Back.

"There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."

(Nelson Mandela)

 

(Photos: Gigi, album)

 

"Hi Honey, I'm home!"

 Just when you thought it was safe to meander along Blogger again, something stirs down by the pier at Gigi-on-Sea. I haven't blogged for the longest time: not since late February; more like a writer's barricade than just a block.

I certainly hadn't intended to stop writing on "The Water is Wide". Having been quite ill at the beginning of the year, I was fortunate enough to be able to return to Australia for most of March, my birthday month. I knew I wouldn't be writing while I was away from home, but came back bristling with stories, songs and smiles. Sadly, my telecommunications back in Brighton were not bristling with anything much throughout April and May; a personal supply of BT engineers crawling around your living room looking for your WIFI hotspot really isn't as exciting as it might sound.

By June, I decided that maybe my little blog had retired into a natural decline and should be left to pass gently in it's sleep. While the blog slept deeper, this year has rushed ahead of many of us as we try to keep track of work, bills and other people. My sister has started her Christmas shopping for goodness' sake, although my brother-in-law would probably say that it takes her mind off real estate.

Since February, I've still not learnt to play my ukulele but have also acquired a bodhran. I've been adopted by a second seagull, introduced by Jonathan but clearly not schooled by him. Where Jonathan is large and a bit brash and bombastic, Junior is smaller, louder and possibly psychotic. Jonathan is a Frequent Flyer to Gigi-on-Sea; Junior more of a stalker, hanging on the garden fence from dawn till dusk and knocking on the window of any room he spies me in. Ginger the cat was already stressed by Jonathan but now looks as though he might just call The Cats' Protection League.

Ginger has been very poorly this month after lacerating his tongue probably eating out of a rusty tin-can somewhere. In true Drama Cat style, he reacted badly to being confined to convalesce indoors by jumping out of a first floor window. Having shocked the pair of us, he's made a rapid and even remarkable recovery, largely to stop me pureeing his food and Becoming Emotional with him.

In the past couple of months, I've realised that I've made a few false friends in Brighton and elsewhere. Yet I've also rediscovered friends from old long since, for all the good reasons that originally bound me to them. Since February, friends have married, separated, reproduced, found religion, discovered themselves (although one went to Birmingham to do this which sounds unlikely). One friend has landed a great position without looking or applying for it; a couple have lost steady jobs, their sense of humour or even the plot.
My effervescent friend Leigh sadly lost his long battle with the bottle but inspired half a town to turn out to walk behind his coffin.

In recent weeks, I've known people lose their partners and parents while yet another has given birth ten years after being told she would never conceive; similar to my mother's experience when I cam along. Apart from being a boy, obviously.
Then in March, I met Hollie, much loved baby born to Kelli, my much missed friend who returned to her Australian homeland a few years ago. I immediately felt like Hollie's long-lost Auntie G, and after some whooping and grinning at Brisbane airport it felt like I had just met up with Kel again after work for a jar.

The late poet and mystic John O'Donohue realised that the truest and most natural friendships are always an act of recognition, an ancient knowledge. I believe this most tangible form of deja vu, which soothes the heart and moves the spirit, applies to places and animals as well as people. Sometimes encountering strangers or travelling to new places feels less like a departure or discovery than an almost foetal homing. It's a feeling I experienced when I first set foot in Sydney many years ago, when I first came to view my little house in Brighton with it's dampness and dismal wallpaper; when I first created my template for "The Water is Wide".

There are stories everywhere. There is history and hope in every stone, twig and droplet. I believe that baby Hollie has been born with all the words she will ever need, waiting within. Her stories were already written when her mum met her dad. More than any photo albums, letters and mementos, my sister and I am what endures of my own mother and father; we carry their stories within our own. What is left up to us is the unfolding. It really is the way we tell 'em. I've often wondered if my parents would be reading this blog if they were alive. The truest answer is that they've helped to write it.
For someone seen as "the quiet one" in the family, I've always had much to say for myself, occasionally for others too. When I was about eight, my headmistress Sister Sebastian chastised me for attempting to read a more "adult" book in preference to Enid Blyton. The book was actually Bram Stoker's "Dracula" and I was a tiny convent schoolgirl, so I can fully appreciate her concerns.
"Why are you reading a different book to the one we've given you?"
"I know all the words in that book already Sister."
"Is that so? And why do you feel you need to know so many other words right now?"
"Then I can write my own book Sister."
"Is that so? Do you know the word precocious, Gisele?"
"Pre-what Sister?"
"It means The Little Girl Who Wants All The Words."
"Yes, that's me Sister!"
I soon realised this was the wrong answer.
My convent schooldays seem to play an increasing part in my stories, all these years later. I know my sister worries that my blog is a bit too Catholic, too wordy and quite eccentric. My brother-in-law worries that the blog is too personal and that identity fraud is rife. Would anyone want to steal a Catholic, socialist, vegetarian, sentimental, quizzical persona with a penchant for bright colours and dangly earrings? Good luck with that....
My friend Leigh was hugely supportive of me writing although he found my posts too long for his butterfly attention span; this from the man who's funeral cortege in May stretched the length of a high street.
Every story is a journey, no matter how short or long. A couple of weeks ago, I received an anonymous message on Blogger: "I came to look for Gigi-on-Sea and there was nobody home. Where did you go?" The wonders of Down Under aside, I never went away from my own story. I will probably never write that book and I may never feel I have all the words. But the little convent schoolgirl in me is delighted that if you Google "Gigi-on-Sea", this humble blog is currently the first hit that pops up. You probably weren't expecting that, Sister Sebastian...
It's good to be back x

 

"Obviously I faced the possibility of not returning when I first considered going."

