No ashes without fire...

"There is confidence everywhere in Ash Wednesday, yet that does not mean unmixed and untroubled security. The confidence of the Christian is always a confidence in spite of darkness and risk, in the presence of peril, with every evidence of possible disaster…

Once again, Lent is not just a time for squaring conscious accounts: but for realising what we had perhaps not seen before. The light of Lent is given us to help us with this realisation."

(From "Ash Wednesday", Thomas Merton)

Ash Wednesday finds us early this year. The first day of Lent, it seems ironic to point ourselves down the forty day rocky road towards Easter, the day before the supermarket choc-fest of St Valentine's Day. I know that Ash Wednesday ushers in a time of reflection and repentance, but I find it quite a hopeful day; I like having my forehead crossed and I like seeing other folk, away from the church, going about their daily business with their own crosses still in place. Beyond the Biblical symbolism of humility and mortality, we simply do all have our crosses to bear. There's even a kind of solidarity in it. 

I'm old enough now to realise that the greatest part of repentance isn't all in the acknowledgement of what I've done wrong or failed to do at all; it's in the willingness to put behind and to put right. Just as "Lent" derives from the Anglo Saxon "lencten", for springtime, meaningful repentance has to enfold hopefulness and renewal. For the first time in years, I really "get" that Ash Wednesday's crosses aren't just a more viable echo of the sackcloth and ashes of the Old Testament. I can more easily appreciate the mark on my forehead as a reminder of baptism: perhaps I'm growing up after all.
Certainly, I feel I know myself better than to go through the motions of "giving up" chocolate for Lent yet again: I only eat it as a treat and have just as much of a savoury tooth as a sweet one. And I know I'll invariably reach for a bar of dark chili chocolate after Easter; it would only be a temporary, niggling hardship. My sister always says it'll be "a lifetime on the hips" as I reach for a third biscuit, but untended regrets can do far more damage elsewhere. Aristotle noticed that:"Bad men are full of repentance." I think he knew a thing or two about the great untended elsewheres.

So maybe I should give up some deeper comfort zone: some situations and people can make me very uncomfortable and I retreat behind friends, excuses or naturally occurring delays and barriers. I so often allow myself to be thwarted by criticism, disdain or indifference. This Lent, I should give up giving up so easily. More tricky but far more rewarding for me personally than simply steering past the KitKats and Crunchies in Salisbury's. Although navigating past a bay of bargain treacle tarts might require assistance from in-store security.

"Distant Sun" might seem an odd choice of music for an Ash Wednesday post: if you're looking a traditional sombreness, you might well dismiss it as pop music, playing at being precious. And indeed if you want pop-rock in pure Beatles style then look no further than Crowded House, or Oasis. But I digress: this remains one of my favourite songs, pop or otherwise, because Neil Finn's lyrics seem to be about redeeming and renewing oneself; the possibility of changing and moving forward without forever casting an eye back to excuse or justify.
Have a soothing Ash Wednesday and a hopeful Lent.

"You're still so young to travel so far, 

Old enough to know who you are: 

Wise enough to carry the scars 

Without any blame; there's no one to blame"

"Distant Sun"  Crowded House

"A man who fails well is greater than one who succeeds badly."

(Thomas Merton)

Birds and beads, trees and tries

"Try to be better than yourself."

(William Faulkner)

Photo: Gigi, album

Whenever I take down Christmas decorations, it usually makes me feel a little deflated, as though I'm packing away cheeriness. My decorations are largely lights and garlands, and beads, berries and birds on my pot plants. I don't care for tinsel, and my own Christmas tree is a living, growing, potted one that I've nurtured and nagged for more than ten years. Everywhere that I've moved, Noel the Tree has moved too. He started his life with me in South London; a tiny, ornamental but non-specified fir from Sainsbury's. He was stuck in a red plastic flowerpot, with fake snow on his branches. Just the right size for Mum's mantelpiece, he was supposed to be thrown away by Twelfth Night, but I have a problem throwing away anything that's still even vaguely green and vibrant. When I realised he was actually rooted and growing, I decided to encourage him to be a tree. 

