Resolution and Remembrance

"Auld Lang Syne". Mairie Campbell (version) 

 

 

"Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves - regret for the past and fear of the future."
(Fulton Outsole)

"I'd rather regret the things I've done than regret the things I haven't done."
(Lucille Ball)

"At the end of your life, you will never regret not having passed one more test, not winning one more verdict or not closing one more deal. You will regret time not spent with a husband, a friend, a child, or a parent."
(Barbara Bush)

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my jo,
for auld lang syne;
We’ll take a cup o’ kindness yet,
for the sake of auld lang syne."

(Robert Burns - adapted)

 

My mother said that there were always four things you could never get back in life; the harsh word after it was spoken, the stone after it was thrown, the occasion after it was missed, the time after it was lost. We set our lives to the ticking of clocks and the buzzing of alarms, dashing from one scrawled page entry to another. We tie ourselves into appointments and routines to make the most of the time we may have, then mourn the lack of time we've left ourselves simply To Be.

At New Year, we celebrate the opportunity to do all the things we've been meaning to do but  never found the time for. We immediately make lists, physically or mentally, and commit a whole new calendar to appointments and events. Yet we also encourage ourselves to look to times past; to reminisce and mourn. Memories, remembrance; this is how we mortals hold on to people, animals, places and events. It's how we hold on to ourselves in the passage of time.

I wasn't unduly surprised when a friend told me that the blog and I had missed New Year, even before the twelve days of Christmas 2014 were over. We pin our hopes and dreams on the big clock striking midnight; we link arms with inebriated strangers to call to mind sadly missed loved ones and opportunities. Then the first day of January stumbles into the second day, slips into the third and beyond... The truth is that this will be a "new" year until we embark on the next one, God willing. It's a fair assumption, based on personal experience, that the majority of resolutions earnestly embarked on ten days ago will be abandoned within weeks. Is it any less commendable if we restart the diet, finish the painting, join the gym or begin the Mandarin conversation course in May?

Mankind has not equipped itself well so far this new year: the news stories attest to revenge and aggression rather than remembrance and resolution. In the blink of an eye, the squeeze of a trigger, those who were so recently clearing away over-priced wrapping paper and cheap tinsel and vowing to give up smoking after that last packet are gone. Whoever they are, whatever they have done, their names may indeed be brought to mind for those who remain to link arms at midnight at the end of this year. And so it continues; until, one day, it stops.

All our days are numbered; the longest life may still be too short if it's heavy on regrets. I have learned at least one lesson in recent years; that time can scar as well as heal when it's mishandled. This year, I've resisted the urge to comfort myself with a list of resolutions that may become a testament of regrets. Instead, I've decided that, whatever I achieve or fail to do, getting through this year must be sweeter if I try to move forward with Grace, Grit and Gratitude in equal measure.

Instead of New Year's resolutions, I've included here some little guidelines to living well, applicable regardless of how old the year is, or indeed how old we are. I've also included a favourite version of "Auld Lang Syne", even though New Year's Eve really is old-long-since; possibly not that surprising, considering my Robbie Burns crush. Burns didn't intend to restrict his iconic anthem to one day of the year. Across the globe, it's sung on birthdays and anniversaries, at funerals and reunions. I often find myself humming it in my local Poundland (they're used to me). Which is just grand, because resolution and remembrance, like friendship and kindness, are for life, not just New Year x

 

 

;

 

 

 ("One Day Like This"  Elbow, with the BBC Concert Orchestra and choir Chantage)

 

"Drinking in the morning sun,
Blinking in the morning sun;
Shaking off a heavy one,
 Heavy like a loaded gun.
What made me behave that way,
Using words I never say?
I can only think it must be love:
Oh anyway, it's looking like a beautiful day.

 So throw those curtains wide;

One day like this a year will see me right."
(Garvey, Jupp, Potter, Potter and Turner)

 

'Twas the Twelfth Night after Christmas...

(All photos: Gigi, album)

 

"And all those sayings will I overswear;
And those swearings keep as true in soul
As doth that orbèd continent the fire
That severs day from night."

(All quotations: "Twelfth Night", William Shakespeare) 

 

I used to feel quite melancholy on the evening of "Twelfth Night"; I don't like taking decorations and lights down and packing away Christmas for another year. Traditionally, I think many people believe that's exactly what the twelfth day of Christmas is: an ending of festivities, sensitivities and niceties.

