jane's son Chris. He told me his mother was "ready"; she had assured them of that much. I realised immediately that Jane being ready was infinitely more significant and compelling than any professional prognosis of days or hours. Two days later, Jane died at home and in her sleep.

While I was travelling back from Portsmouth to Brighton, I channel-hopped on my radio headphones as the signalled bounced through train tunnels and over rural tracks. I kept catching one of my favourite David Gray songs from station to station. I'd introduced my mother to Mr Gray's music; "The one with the wobbly head", as Mum preferred to call him. She became so fond of "Babylon" that I later included it on the CD of music for her wake.

The song seemed quite prophetic to me as I travelled home last week. Not particularly concentrating on any biblical reference to mighty things falling away unexpectedly, I've always liked the imagery of the song's verses, with life's traffic lights changing from green to red and eventually on to green again. It made me think of Jane's readiness to embrace life, snags and all; to make perfectly sweetened and superbly served lemonade when you've had over-ripe lemons lobbed at you. My mother shared the same kind of resilience; although my dear Mum wasn't quite the domestic goddess: she would more probably lob the lemons back and ask for a half of Guinness.

When people are quite prepared to endure pain or even death, their readiness is seen as undeniable courage, Certainly Jane was brave to her last breath; I hope this provides some comfort and support for her devoted family. But more than this, something that was always the essence of Jane and so very evident last year at Evelyn's ceremony; Jane realised the importance of being ready for life and love. If you hope to embrace life, open your arms wide enough. If you have a mouth made for smiling,  go ahead and grin. If you love someone, tell them; don't wait until the end of days for it to be The Right Time. Make that call, send that card, write that poem, swish that shawl. Live and love unconditionally for as long as you can and you will find yourself ready.

I haven't finished Jane's poem yet and I still haven't mastered the Downton Abbey way to hold my dinner knife, but I will, I promise.

 

 

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom."

(Anais Nin)

 

A smiling Jane, may she rest well and peacefully.

(Photo: Gigi, album)

 

"There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

The readiness is all."

(William Shakespeare)

 

  

"Babylon"  David Gray (acoustic version)

 

"Only wish that you were here,
You know I've seen it so clear;
I've been afraid
To show you how I really feel
Admit to some of those mistakes I've made.
And If you want it come and get it
For crying out loud;
The love that I was giving you was
Never in doubt.
Let go your heart, let go your head
And feel it Now."
 (David Gray)

 

Big baby

 

"You must understand, that for a daughter to protect her father's image is natural; Freud built a whole career around it."

(Amon Goldfinger)

   

 Dad

(All photos: Gigi album) 