Re-potted several times since then and now more than six feet tall, he guards my back door. He has his own set of solar star-lights which he wears all year round, but he also has his own silver star and poinsettia garlands for Christmas. He did look rather camp at Christmas; he seems to be flourishing in Brighton's misty dampness. He's withstood being diagnosed as disposably ornamental, some mis-management from my Mum, and being hacked about by my brother-in-law who thought he was an unpruned and misguided shrub in Mum's front garden. During moves from London and then across Brighton, he's been locked in storage, knocked down basement steps and ridiculed and disrespected by various removal men. I'm an admirer of trees generally for their strength and dependable longevity; I'm extremely fond of Noel the Tree.

It didn't really take long to dismantle festivities in my little house this year. Traditionally, I try to give the last piece of the last mince pie to the birds in the back garden - feathered ones, not some bedraggled hen-party who've stumbled off the main road straight into my rose bushes, confused by Noel's twinkling. The other day, I watched for at least ten minutes while a very small robin tried valiantly to fly off with the largest piece of pastry. Luckily, Ginger the tom from next door was purring obliviously at the bottom of my stairs. 

I've never really seen a robin in a tizzy before. Every time he started to fly away with the pastry, he would drop some and start flapping and spluttering. What appeared to be a fat thrush popped down to muscle in; the robin saw him off in no uncertain terms. Eventually, he got a larger piece up to the safety of my garden table, where he pecked and gulped it down, all the while keeping a bright eye on the rest of his hoard. He then hopped down and secured another large-ish morsel, then another. Eventually, he finished all of it on his own and did a little twitchy victory-dance around the garden table; I felt like applauding him.

Photo: Gigi, album

I've already told friends that I haven't really made resolutions this year. However, after writing about Brighton's phoenix-like spirit and reflecting on my own hardy Christmas tree,  grown-up from a supermarket novelty, I've encountered probably the toughest little robin this side of Hastings. On New Year's Day, I watched the skaters on the ice-rink in front of the Pavilion. As soon as the ice was cleared between sessions, a motley crew swished and staggered out. There was a lot of wobbling and clomping, quite a bit of teetering and rail-clinging; surprisingly little falling. From six to sixty year olds, there was a palpable sense of "trying". There are some rather pompous looking plastic "practice penguins" with grip handles for the very young or very wary, but they were largely left redundant. There was a lot of smiling: it made me feel that it really is exhilarating to have a go and then just great when success surprises you. 

One little girl of about seven stumbled out on her own and skidded straight into the barrier while her dad struggled to attach his skates. She looked terrified, with her feet splaying in opposite directions, but she'd circumnavigated the rink by the time her father had reached the ice, clinging to the rail the whole time. As she crashed against the barrier near me, I gave her an encouraging grin. She managed a wry little smile back as she lurched past the practice penguins disdainfully.

My schoolfriend Bernie used to send out letters and cards of encouragement including the motto:"Dream, Believe, Try, Achieve". Having lived her own advice, she's achieved many things since leaving the convent, including writing several books about whatever has fired her enthusiasm, and founding the influential "Women's Environmental Network". The Green MP for Brighton, Caroline Lucas, is one of their "matrons": the WEN doesn't have "patrons". I've actively appreciated the first half of Bernie's motto: I do believe in the power of dreams and goals, and I do have faith which enables me to be strong for people and things I care about. I even have a niggling awareness of my capabilities. But I then stop short of actually trying sometimes. 
As the frost set in towards the end of 2012, I wrote it off as one of several years with more moans than merriment, more losses than treasures. Last night, after spotting that one ceramic berry I hadn't taken off the ficus plant, I realised it's simply been a trying year; and therefore literally one full of opportunities for trying. Groucho Marx famously said that he wanted to live for ever and would die trying to; Judy Garland once declared that she definitely did believe in the power of a rainbow and had spent her whole life "trying to get over it". Somewhere between these two sentiments, there is a little patch of wintry ground where hopes, like little robins, shy away from calling themselves resolutions, just in case some quirky blonde is watching from the window. 
My godfather, "uncle Bob", was a bit of a trier  although he was often written off by folk as a dreamer. He was a former docker and merchant seaman from a working class family in a run-down part of Southwark, south London. He hadn't had the best education in the world, certainly with no time or funds for formal musical or literary instruction. Yet at his packed funeral in Rotherhithe some years ago, doubting friends were amazed to hear that he really had become a river pilot on his beloved Thames and indeed a Master Mariner; he actually had joined the Black Watch guards and learnt to play bagpipes; he did eventually have one or two of his many country compositions recorded in Nashville. 
A fellow lover of Robbie Burns, uncle Bob would recite huge chunks of his poetry; "Auld Lang Sine" was his favourite. He also particularly liked T.H. Palmer's "Try, Try", but I only realised why it was special to him after he died:

"'Tis a lesson you should heed, 

If at first you don't succeed, 

Try, try again. 