Twelfth Night for the western Christian Church also commemorates the Epiphany, from the Greek word meaning of striking or unusual appearance; when some learned men and others followed an exceptionally bright comet to Christ's birthplace. The eastern churches also celebrates the infant's baptism by John the Baptist around this time, although their adherence to the Julian calendar would bring their Epiphany to around 19th January in our New Year diaries.

Some confusion persists in whether Twelfth Night falls on 5th or 6th January. The old Celtic tradition of the new day starting at sundown rather than midnight seems to pull the twelfth day of Christmas back to 5th January. My Mum always said it was unlucky to leave the Christmas decorations up after Twelfth Night; so the Roman Catholic me went off to mass to celebrate Epiphany yesterday morning and the half-Oirish, superstitious me made sure the lights, garlands and beads were down by midnight.

Particular attention has been paid to Twelfth Night for many centuries. It marks the end of a traditional winter festival that actually starts on All Hallows Eve back in October. It feted the pagan "Lord of Misrule", who turned the seen world upside down and reversed fortunes; so kings would become peasants and vice versa. In theory of course.

Shakespeare's play "Twelfth Night" or "What You Will" was written especially to be performed on this date. His play has many reversed elements, including a leading female role disguised as a man and a servant who pictures himself as a nobleman. The Christian story poignantly and pertinently turns the world upside down, with nobles and wise men humbled by a newborn baby and shepherds chosen to witness the birth of a king. Interestingly, Shakespeare's Twelfth Night is the only one of his plays that makes no reference to children at all.

 

Initially this morning, my home and garden looked quite bare without festive decorations. My long-suffering Christmas tree (Noel), now in his ninth year and his biggest pot ever, has come a long way since his own humble beginnings as a "disposable" Christmas decoration for the mantelpiece. He was the tiniest of the small potted pine tree cuttings in the Lewisham branch of Sainsbury's; he looked pathetically cute when I bought him for £1 as a little extra for Mum and my cat Sooty. He now guards my Brighton back-yard and I have to stand on the storage bench to fix his star properly. In my eccentric little way, I like to think he enjoys the dressing up, although that wouldn't be unusual in Brighton, even for a tree.

Between work shifts and 'phone calls, I managed to get all the trimmings untied and unravelled in time, fortified by crumpets with humours and cranberries; another quirk of mine. My sister gave me a bottle of Celtic mead at Christmas and I've discovered this goes down very neatly with ginger ale. My blogger friend Pagan Annie has said she's pleased that the blog is continuing, but would like more recipes. So included here for her is the traditional recipe for the old wassailers (literally, "apple howlers"), who drank as they sang as they went at both Halloween and Twelfth Night.

It would be lovely to see the twelfth day of Christmas as a new chapter of kindness and hopefulness, rather than the packing away of merry togetherness, gratuitous cards, gifts and greetings and goodwill to all with the tinsel and baubles. Family, friends and faith in the future really should be forever. not just for Christmas.

 

"Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents."  

 

 

"But rather reason thus with reason fetter:

Love sought is good but given unsought is better."

 

 

The Lambswool Wassail

1.5 Litres (3 x 500ml bottles) of traditional real ale or traditional cider
6 small cooking apples, cored
2 tablespoons of grated nutmeg
1 tablespoon of ground ginger
150g brown sugar (Demerara)
Preheat the oven to 120C.
Prepare the apples in advance, so they're ready when you want to put them into the ale to serve.
The apples should be fully cored, with no pips.
Lightly grease the baking tray. Place the apples on the baking tray about 6cm (2 inches) apart – they will swell.
Bake the apples at 120C for about an hour, so they become soft and pulpy and the skins are easy to peel away.
In a large thick bottomed saucepan add the sugar and a small amount of the ale (or cider) and heat gently.
Stir continuously until the sugar has dissolved. Then add in the ground ginger and the grated nutmeg.
Stir, and keeping the pan on a gentle simmer, slowly add in all the rest of the ale.
Leave for 10 minutes on a gentle heat.
Take the baked apples out of the oven to cool for 10 minutes.
Break open the apples and scoop the baked flesh into a bowl, discarding the skin.
Mash the apple pulp while it's still warm, into a smooth purée.
Add the apple purée into the ale and whisk.
Warm everything through for thirty minutes, on a gentle heat, until ready to drink.
Whisk again for a couple of minutes, vigorously frothing the drink up.
The apple froth will float to the surface, looking "woolly"!
To traditionally froth drinks up they were normally poured continuously between two large serving jugs to get air into the drink.
Ladle the Lambswool into heat-proof mugs or glasses, topped with some grated nutmeg; share, drink and be merry!