My mother had difficulty conceiving her first-born, my sister, and was then told she probably wouldn't have any other children. There's a little over eight years between me and my sister; by the time I came along, Mum and Dad were seen as older parents. I wasn't "tried for", nor planned for; I wasn't even expected.
Initially, I was diagnosed as gastric enteritis. When Mum's symptoms persisted and she returned to her GP, he confirmed that she was actually about three months into another pregnancy. When Mum told Dad, he had to have a sit down for a while. He apparently told Mum she'd have another girl and said "This one's certainly taken her time."
In fact, I was born two weeks before my due date; probably the first and last time I've ever been that early for anything. In contrast, my sister had been two weeks late, emerging after a day and a half of labour. I arrived in just two hours. My eagerness hadn't compromised my size: the nurses told Mum I was one of the biggest babies ever delivered on their maternity ward. I'm sure she was thrilled. The hospital in south-west London has since closed down, but I'm pretty sure there's no connection.
After Mum died, I sorted through the rest of Dad's personal bits and pieces that she'd kept for years. I have his pocket diary from the year I was born; his entry for the day I arrived reads: "9.15 am, BIG baby girl! Nine pounds fifteen ounces!" I don't know whether it was because his plump, gurgling white-haired baby resembled the vegetable, but my Dad immediately wanted to call me "Chou Chou"; French for "Little Cabbage". Fortunately, my mother wouldn't entertain the idea. She suggested "Barbara" after her closest sister and their own lovely mum, who Dad was devoted to. Dad suggested "Babette", then "Gisele".
I love my name: I thank my Dad eternally for it. I grew up loving the ballet I was named after, as well as the musical of Colette's book "Gigi", the diminutive pet form of Gisele or Giselle. I bristle a bit when people tend to call me "Gee Gee", with a hard rather than soft "g"; but it's a tiny irritation after nearly becoming Chou Chou. "Cabbageonsea" sounds particularly unsavoury.
When I was fifteen, I stomped off to rally against a local fascist group. They insisted on parading their neo-Nazism through the friendly, multi-cultural area I had grown up in and my Dad's sense of justice and idealism bubbled in my veins. Swept along with older, more seasoned protesters, I joined some lying down in the main road, so that the fascist group and the mounted police protecting their right to march would either come to a standstill or trample over us. Clearly, I hadn't really thought this through.
Hauled up by my collar by a weary riot officer, I garbled something about a "******* Police State", much to my great shame now. I was told to behave or I would be taken to the nearest police station to cool down. Obviously I didn't behave enough; two hours later, I was in a holding cell in south London with a handful of others. Now terrified, I announced I wanted a solicitor. Then I did what any self-respecting freedom fighter would do. I asked for my mother and burst into tears.
Mum was so ashamed that her youngest was in the local nick that she wouldn't come with Dad to claim me. He looked both worried and relieved to see me; now I realise he was also quite bemused. The sergeant told him I needed a "good talking to". My Dad nodded, signed for me and said absolutely nothing while we got in the car and drove home.
I was used to Mum's Irish, ginger temper. My Dad hardly ever lost his temper with me so when he did, I knew it was Bad. About five minutes from our house he stopped the car near the local shops. I started to cry again. He gave me a proper handkerchief. Finally, in his most Poirot accent, he said: "What did you think you were doing? What have you got to say?"
"Well, the thing is -"
"Shut up. Your mother thinks you should see a child psychologist. Luckily I can't afford one. Your mother thinks you're going to kill her by giving her a heart attack. Do you want to kill your mother?"
"No Dad."
"Why suddenly the politics? Why aren't you like other girls?"
"Mum says I get this from you?"
"Shut up. And do you think you'll be doing this again?"
"Well, there's a rally up in London in a couple of months and I thought..." At this point, I realised I might be pushing my luck.
"OK, this is what's going to happen. I will collect you from the rally in London and bring you home. You will never insult a policeman again, unless he's a bad policeman. When we get home, I will shout and swear at you and clip you over the head. Then I'll send you upstairs without any telly or any food. Your mother will be satisfied and I can get on with my work. Are you hungry; do you want some chips before we get home?"
And that's how it went when we got back. Apart from one thing: Dad never did get to collect from the rally in town. A couple of months later, just as I straggled past my sixteenth birthday, my Dad died. He hadn't quite made it to fifty nine.
This Sunday is my father's birthday; I write the same thing in my own pocket diary now each year, marking the age he would be now. It makes me more aware of my own I suppose, yet even at this age I'm aware that I'm still very much that big baby. I still want to be like my Dad when I finally grow up. I'm fairly hopeful he would like this blog.
I recently heard one of Dad's (and Mum's) favourite tunes set to the hymn "Vaster Far Than Any Ocean". I was aware that the melody "The Carnival Is Over" is traditionally used as a hymn in the Netherlands, but I'd never heard it in church here before. It was like a warm. reassuring hand at my back. The piano version included here is achingly lovely. The tune made so popular by The Seekers was originally adapted by Tom Springfield from an old folk song about Stenka Razin, a notorious rebel leader in 17th century Tsarist Russia. Folklore tells that Stenka came to a particularly sticky end. I doubt that his Dad ever went down to collect him from the fray to buy him chips.

"Like the little girl who's not very cute - her teeth are funny, and her hair doesn't grow right, and she's got on thick glasses - but her father holds her hand and walks with her like she's a tiny angel that no one can touch. He gives her the best gift a woman can get in this world: protection. And the little girl learns to trust the man in her life. And all the things that the world expects from women - to be beautiful, to soothe the troubled spirit, heal the sick, care for the dying, send the greeting card, bake the cake - all of those things become the way we pay the father back for protecting us..."