(Amelia Earhart)

"One"  Ed Sheeran

 
"All my friends have gone to find
another place to let their hearts collide;
just promise me you'll always be
a friend;
because you are the only one"
 

 

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 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)

Book Club

We each have a story through this life. I firmly believe that people, events and places come into our lives for a reason: they are part of our story and we are part of theirs. This past week, my story has seemed quite disjointed, as though it's carrying on regardless of me, thinking I was a central player; taking curves and making cuts that I was not anticipating.
I now know that the word "history" originates from the Greek "historia", meaning the inquiry into and acquiring of knowledge; therefore, really encompassing the past and anything that evolves from it. When I was a little girl, I remember enchanting a teacher called Mr Snewin by explaining to him that history itself was really God's book - His Story. As a heady adult now, I still like the sound of that. 
As a Catholic, I believe my story has been created by God and presented to me as a gift, almost like a boxed set of something wonderful. What I take from the unfolding of it, what I learn and how I grow with that knowledge could be my gift of gratitude in return to the Author of the Universe.
I'm in the middle of statutory Jury Service and although I was a reluctant juror thrust into a very uncomfortable case, it now feels like part of my story for another tale to be known to me and for me to play an unexpected part. Most of the other jurors look very familiar to me, although we've never obviously encountered each other before: indeed, we are all very different and yet we seem to gel. Anyone who already knows me will appreciate what a Gigi-like statement that is. 
When people and elements of your own life seem to let you down at every turn, it's important to keep faith with what feels true to you; your story. We shouldn't try to live other people's lives for them or write their lines, any more than we should seek to pass that responsibility on to others.
I've learned to look out for those in life who are meant to be part of my story and to see how I can best serve or colour theirs. This is a short post, because I am weary from court, because I have an injured hand; because I feel just a few fleeting words could wing their way to those I call Friends, whose own pages might also seem smudged or faint at the moment. 
A quote from an uncredited source seems to hang in the room around me at the moment: "It's hard to wait around for something you know might never happen, but it's even harder to give up when it's everything you ever wanted." My own blinking and twittering little emotional SatNav tells me not to mess with the route if I can't better it. Sometimes, chapters close suddenly and new ones open in unimagined scenery and unforeseen circumstances. Your story will still be there: look for the surprisingly warm smile, the name or place that rings a bell, the something that you always wanted to do. Trust that God may appear to change what He wants for or from you, but that the only agenda is your fulfillment  Read between your own lines, take comfort in your own essential smallness in the greatest story that will ever be told.

"People think that stories are shaped by people. In fact, it's the other way around." 

(Terry Pratchett)

"Wayfaring Stranger"  Ed Sheeran (version)

"I have my own story, and I love my story, but I know I can't tell it alone, not now. Because stories have centres, but they don't have edges. No boundaries." 

(Andrew Clements)

Partners in the dance

"It sometimes takes a state of solitude to bring to mind the real power of companionship." 

(Stephen Richards)

Maurice with Evelyn

This Wednesday morning sees the funeral of my brother-in-law's stepfather. Maurice survived on his own for only six months after the death of his beloved Evelyn, Gordon's mother. I tried to gently warn Gordon this might well happen: sadly, I've seen this too many times when one half of a close and longstanding partnership dies. Maurice took to his bed at Christmas, his first in around forty years without Evelyn. Always a capable and proud Yorkshireman, strong in mind and body, he seemed to be broken somehow.
Admitted to hospital in February, he'd made it known that he didn't want to be fed, would not want to be resuscitated; didn't really care to go on. Maurice had survived Dunkirk and the trials of World War II in North Africa; his first wife had given up waiting for him to return from war and literally found someone else. Maurice married again and had two children with his second wife; when she became ill with cancer, he nursed her through her final months.
A hard-working weaving over-locker in the Yorkshire mill industry, he met former mill-girl Evelyn after the death of Gordon's father, Harry. Maurice and Evelyn had a courtship of tea-dances and a dancing partnership that continued into their eighties, when time began to slow their steps. My own humble experience of ballet and other dance has confirmed to me that the harmony and companionship of dance partners requires chemistry, understanding, respect, commitment and practice - rather like marriage, I would guess. Maurice was a devoted husband; Evelyn relied on his presence when they were both largely housebound during the past few years.
My brother-in-law pronounces himself an unequivocal atheist but has found some comfort that his mum and stepfather, as well as his dad, are all now resting in "eternal sleep". I have thought to myself that this is more than I've ever heard from other self-professed atheists; and actually very close to the sentiments of the Catholic "Requiem Eternam". Even though he's recently retired himself, I understand that Gordon is gazing into the void that inevitably gapes when your parents or step-parents pass: I know from experience that you're never too old to feel orphaned. I hope he and Maurice's son and daughter will take comfort that both Evelyn and Maurice were blessed to find devoted companionship not once but twice in their lives. I hope I've planted a tiny grain in Gordon's mind that his mum is to be reunited with the two great loves of her life. Her dance-card is complete.