 

 

"A Spaceman Came Travelling"  Gregorian (version)

  

"Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them."

 

 

Friends in high places

Jonathan  (all photos: Gigi, album)

 

"The gull sees farthest who flies highest."

(Richard Bach)  

Sometimes, it can seem that the very people we care about or lean on leave us, whether voluntarily or reluctantly. Affinities, vows, rings, paper and words; the things that are seen to bind can fall away quite suddenly. And sometimes, animals seem to appear through the cracks in our daily lives, nudging their way into our conscience and our consciousness. Even long domesticated animals remain wild at heart. We may cage them, harness them, clip and tag them,  ply them with treats and catnip, but they still choose whether or not to love us. It's true that some animals see their humans as a consistent supply of ready meals, yet even so they may never develop a brand loyalty to us. And the unsolicited and unbound companionship of a truly wild and free creature is always a precious thing. 
Jonathan Seagull didn't so much nudge as muscle his way into my life, bill first, through the catflap I inherited from the previous home-owner. Ginger from next door has only just mastered it, after more than two years of cajoling, nagging and motivational pep talking from me. It has a Perspex flap, so I can see which neighbourhood scally-cat or fearless fox has come calling.
Very shortly after I moved into the little house, I heard an insistent and quite irritated tap-tapping at the catdoor one squally night. It spooked me. Peering from the darkness of my kitchen on my hands and knees, I saw a wild-eyed gull staring back at me. I looked. He looked. Suddenly he flapped and bashed the catflap again. In true Hitchcockian-blonde-I've-seen-"The Birds"-style, I screamed. He screamed back. After a while, he hopped onto my garden bench, setting the security light off. From the back window, I could see what a big bird he was. Herring gull; full grown, sharp eyes, impressive bill. And a gammy left foot which he couldn't quite put down. Just as he was about to give up and started to spread his wings, I opened the back door.
"Hello Mr Seagull. How are you?" Even I realised how pathetic this sounded. The bird lowered his wings, cocked his head and surveyed the human he'd chosen to call on, resplendent in mini leopard print bathrobe and flipflops. I'd never seen a gull look disparaging before; I've now become familiar with that look.  "My name's Gisele, Mr Seagull." Seldom in my life have I felt so foolish, which is saying something.
"Mr Seagull" would quickly became "Jonathan", after the title character in one of my favourite books. Richard Bach's "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" is a soaring analogy about spirit; the story of a seagull's search for perfection through flight. After feeding him oven chips that first night, I assumed he would never return to my staunchly vegetarian home, but I did hope. My Dad used to rescue and tend to injured birds back in south London; most of them returned to the skies. One distinctive and clearly grateful pigeon called "Roucal" returned to my Dad's nesting box and bird-table for many years. But I had no real experience of seagulls.
I couldn't get near to his sore foot of course, but as he snapped at the chips I gathered that it was tender underneath. I realise now that he wouldn't have been able to swoop for food or perch properly to eat it. It was raining persistently when Jonathan first arrived and there were muddy puddles forming in the cracked cement in my backyard.. As I scattered his second serving of chips, I thought I might try a few drops  of TCP in the puddles he was hopping through. I had no idea if this might be beneficial in any way, but eventually I realised he was staying relatively still in one doctored puddle.
He stayed for about an hour, until there were no more fresh chips and he'd tired of my wittering. He flapped up and out into the darkness, leaving me and my bathrobe drenched, starving and startled by the whole episode. The next morning I ventured out to clear up any soggy leftovers and possibly a copious amount of droppings. A splutter of feathers rushed down from my back roof. I assume he'd slept there overnight.. Still largely balancing on one leg, he ate my breakfast crumpets with unconcealed disdain. He flapped off skyward after another hour and I headed off to the laptop to Google the life and culinary loves of the herring gull.
Jonathan's foot healed over the next couple of months. We discovered that he liked raw broccoli but not asparagus, was partial to cat biscuits and over-ripe tomatoes and would tolerate my vegetable fingers in the absence of fish.  He loved salmon flavoured cat treats but spat the cheesy ones out at me with ferocious accuracy. His love of all things spud rivals my own; maybe Jonathan had an Antrim mother too. As he healed he was able to sit on my garden bench and table and perch on the old shed. As his landings and take-offs became more adventurous, he terrorised the other garden birds and traumatised next door's cat. He monopolised my large basin birdbath, sometimes completely up-ending it during crash and splash landings.
He's even ventured into the kitchen when I've left the backdoor open without properly acknowledging his presence. He's filled my front and back guttering with moss and more unmentionable things as he's gradually commandeered the whole of my roof. His bad-boy landings in a confined space have destroyed pots, plants and lanterns. He quickly learned how to manipulate the security light and will still tap at the catflap from time to time, his calling-card. 