( Adriana Trigiani)

"Another baby you say? A big baby? How big??"

The Little Cabbage.

 "The Carnival Is Over"  (Piano solo version - pianist, sadly, uncredited)

"I'd like you to be a teacher, if you want to be a teacher. It's been a good life for me. But more than I would like you to teach, I want you to learn something about this world."
(Tony  Liegeois - Dad)

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)  

 

 

A darkness on the edge of town

"You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won't mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word .... connections are made with the heart, not the tongue." 
(C. Joybell)

 

It's certainly true that you never know how much you rely upon something, accept and expect, even cherish something, until it's not there. At the end of June, three Vodafone masts somewhere out on the South Downs spluttered and fell silent. I'm aware that some parts of Brighton and it's suburbs were without Vodafone mobile coverage for three weeks. There was a palpable darkness at the edge of the town. My own little mobile was silent for a week, but these eerily quiet days over-lapped with my beleaguered BT landline finally admitting defeat, which also rendered my broadband speechless and my laptop comatose.
I live in a small street that's usually disproportionately noisy and which forms a horse-shoe in and out of a busy, in-yer-face main road. There's an exuberant little primary school across the street, with the playground leaning onto the road. There's usually some manner of building works banging away somewhere nearby. My next-door neighbours, with three new babies as part of the extended clan, are from Liverpool: I love them dearly, but they would be the first to admit that the Liverbird larynx comes with integral speakers! And speaking of birds, my beloved seagulls are the running commentary to this city; at worst, like a particularly overwrought Jeremy Kyle audience. In short, you actually have to retreat to find silence or to experience real loneliness in this area.
Although I live on my own and still don't really "know" many folk in this area, I'm far from reclusive. I think I'm a friendly soul. I'm interested in people and expect most to respond warmly or at least civilly. Yet for several days, the enforced lack of communication behind my closed door felt isolating and frankly worrying. With no access to even emergency calls, it may have been natural to fret about fire or footsteps on the stairs at night. Facebook was sullenly closed to me for a few days and I even found myself totting up how many of my daily free online bingo tokens were lost. I couldn't update this little blog and am still trying to catch up on posts I wanted to add; I worry that I've lost phrases and even thoughts I'd been unable to commit to screen. Can you ever actually lose a thought? Surely my own conscience is the most precious hard-drive ever created.
What left me feeling bereft was loss of contact from those who've become part of my daily routine. Most of my closest friends live in London or beyond, but even my neighbour here will text me to say "Cuppa?", expecting me to respond with "Five mins". Technology has expedited and streamlined our communications with "free talk minutes", "txt spk" and character regulated "tweets". Even personal emails promote abridged friendliness and abbreviated emotions, with "LOLs" and "smiley faces" rendering exclamations of joy unnecessary and rather embarrassing.
The Yorkshire novelist, playwright and broadcaster J. B. Priestley was a man who knew how to work and play with words, becoming a Doctor of Letters in his later years. He once noted that the more elaborate our means of communication become, the less we actually communicate. My own shelves of words often make me wistful for the worlds of Austen and the Brontes, with rounds of perfumed letters preserved in initialled trunks under the bed and earnest, totally unseasonally attired lovers riding across sodden moors, collapsing in a consumptive heap on the threshold. Usually choosing to walk around Brighton, I often arrive back at my own front door seriously bedraggled after a trip to Aldis. I actually have a couple of vintage trunks under my bed but the only secrets they store are stockings, hot water bottles and spare bedding. There's a man who walks his rather snooty dog "Heathcliff", often stopping to let him poop by my roses (the dog, not the owner). But I digress: even the largely emotionally sterile, character-economic, technical truncations of the internet won't stop a digressor.
 