Then your courage should appear, 

For if you will persevere, 

You will conquer, never fear; 

Try, try again." 

When he suffered a heart attack at the age of seventy, it seemed inconceivable that he might not pull through: he was a battler, after all. My mother and I were stunned when his body seemed to give out on his spirit and he died of organ failure. My godfather's seemingly mundane and humble life had actually been an unpublicised Curriculum Vitae of persistence and quiet triumph.

I've always appreciated that a score in rugby is fittingly called a try, rather than a goal. Anyone who's ever played will testify to the deliberate and concentrated effort behind every try. Sorry to sound disparaging to any footie fan, but I've never heard of an accidental score in rugby ; it's not really possible to score an "own-try". So, my one resolution is actually just to try, about whatever and whenever I feel passionate to do so, but hopefully not just for the new year. Because hope is for life, not just for Christmas.

*For my friend Mel Bauwens, another tough little robin who achieved so much last year; and for Bobby Allen, RIP*

"You can't always get what you want,

But if you try sometimes

You might just find

You get what you need."

(The Rolling Stones)

"Courage doesn't always roar.Sometimes it's the quiet voice at the end of the day, saying 'I will try again tomorrow'."

(Mary Anne Radmacher)

"Try"  Pink

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away." 

(Maya Angelou) 

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."

(Albert Einstein) 

Losing my connection

Thank you yet again to John Richardson in Australia for some funnies which have proved to be quite topical for me this week: I've realised just how reliant I've become on having a healthy Internet connection over the past few months! I've taken it as much for granted as I have my own health really. Over the past couple of weeks, my upload and download speeds have continually dropped well below one megabyte; for anyone even less techno-savvy than I, trust me that this is bad.
I work quite haphazard hours, sometimes over seven days, and have grown accustomed to catching up on  favourite telly programmes, friends' videos and blogs on my trusty laptop while the world beyond my noisy little corner of Brighton sleeps. In recent days, I haven't even been able to update my own blog. (Who applauded? Sarcasm lurks in the devil's smirk!)
My Internet provider seems to have finally worked a little magic on the speeds but has hinted at something dark around my entire 'phone and Internet connection; for me, this feels almost like being diagnosed with an allergy to chocolate. Due to the hours I work, it's been a struggle to actually speak to a helpline technician who was both helpful and technical. A previous,very frazzled late-night call concluded when I was asked if I had unplugged the "computer thingies" and if I knew where the Reset button on the modem was. I admit that I used rather un-Catholic language before heading for the Nutella jar with a dessert spoon.
It did get me thinking about our dependence upon technology in general. I fully appreciate how the postal service works, resulting in many unwelcome bills and the occasional lovely package being delivered by my bouncy postman, right to my front door. I have only a vague idea of how WiFi actually winds up in my front room and then (hopefully) casually wafts around most areas of my home and garden. When this invisible presence is notably absent and my usual information, entertainment and communication systems fail, I'm devastated. Most of us accept and indeed expect the omnipotent nature of the Internet without demanding or needing an explanation of how it all works, although many find the concepts of an essential creator of all things and a redeeming spirit moving through them outdated, incongruous and absurd.
I think we have our own Reset buttons, marked "Faith".

 

 

 

 

"There Must Be An Angel"  The Eurythmics (and one of the kitschiest videos ever made)

"It's all clever stuff I'm giving you..."