 

  

Out front, Jonathan will sit on random parked cars outside my window and flap about while I'm on the 'phone. Unattended for too long, he will crap all over the cars, from bonnet to boot. He craps on my garden bench and table, on my neighbours' washing and even on the cat if possible; and once on me, which I feel was memorable for both of us in differing ways. I know this is said to be lucky, but it feels terribly unfortunate at the time.

More than two years since he first knocked at my catdoor, his visits have become far less frequent but I now know not to worry if he doesn't appear for a month or more. People nod sympathetically when I say I know he'll always come back. Herring gulls have been known to have long memories and can live for twenty to thirty years. Jonathan seems quite determined to me and I probably seem quite devoted to him. I think he was the gull equivalent of a sulky mid-teen when he first arrived. Although I've learned that they're not pack creatures, he's sometimes landed with a couple of smaller but quite hooligan mates in tow, as though I've opened a Wild Bean Café in the garden. Ginger the cat has been jittery for days afterwards.

I love the ubiquitous presence of seagulls in this city. It's possible to feed them by hand along the seafront and they're a natural alarm clock. Some gulls are screechers, some are squalers, others laugh. Jonathan Seagull is a particularly loud laugher. "Ahahaha!" announces his arrival or passage overhead, pitched somewhere between machine gun rattle and a young Sid James. A couple of months ago, he sat on my roof for over an hour, periodically cackling at a friend and I as we attempted some DIY in my garden.

This summer, he felt comfortable enough to bring his lady-seagull to my roof, copulating quite noisily and somewhat precariously on top of my chimney pots. Of course, he laughed all the way through sex as well. I tried to carry on painting my plant pots as best I could, embarrassed but incredulous at his stamina and her forbearance. Herring gulls tend to mate for life, unless one of them falls off a chimney pot.in the throes of passion.

I appreciate that not all Brightonans are as fond of our increasing seagull population. I've often heard the expression "rats with wings"; it's true that the omnivorous gulls are natural scavengers. Brighton is a city of seaside kiosks and pavement cafes, spawning kerbside binbag collections and overflowing communal bins. As the gulls become more urbanised, they see rooftops as handy inland cliffs. This summer, hundreds of gull chicks had to be rescued by local conservationists after sliding of roofs (the chicks; hopefully not the conservationists). Over the past couple of years, the pond in Queen's Park has become a seagull nursery, with some kindly residents keeping a wary eye on dozens of chicks while the adult birds are off being hunter-gatherers.

I've never really liked the word "pet" as a term of possession. I'm as much Jonathan's human as he is my gull. I'm probably not his only human, but his presence in my garden and in my life is pretty special. On the absolute downside, Tippi Toadlet seems to have disappeared and I often fear for the smart slow-worm (called Norris, of course) who frequents the far corner of the garden by the fig tree. But the friendship of Jonathan Seagull has been an unexpected blessing.

During the bright, hot days of August, Jonathan sat on the lowest part of my roof for an hour or so, cackling and posing for photos, which I've shared here. This weekend, grey and dank, he turned up again; watching me watching the cat watching him. In the midst of the unpleasantness from some featherless neighbours, he's been an untethered yet calming presence. However, his decision to crap on my neighbours' washing line yet again can't really have eased the situation.

He can and will always fly away. With the graces of flight and speed, he travels to places I will never see. Yet somewhere on the map of a seagull's life, I'm one of the points called home. I've often thought it fortunate for Jonathan that God directed a beleaguered seagull to an animal loving potato eater. I suspect Jonathan knows that I'm the fortunate one.



 

 "Jonathan Seagull discovered that boredom and fear and anger are the reasons that a gull's life is so short, and with those gone from his thought, he lived a long fine life indeed."  