 

I'm the first to admit that I usually have something to say and can talk. A lot. I like the art and science of words: these seemed fine reasons to start a blog, over a year ago now, when I was unemployed. But I also appreciate silence and always find myself looking for what's left unsaid when the conversation has ended. There's a precious silence in the closest relationships; an emotional recognition and communion negating words. Yet sometimes things must be said, the surety of feelings needs to be voiced to uncertain hearts. Sometimes words won't flow, stemmed by too much self-doubt or fear of offending, too much anger or pain, even too much love.
Doubt is the natural enemy of love. The unspoken may provide poignant memories but regrets are too dried and crumbly to rest prettily in a purple ribbon. For every pair of star-crossed lovers confounded by fortune, there will be dozens of chances choked upon and broken bridges languishing by a bank of missing planks. God gave us the security of silence but also a wealth of words and the luxury of language. Talk to each other, listen; you really can't successfully do either one without the other.
The word "communication" comes from the Latin for "sharing". Open communication lends itself to community; harmonised interests, values and intimacy. And yet it seems that enhanced routes and almost time-travelling speeds in modern communication have led to inappropriate over-familiarity, contempt and apathy. And when those routes fail, we feel almost socially excluded. We assume the landline, mobile, email or social network will be there tomorrow: the idea, opportunity, emotion or even the person may not be. If our connections were reduced to one letter a month and a steed galloping up-country instead of current upload speeds, we would surely say more in that letter. My Mum and Dad never let the sun set on a problem in case one of them might not be there to see the sunrise. Not a sentiment shared by BT and Vodafone it seems.
Two prisoners in adjoining cells will talk to each other by knocking on the wall. The barrier between them becomes their route of communication; their separation becomes a link between them. Knock knock?

  

"Electric communication will never be a substitute for the face of someone who with their soul encourages another person to be brave and true."
(Charles Dickens)

"Man is a creature who lives not upon bread alone, but primarily by catchwords."
(Robert Louis Stevenson)

"The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place."
 (George Bernard Shaw)

"If the darkening sky could lift
more than one hour from this day
there are words I would never have said
nor have heard you say."
(Carol Ann Duffy)

 

"Darkness On The Edge Of Town"  Bruce Springsteen)

 

  "Everybody's got a secret, sonny,
Something that they just can't face,
Some folks spend their whole lives trying to keep it,
They carry it with them every step they take.
Till some day they just cut loose;
Cut it loose or let it drag them down;
Where no one asks any questions
Or looks too long in your face,
In the darkness on the edge of town."
(B. Springsteen)

 

 

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)

 

  

 

A heart-shaped mind

"If you desire to know … ask grace, not instruction"
(St Bonaventure)

 

When I was a convent schoolgirl down in Greenwich, I was vaguely aware of  the affectionately named "St Bon's", a fellow Catholic grammar school over in Forest Gate, east London. Today is the feast day of their patron, the medieval theologian and philosopher who became St Bonaventure, one of the Doctos of the Church.

Giovanni di Fidanza was born in Tuscany in 1221; the name Bonaventure derives from the Italian "Buona ventura", for "good fortune". His legend tells of his mother asking for St Francis' intercession when he was a sickly infant; his cure was seen as a sign of his favour and good fortune. Giovanni would eventually be elected as Minister General of the Franciscan Order at the age of 36 and would be credited with virtually re-founding it.

A contemporary of St Thomas Aquinas at the University of Paris, Giovanni became known for his kind heart and loving disposition as much as for his prowess as a scholar and his own prolific writings. He was an unparalleled teacher, although his own theology was innovative for the times he lived in and still thought provoking today. He spoke of the emptiness of "knowledge without devotion, research without the impulse of wonder, prudence without the ability to surrender to joy". He likened "learning sundered from love, intelligence without humility" to studying without the sustenance of grace. "To know much and taste nothing - of what use is that?" he said.

There are more than thirty men and women revered as Doctors of the Church; St Bonaventure is known as the "Seraphic Doctor"; his teachings emphasised that faith developed not only through knowledge and understanding but mysticism. As a theologist, he sought to totally integrate faith, feeling and reason. His way set the Franciscans on course to become the most prominent order in the Catholic Church until the birth of the Jesuits. Undoubtedly possessed of a mighty intellect himself, he taught that a great mind can't be elevated without the wings of the loving heart. St Bonaventure saw God as the absolute and perfect being, the essence that brings all other composite beings to existence.