It seems all Brightonians are born with a Max Miller-ish take on humour: look for it and you'll find it everywhere; don't look for it and it'll probably trip you up. Since I moved here, I've learnt that Max kept two notebooks for jokes: a white one for clean ones and a blue one for "adult" ones. Coming back on a train from London last night, I encountered a "junior" Maxie.
I am already missing my chocolate, I admit. I'm being very careful and am turning away the tiniest choc-chip in a cookie. So I found myself fascinated by a small girl on the train who had peeled a large, family sized bar of caramel chocolate and was just munching down it, as though it was a banana. No breaking it into the separate sections, and certainly no sharing it with her slightly older brother. She was about six and she eyeballed me intently as she sat munching. I used to peel back large bars of chocolate and bite into them in exactly the same way when I was younger. Alright, until Ash Wednesday last week to be precise. She suddenly thrust the half demolished bar at me and said "You!" Her Mum laughed and said Clara NEVER shares her chocolate and must want me to have it. I explained that I couldn't, eventually telling the mum that it was because it was Lent. I'd no idea the little boy was listening, but he suddenly piped up "It's not lent - she won't want your bit back after you've had it!"  Just to emphasise his cleverness, he finished off with "Boom boom!"
No, I didn't eat any. Yes, lovely  Clara did manage to smudge some on my face anyway.

For Ash Wednesday...

...guilty pleasures

Because I have just given it up for 40 days and nights - "Chocolate"

"Chocolate"  Snow Patrol

(Perhaps I should have given up Snow Patrol too)

Food to shrive for...

Today is Shrove Tuesday, usually referred to as Pancake Day, of course the day before Ash Wednesday. In the times of truly strictly observed Lenten fasting, Shrove Tuesday was a day of feasting and merriment. Pancake recipes were a good way of using up richer, fatty foods such as eggs, milk, butter and sugar. Liturgical recommendations, by the Catholic church and other Christian denominations, emphasised plain foods and refraining from rich foods for the 40 days of Lent. However, the righteous were also called to church on Shrove Tuesday to confess their sins and be "shriven" before Lent began. The words shrove and subsequently shriven, derive from the Old English word "scrifan": to prescribe. People would be shriven of their sins; the priest would prescribe their penance to enable their absolution before Lent. Folklore has it that the traditional pancake race originated in Olney, Buckinghamshire, as far back as 1440, when a housewife was still making pancakes as the church-bells tolled for the Shriving Service. Rather than be wasteful and leave them, she ran to the church with the batter in her frying pan, turning it as she went. In Olney and elsewhere, pancake races still take place each year: tossing pancakes has become a culinary art.

 

As a vegetarian, I love my cakes, biscuits and chocolate spread. With 40 days of confectionery-free days looming, I'll be off to make my pancakes before this post has settled on the screen. But my Irish side, which tends to come to fore where food is concerned, reminds me that the beginning of February was the feast of St Brigid of Ireland, the Abbess of Kildare and the spiritual patroness of all Irish nuns.. In days gone by, Irish housewives and cooks would honour this feisty and much loved saint as the patroness of the dairy cattle, who loved to cook to feed the poor, with recipes including butter AND buttermilk and also traditionally potatoes. This is my kind of cooking. "Boxty" pancakes - poorhouse bread - was traditional fare on the feast of St Brigid centuries ago, originating in the north west of Ireland. Boxty pancakes are still popular in Northern Ireland today; certainly my Antrim-born mother must have taught my Belgian Dad the recipe. He made them with generously with lashings of butter, throughout the year.

As I've now made myself hungry, here is the recipe for:

Boxty - Irish Potato Pancakes

Ingredients:
2-1/2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
2 eggs
2-1/2 cups buttermilk
1 cup freshly grated raw potato
2 tablespoons melted butter or margarine
1 teaspoon vanilla
butter
sugar

(Makes 3 dozen 4-inch pancakes)

Way To Go:
Mix and sift flour, sugar, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Beat eggs lightly in a large bowl; stir in the buttermilk. Now stir in the dry ingredients, mixing just until blended (batter will be slightly lumpy). Stir in grated potato, butter or margarine, and vanilla.

Spoon the batter, just a 1/4 cup for each pancake, onto greased heated pan or griddle. Cook for 2 or 3 minutes, until bubbles form on top and the underside is golden. Turn the pancake over to repeat.

Serve at once, with plenty of butter. Sprinkle generously with sugar, the Irish way, and enjoy.

Don't wait until the next Pancake Day.

"Take me to the Mardi Gras"  Paul Simon