(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

  

 

"Heaven is not a place, and it is not a time. Heaven is being perfect. -And that isn't flying a thousand miles an hour, or a million, or flying at the speed of light. Because any number is a limit, and perfection doesn't have limits. Perfect speed, my son, is being there."
(From "Jonathan Livingston Seagull", Richard Bach)

 

"Bird On A Wire"  The Neville Brothers (version)

 

 

"God loved the birds and created trees. Mam loved the birds and invented cages." 

(Jacques Deval)

 

 

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)

 

 

The merry month

"But winter lingering chills the lap of May." 

(Oliver Goldsmith)

It seems that Mother Nature and Father Time-of-the-Year are going through a rough patch. The darling buds of May were looking a little pinched yesterday. Just as I dig out a flowery frock and ditch the stockings, the temperature drops away and the heavens open. All in time for the May Bank Holiday of course. I have a little rule that the heating and hosiery go off at the end of March and stay off until October. I like to think it means I'm quite hardy: as the only one of my friends to develop pleurisy a few weeks back, I appreciate that could translate as "foolhardy".
The ice-cream vans have started up in Brighton; although the vendor I saw yesterday afternoon was huddled in his van with a woolly beanie hat on. Sadly, I think his sales pitch of buying a large lolly because "in this weather, it'll last all day" may prove self-defeatist.Along with the annual Brighton Festival, all arty, colourful and clever, the daily Brighton flesh-show has started too; always colourful, not so arty and in this weather really not that clever. Yesterday I saw all manner of tiny clothing, sometimes on not so tiny frames. In some instances, I felt certain garments were missing altogether, but decided it was best not to get too involved. There are indeed some serious Bodies Beautiful in Brighton, of every gender; but goosebumps and raw extremities are never a good look.
Although our council is famously Green and the political undercurrent definitely red, Brighton is starting to turn orange. Various shades; from a peachy coral anticipation to a tasteful terracotta and on to a hardcore, whites-of-their-eyes tangerine. The sun-bedding and self-tanning are up and running; sometimes literally, depending on the volume of the fake-tan. I'm too fearful of burns and streaks for any of this: I've grown fond of my freckles and I stay pale in the hope that I'll one day become interesting. 

If we can pick up a tan without sun then we can surely raise a smile without it... Smiling faces were notably as lacking as outer garments yesterday. We set such store by external heat to shine and bask in and optimistic summery clothes and colours to parade in. All too lightly, we forget the warmth of our own hearts and humour and from the kindness of others. A smile tends to suit and fit everyone; it can be far more attractive and revealing than any amount of exposed flesh.

I went home and donned leggings and a jumper to weed the garden a bit and chivy it to try something new; twigs are bit passe now. By dusk, my bare ankles had turned a pale aquamarine; not particularly hardy but possibly intriguing. Up with the seagulls this morning and an early sun has again retreated behind Brighton's unevenly banked skyline. It's probably waiting to see what everyone's wearing today.

"I Saw You Blink"  Stornoway

In black and white

"Trust yourself. Create the kind of self that you will be happy to live with all your life."

(Golda Meir)

(All photos: Gigi, album) My Dad Tony with Mum in his native Belgium.

Today is the anniversary of my Dad's passing and he's now been apart from this seen world for more than half of my lifetime. One of the things I remember most strongly about him is laughter and indeed his laugh. For a man who was not tall and who was non-confrontational and contemplative by nature, Dad's laugh was big, sudden and random. He was generally softly spoken but he laughed like Sid James. American writer Anne Lamott once said that laughter is "carbonated holiness": I can see my Dad was a very spiritual man who was capable of great joy in small things.
There was an honesty in Dad's laugh. So often, I'm aware of manufactured giggles and mannered groans. Hunour these days often seems so structured and sophisticated, even class conscious. I've inherited Dad's very out-of-the-box sense of humour; it encompasses the bizarre and the slapstick and the everyday ironic. I often open up one of his belly laughs; my mother used to think it was something of a curse in a woman but now I feel it's a blessing; my Dad's little route-finder for joyfulness.
My Dad was a deep thinking and well read man but was completely free of pretension; he had no real material aspirations either, although he always wanted to do the best for my mother, and later on, for my sister and me. My Dad may have blushed a little bit about Brigitte Bardot, Bernadette Devlin (now McAliskey) and that blonde bird from Abba, but Mum was the love of his life. My Mum was aware that he'd been quite inexperienced romantically before her and he seemed to wear his faithfulness like his favourite tweed teaching jacket. 

