It's a Cracker: in search of Comfort and Joy

"Ring out the old, ring in the new;
Ring, happy bells, across the snow.
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true."
(Alfred Tennyson)

 

 I had already prepared this and another fairly light-hearted post for the New Year before events beyond Gigionsea shocked and saddened the world. Planes drop from the heavens and people continue to take up arms against each other; disease and discontent find seemingly endless ways to hide and thrive and re-invent in the dark recesses of fear and deprivation. The news through the yuletide period into the New Year has been bleak. I held onto my posts like leftover crackers, not wanting to be trite or uncaring.

Yet the truth of it is that terrible things really do happen everyday to good, ordinary people. There really are ''natural disasters''; the progression of technology is ultimately powerless against the might of the elements or the repeated lessons of human failing. If we have evolved as a species with our Googling of the best ''friendly bacteria'', we must accept that the tiniest, most insignificant-seeming microbe might grow and mutate and find alien ways to attack us.

Through it all, life remains essentially an unbidden gift and . Although I have my own boundaries, incidents and situations I would never make light of or joke about, I also respect the resilience of the smile. As I unashamedly believe in God, I believe that we can find the laughter of God everywhere; as often as we can invoke His tears.

We will all die: this is a certainty but no less distressing and even painful for that. Some of us will die young, some old. Some of us will die in planes, on the road, at the hands of another, in an anodyne hospital bed. The truest tragedy is not to have lived up to that moment; not to have said that ''hello'' as much as any goodbye. Not to have made that call, seen that sunset, painted that picture, held that person. Each time we witness the inevitability of our mortality or the indiscriminate lottery of fortune, surely we must find life all the more precious? Death is indeed inevitable but the giving and living of life are unconditionally wondrous, whatever church you will or won't subscribe along the way.

Many of the traditional excesses that found their way onto our Christmas dinner tables or hung around our bedraggled front rooms on New Year's Eve are rooted in the debauched and often cruel carnival that the Romans celebrated at Saturnalia. Depending on your viewpoint, Saturn was the resident god of seeds and harvest, liberation and wealth, waging war and death, Saturn's festival would run in the Julian calendar from around 17th December for more than a week. Animal and even human life was sacrificed, fires were lit, huge feasts consumed, lavish gifts and displays of affection and lust were exchanged. Within the continual partying, drunkenness, extravagant costumes, ribald humour and wild sex were to be expected. It was probably not unlike Brighton's West Street at dusk in the run-up to Christmas Eve.

At it's most innocuous, Saturnalia was also a festival of lights leading up to the winter solstice, with an abundance of candles lighting the quest for knowledge and truth. The advent of the new year was celebrated in the later Roman empire with the feast of the "Sol Invictus"; the Unconquerable Sun...

Our baubled Christmas trees and bumbled kisses under the mistletoe are steeped in Roman pagan beliefs. My own tree, Noel, now in his ninth year, is currently flickering outside my back door. His outdoor lights may be from B & Q, but his triangular shape and evergreen presence are rooted (sorry) in the conversion of pagan festivity to Christian celebration, with symbolism evolving to illustrate the holy trinity and eternal life.

I wondered where Christmas crackers originated from and was surprised to learn they only surfaced in 1840s Europe. One Tom Smith, a noted purveyor of confectionery, created larger "bon-bons", wrapped with a twist at the end. He inserted little love messages and tokens into the bon-bons; then small gifts, mottos and jokes. He latter added the banger mechanism to emulate the crackle and pop of  yuletide fires and fireworks. The revised name "cracker" is onomatopoeic. The inclusion of paper crowns takes us right back to Romans; even the servants would play at being kings for a few days.

Finding absurdity and joy in the nitty-gritty minutiae and harshest realities of life truly is as ancient as looking to the stars for miracles.

 

"Semper Saturnalia agunt. (They're always celebrating Saturnalia.)"

(Petronius)

 

"Non semper Saturnalia erunt. (It won't always be Saturnalia-time.)"

(Seneca)

"In Dulce Jubilo"  Mike Oldfield

 

 

(Photo: Gigi, album)

Noel the Christmas Tree; Comfort and Joy, from my home to yours x

 

Blogging: a pencil full of lead

 

 

"In the soul of every new-born baby,
words are waiting to be written."

(Toba Beta)

"Appearance blinds, whereas words reveal."

(Oscar Wilde) 
 

 

"Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall."
(Jodi Picoult)

 

"A blog is only as interesting as the interest shown in others."
(Lee Odden)

"Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule."  
(Stephen King)

 

   "Only on the Internet can a person be lonely and popular at the same time."
(Allison Burnett)

 

 " In a sense, who you are has always been a story that you told to yourself. Now your self is a story that you tell to others."
(Geoff Ryman)

 

 

 

 

"Pencil Full of Lead"  Paolo Nutini with The Vipers (acoustic)

 

 

To swell the buds within - February

"We are tired of our huts and the smoky smell of our clothing. 
We are sick with the desire for the sun
And the grass on the mountain."
 ("Late Winter Song", The Paiute People: the Great Basin, North America)

The American poet William Cullen Bryant said that sunshine in February "tints the buds and swells the leaves within." I have valiant little rosebuds starting to yawn in the back garden and some daffodils already sticking two fingers up through the frost, but the air is decidedly dank and any sunshine seems half-hearted. With more wet and windy weather forecast throughout February and well into March, the shortest month of the year may well seem like a long drag through the hedgerow.
Here in the northern hemisphere, February is seen as the third month of our meteorological winter. In fact January and February were the last two months to be added to the Roman lunar calendar: the Romans considered winter to be a dull, dormant and therefore month-less period! February remained the last month of the year until around 450 BC. The month was named after the Latin word "februum", meaning purification. The Roman festival of Februa was held mid-month and featured rituals of cleansing, deliverance and renewal. The word is also associated with fevers; February has always been a month of lingering chills and winter aches and pains.
The Old English name for February was "Solmonath" - literally "mud month". At least in Finland some of the stark, expectant beauty of winter is captured in their name of "Helmikuu"; "the month of the pearl", recalling the frozen droplets on leaves and branches. Aside from mud, the month has long been associated with violets and amethysts, symbolising purity and sincerity of feeling, humility and wisdom.
It's very much a time of renewal and affirmation in the natural world. Jokes and smiles from friends often pop through lack-lustre mornings and gloomy afternoons like spring shoots and I thought I wold share some of the more "cleansed" ones here; thanks mainly to JR. May the shortest month of the year be as long in memories and as full of laughter as the advent of another spring should be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Awake My Soul"  Mumford & Sons

"No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill,
And willow stems grow daily red and bright.
These are days when ancients held a rite
Of expiation for the old year's ill,
And prayer to purify the new year's will."
("A Calendar of Sonnets: February", Helen Hunt Jackson)

"From December to March, there are for many of
us three gardens:
the garden outdoors,
the garden of pots and bowls in the house,
and the garden of the mind's eye."
(Katherine S. White)

"Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour."
( John Boswell)

"The flowers of late winter and early spring occupy places in our hearts well out of proportion to their size."
(Gertrude S. Wister)

"Winter is Nature's way of saying Up Yours!"
(Robert Byrne)

 

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)