In 1274, Pope Gregory X insisted that he sit at the second Council of Lyon. His contributions there were significant and instrumental in uniting the Greek and Latin churches. The Council saw the Orthodox acceptance of the papacy and the adaption of the Nicene Creed. That same year, he died on this day; suddenly and in suspicious circumstances that have led to tales of poisoning. St Bon's is now a thriving comprehensive; still Catholic, it's adapted to the educational needs of the times without compromising it's tradition in faith.

 

 

 

 "In everything, whether it is a thing sensed or a thing known, God Himself is hidden within."

(St Bonaventure) 

 

 "River"  Emeli Sande

 

 

 

 

 

"The first of a million kisses"

"Take spring when it comes and rejoice.

Take happiness when it comes and rejoice.

Take love when it comes and rejoice"

(Carl Ewald).

 

"And think not you can
direct the course of love,
for love,
if it finds you worthy,
directs your course."

 (Khalil Gibran)

 

Walking rather carefully across town today in the midst of an aggravating and aggressive dispute between Brighton Council and the city's refuse and recycling teams, I saw two families working together to clear the pavement and wash down the road themselves. Having accidently poured soapsuds all over my sandals, a lovely girl explained that her nan is getting married tomorrow and the reception will be held at her family home. The wedding was originally planned for Thursday 13th June - my own parents' anniversary. I explained this to Sarah and that was that really. Three fairy cakes, a pot of tea and a dozen introductions later and I finally stumbled back onto the Lewes Road to buy the stuffed vine leaves and olives I'd left the house for earlier.

I didn't meet Sarah's nan as she'd been taken to have her hair set and be generally pampered before her big day. Hella is marrying the typical "boy next door". Literally. The pavement in front of Hella's house was being almost surgically scrubbed by his two great-nephews. Hella's next door neighbour has never married and is now in his late eighties. I met Derek in Hella's front room, having one hand manicured ("emphasis on the Man bit you know"), while eating his fairy cake with the other. A seemingly confirmed bachelor, he moved next door to Hella and her first husband more than forty years ago.

Although he got on really well with the couple, he fell head over heels in love with Hella. Unable to say or do anything about his feelings and genuinely fond of her husband, he remained their loyal neighbour and best mate as the couple's three children presented them with four grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. He was their rock as Hella survived cancer twice and throughout her husband's catalogue of falls and strokes and his final illness; they nursed Derek through depression and after an almost crippling car accident.
They tended each other's back gardens and even had a gate installed in the back fence for ease of access. Derek will now live in Hella's house and her son, Sarah's father, will move into Derek's house with his wife. Hella is in her early nineties now and not very mobile without a steadying hand and a lot of cajoling; her son and his wife had always intended to move closer to her when her husband died. Derek said he didn't want the hassle of selling his house and this way the two gardens can just become one. He thinks of the children as his own and his siblings are happy for everything to stay in the family.

When Hella's husband died last year, Derek sat with her, cried with her and cooked her roast dinners. He spoke at his friend's funeral and was stunned when the will revealed that he had left him care of his "most precious loved thing" - his wife. Apparently, Hella's husband had known of Derek's unspoken devotion for nearly half a century. In turn, he felt that his totally loyal wife had always had a soft spot for Derek. It took Derek two more days before he could find the words to tell Hella her husband had seen the truth. He said she cried, blew her nose, told him she loved him too but had liked and respected her husband and believed in marriage "Till death do us part". Now that it had, she said, Derek had better pop the question before one of them popped their clogs. Also, she wanted to catch up with Coronation Street that evening.

The couple decided to hold the wedding after the anniversary of Hella's first marriage, in April. It was postponed from 13th of June when the families realised that one of the many nieces would be in hospital that day. I was interested that they had originally chosen the thirteenth of any month; 13th June was the date that Derek moved in next door to Hella and her family so many years ago. I'd managed to maintain an element of composure until Derek told me this: I'd been thinking last week that my Dad wold have been married to Mum for more years than he'd actually lived.
I told Derek I'd been to see Bruce Springsteen at Wembley Stadium last Saturday and taken Mum's photograph so that she could somehow be there, many years after she last saw The Boss play there, with me. This lovely old man, with his sea-coloured eyes and a penchant for having his plumber's hands manicured, told me that sentimentality was the echo of love and loveliness. He told me never to knock it; let it jolt you and you will always know you're still alive.