He'd been nearly halfway into a monastery when he met Mum; I can see how the tranquility and humility of the monastic life had appealed to my father. Lord knows what they would have made of his laugh. My father settled into teaching, interpreting and translating. His little study at home in south London was packed with books, newspapers, postcards from various monasteries and his cassettes of Gregorian Chant. Mum sometimes despaired of his lack of personal ambition later in life, but I realise Dad was always aware of the bigger picture from his little corner in it. It sounds cheesy, but he had high hopes for the world.

"Conscience is God present in man."

(Victor Hugo)

Dad with my sister.

After Dad died, I felt I envied my sister the quality one-to-one time she had with him when she was little. Once the family left Belgium for London and I was born, my Dad was always working; never less than two jobs and sometimes as many as four. When I was about seven years old, Mum would often go out on Saturdays, from lumchtime until the shops closed, with my Auntie Barbara and my sister, who was then fifteen going on twenty five (complete with heels and Audrey Hepburn cigarette holder). Still with yellow plaits and plastered knees, I felt very un-grown up and initially very left out: my Dad would be in his study for most of the day, translating and marking students' papers. But it became an easy habit that my Dad would emerge in time for the football results; even though Dad's idea of sport was "It's a Knockout"). He would make beans on toast or grilled kippers (these were the days when I couldn't even spell vegetarianism) and strong, sweet tea and we would watch "Doctor Who" together.
It occurs to me now that we didn't say very much; I would watch the good Doctor avidly while my Dad chuckled or tutted. He never picked up a newspaper or a book or looked bored. It was hugely comfortable and comforting just to sit quietly. I've realised across the years just how like my father I am. I love to laugh, I love music, colour and cleverness, but sometimes it's just lovely to be still and safe in your own company or with someone close.

"Laughter is the sound of the soul dancing. My soul probably looks like Fred Astaire." 

(Jared Kintz)

In Northern Ireland: Dad with his Poirot-style moustache, with my sister holding one of the baby cousins; my cousins Lucy and Charlie Joe are in front of him. I'm playing with my hair as Mum looks on from the doorway.

I'll acknowledge that I was usually described as being academically bright; it was quietly anticipated by my parents that I would probably follow Dad and become a teacher of some variety. I was never the kind of little girl who said she wanted to be an air hostess or even a princess. I wanted to be Tarzan's Jane at one point and then of course Dr Who's next lovely assistant. When I was in my early teens, at convent school and also having gone through all my preliminary dance exams, I announced that I wanted to be a nun or a ballerina. My Mum was exasperated and said I would do neither; that I was an eejit and would have to speak to my father. He was very calm about it all and didn't appear phased by the propositions of having a daughter in cloisters or on stage in tights. Having asked me why I felt I should or could do either, he simply said that from his point of view, it appeared that I could be a dancer and still pray, but that he didn't think there was a whole lot of pirouetting in most convents. He also told me I didn't have to be anything, but that I should try to do something with my life. He told me I didn't need to do anything other people might think of as "big" just for the sake of it. My Dad liked Victor Hugo's concise eloquence; he felt that death was really nothing, but not to have lived your life must be terrible.
Although he was a non-judgmental man, rights and wrongs were black and white to my father; he was assured of his own responses and responsibilities. He had a generosity of spirit and a talent for people that I feel made it very difficult to dislike him. Certainly, Dad didn't seem to have a bad word to say about anyone, although his sense of injustice was relentless. I hope I've inherited some of the latter at least: I take it as a compliment when I'm dismissed as an "effing do-gooder". 
I haven't done anything big with my life and may never do. I can see now that my Dad could have been a writer, but he was essentially content with what some might have called the minutiae of his life. In the Great Scheme of Things for other folk, my Dad may not have done anything big: his home and family became his vocation. Yet after he died, I discovered Dad had funded several students in Africa so they could change their lives. His letters to various publications about injustice in Northern Irish politics brought him to the attention of both the paramilitaries and Scotland Yard. He was regularly sent jokes by Bishop Desmond Tutu; they carried on corresponding after Dad taught the bishop languages. Dad called him Des. And Des has that same unexpectedly raucous laugh that Dad had, that delightful burst of animation in the midst of such gentleness.
I once described my Dad as a mixture of Desmond Tutu, Richard Briers and Hercules Poirot, but essentially he was very much his own person. I know now you can't be true to another person or to your God without being true to yourself. Because of Dad, some things will always be very black and white to me: love, truth, faith, justice. For a quiet, not-tall guy, my father probably had all the biggest things covered.
When I was little, my Dad would often play records on Sunday afternoons; music that both he and Mum had been moved by over the years. In between the Irish Rebel Songs, Edith Piaf, Jim Reeves and Abba, there would usually be The Seekers; two songs in particular. Since both my parents died, I can't hear "The Carnival is Over" without dissolving. On the other hand, I've never found their version of Tom Springfield's "Another You" anything other than joyful. It sounds like an affirmation; I always feel it reminded my parents of how they met. It reminds me of how I still want to live my life. Sometimes. things really can be that simple.