Beautifully, both families are delighted by the union. Derek was worried that Hella's son and daughters might think he was after her "for one thing". Money? He has his own. Her house? He already had too many rooms for one person, next door. Derek was concerned that as a lifelong bachelor, Hella's family might think the boy-next-door would be sniffing around for physical creature comforts. Derek said Hella soon sorted him out about this: "I don't just want to hold hands you know," she told him, "The kids would much rather I was tucked up here with you than going on the Lonely Hearts." Indeed.
People often trivialise the physical or even emotional power of relationships between older or elderly lovers. That upsets me a lot; I believe that love makes even a failing heart beat faster. Romance and sexual love only have a sell by date if the relationship hasn't been blended properly. It's true that as you age, you can fully appreciate that com-passion is the sustaining flame born of communication and passion.

I'll be working when Derek finally marries his Hella tomorrow, although I may pop along for the reception and more fairy cakes. Derek told me they're not going away from Brighton at all, because every day will now be a honeymoon and also because for them, Love lives in their steep little street.
I asked him if forsaking bachelorhood might be difficult: he said it would be "interesting"; seeing that Hella had found someone before him had been extremely difficult, but not being with her when she was on her own would have been unbearable. He said he was an old dinosaur but he just wanted to be loved; I immediately thought of the Edward Monkton poem that featured in the recent wedding of the youngest daughter of my friends, Ellen and Tom. I'd never heard it before, although I'd seen some of Monkton's greetings cards and cartoons. I've included it here as a childlike celebration of unconditional romantic love, with all it's simplicity and intrigues. We're basic creatures but capable of the most noble sentiments.

I didn't get my dolmades after all, although I think I found something much richer and more filling today. The deli had sold out; I was still a bit teary-eyed and I think the kind Turkish shop-keeper thought I was upset about my failure to gather supper. He gave me some veggie pate for free instead. I tried to be honest and explain but it made me blub again and he started to look wary. I thanked him, smiled and took the pate. Which was delicious with pitta and olives. See: basic creatures.

  

 

" A Lovely Love Story"

(Edward Monkton)

The fierce Dinosaur was trapped inside his cage of ice.
Although it was cold he was happy in there. It was, after all, his cage.
Then along came the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
The Lovely Other Dinosaur melted the Dinosaur’s cage with kind words and loving thoughts.
I like this Dinosaur thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 Although he is fierce he is also tender and he is funny.
He is also quite clever though I will not tell him this for now.
I like this Lovely Other Dinosaur, thought the Dinosaur.
She is beautiful and she is different and she smells so nice.
She is also a free spirit which is a quality I much admire in a dinosaur.
But he can be so distant and so peculiar at times, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
He is also overly fond of things.
Are all Dinosaurs so overly fond of things?
But her mind skips from here to there so quickly thought the Dinosaur.
She is also uncommonly keen on shopping.
Are all Lovely Other Dinosaurs so uncommonly keen on shopping?
I will forgive his peculiarity and his concern for things, thought the Lovely Other Dinosaur.
 For they are part of what makes him a richly charactered individual.
I will forgive her skipping mind and her fondness for shopping, thought the Dinosaur
 For she fills our life with beautiful thoughts and wonderful surprises.
Besides,
I am not unkeen on shopping either.
Now the Dinosaur and the Lovely Other Dinosaur are old.
Look at them.
Together they stand on the hill telling each other stories and feeling the warmth of the sun on their backs.
And that, my friends, is how it is with love.
Let us all be Dinosaurs and Lovely Other Dinosaurs together.
For the sun is warm.
And the world is a beautiful place.
 

 

 

 

"Love Monkey", a five minute film based on the book by Edward Monkton.

 

 

 

  

"Allelujah"  Fairground Attraction

  

"Your smile is a prayer that prays for love
and your heart is a kite that longs to fly;
Allelujah here I am-
Let's cut the strings tonight,
and we'll kiss the first of a million kisses"

( Mark Edward Nevin) 

  

"You don't have to go looking for love when it's where you come from."
(Werner Erhard)

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.