"Do your little bit of good where you are; its those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world."

(Desmond Tutu)

"Another You"  The Seekers

"If they gave me a fortune

My treasure would be small;

I could lose it all tomorrow

And never mind at all;

But if I should lose your love dear,

I don't know what I'll do

For I know I'll never find another you."

(Tom Springfield)

Fire and shadows

"And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not." 

(John 1:5) 

This post is a little late, due to demands of work, but I've felt compelled to complete it. On Good Friday, I attended a beautiful "Tenebrae" service, a Service of Shadows, and it's left a lasting impression on me.

"Tenebrae" is Latin for shadows or darkness. The Tenebrae has evolved from an ancient Christian ritual, most usually held on Good Friday, using diminishing light through extinguishing candles to symbolise the arrest, torture, trial, crucifixion and burial of Jesus. The enveloping darkness holds the sadness, helplessness and hopelessness after his death; a world without God. When I was at school, the Tenebrae would include a dramatic slamming of a church door or other dramatic noise to signify the closing of Jesus' tomb. 

I remember Tenebrae services from my younger days as sombre and deeply sad; even depressive, if I'm being totally honest. This Good Friday, I travelled to the parish of "Our Lady of Mercy and St Joseph", in Lymington in Hampshire, to take part in a beautiful service put together by the wonderful Cathy; assisted by the lovely parish priest, Father Danny. Although Tenebrae has evolved with many traditional and orthodox elements intact, the service at Lymington was incredibly effective. 

Belying the hard work that had gone into the preparation, it was a simple and seamless Tenebrae. About forty people attended on what was essentially a cold Friday night; the pretty parish church is quite small and seemed almost womb-like by flickering candlelight.

The service was obviously reflective and moving, but the beauty of it has stayed with me throughout Easter and is carrying me through the start of the great British summertime. I felt a real sense of quiet hopefulness during and after the service. At the edge of the New Forest and set across the Solent from the Isle of Wight, Lymington is often depicted as an affluent, self-contained area. But the quayside shops and pristine cottages front a town still darkened by poverty and social distress; the community of Our Lady of Mercy responds from a little pocket of kindness which is incredibly deep.

The intent of the service and the openness with which it was received were palpable. It's traditional to leave the Tenebrae in silence; the gathering on Friday in Lymington stayed in hushed contemplation long after the last candle of the service was blown out. There was a very real sense of acceptance and renewal and the affirmation of the faith at the heart of Easter. It was one of the most poignant church services I've been to: impossible not to feel touched by the spark made only brighter by the winter darkness.

"It is a time for shadows.

Before the glorious light of resurrection morning,

there are dark nights, and even darker days.

On our way toward rejoicing in the resurrection,

we are entering that shadow land, those days of darkness,

the darkness that stretched from the upper room to the tomb.

Dark days lie ahead,

somber days, shadowed days.

We have asked terrifying questions:

Will we notice the light, in the midst of so many shadows?

Would we notice the light, were it not for the shadows?

But we have ended with the triumphant question:

Would there be shadows, were it not for the light?

It is a time for shadows,

But it is also a time for hope."

(Adapted from Lee Magness' "Service of Shadows" 2009)

"There is a fragrance in the air, a certain passage of a song, an old photograph falling out from the pages of a book, the sound of somebody's voice in the hall that makes your heart leap and fills your eyes with tears. Who can say when or how it will be that something easters up out of the dimness to remind us of a time before we were born and after we will die?" 

(Frederick Buechner) 

"John Nineteen Forty-One",  from "Jesus Christ Superstar"