"Eternal rest grant unto them Oh Lord

and let perpetual light shine upon them.

May they rest in peace,

Amen."

"When the years have done irreparable harm,

I can see us walking slowly arm in arm,

Just like that couple on the corner do:

Girl, I will always be in love with you.

Then when I leave this Earth

I'll be with the angels standin';

I'll be out there waiting for my true companion,

Just for my true companion."

(From "True Companion", Marc Cohn)

"Gallant Hussar" Eliza Carthy

The Ever Fixed Mark

  

"Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken."

(from Shakespeare's Sonnet 116)

I do not consider myself to be a competitive person: I like to feel that people and situations that are meant for me will not go by me; I find that comforting and also rather aesthetically (or even ascetically!) pleasing. I hope that I've never consciously "competed" for friends, partners or social standing. I clearly don't have the cut-throat attitude apparently currently required in Brighton at the moment to snatch a half decent job from the burgeoning queue! I intensely dislike the paraphernalia attached to going to "the sales"; no overnight sleeping bags then handbags drawn at dawn to battle for bargains, not for me. In fact, only rugby union seems to ignite the lesser-known cussing, shouting, jumping up and down Gigi. We all have our weaknesses.
I know this will make me sound like the biggest eaves-dropper in East Sussex, but yet again I overheard something thought provoking on my journey back from Hampshire the other day. Two tall-haired and teeny-shorted girls in their late teens were loudly discussing their game plans once they disembarked at Brighton, for securing the same boy. These girls were friends, to all intents and purposes, even sharing copious amounts of Red Bull and almost as much lip gloss and eyeliner; war painting each other only to become opponents in battle. I found this dreadfully sad: I wanted to say something to them but I was too scared they would join forces against me and leave me a mess of pulled hair and Rimmel stains.
They were literally egging each other on about tactics to use on this lad, yet each girl was vehement that once one of them was victorious (if not happy and glorious), the loser would immediately hate the boy and become a sworn enemy to the other girl! Beyond the sheer ugliness of this situation, no matter how much macquillage you apply to it, there's also a total breakdown in reason. I let them clatter off the train ahead of me, holding on to each other for support. For all their manufactured preening and glued on bits and pieces, there was something very feral about them: these girls were  born competitors. I mentioned it to a lovely female friend of mine who has a teenage daughter. She said she was aware of an almost innate rivalry in her daughter and her school friends. It seems alien to us now but may well have been prevalent when I was a plaited and pleated convent school girl. Her daughter's favourite song through her recent boyfriend troubles had been "Fight for this Love" by one Cheryl Cole, complete with high-heeled combat dance moves. Ms Cole may well be a role model for not-so little girls after "fighting" for her marriage to her footballer husband in spite of his alleged multiple discretions: thank God she now seems to have chosen a more dignified choreography, walking on with her beautiful head held high and any undoubtedly lucrative kiss-and-tells tightly zipped.

Part of my physiology, not least because I'm trying to be a decent Christian, also means that I don't stop loving those who've hurt or even betrayed me. We've all seen friends we've introduced suddenly finding each others company more stimulating than ours. We may have seen the top marks, awards and even promotions bypass us on the way to someone we simply can't not admire or respect. Heartbreakingly, we may feel a person is the key to our future, assuming the sentiment is shared until we see them in the company of someone else they clearly have a history with. If we truly feel real, unconditional love, romantic or otherwise,  it doesn't swiftly cease because the Happy Ever After isn't forthcoming. I've never understood that "If I can't have you no-one else will" mentality that drives some men to kill their girlfriends and some mothers to sacrifice babies to spite the father.
We humans are largely animals with lip gloss, mobiles, city jobs and laptops who still react to fear, threat or pain with aggression. I understand this and also that many people will therefore view sensitivity, patience and composure simply as weaknesses rather than profoundly concentrated strengths. Many berate the dangers of passivity because the missile-seeking radars (or even just the beer-goggles) have failed to identify constancy, quiescence, acceptance. I have stood up for or even stood in front of people (or causes) I care about before and I know that I will do it again. But defending for love is not the same as aggressing for it. Certainly, I've grown up believing that if you have to compete for attention or affection, it's probably not worth the having. Blood on a prize is never that attractive.
I've included This Mortal Coil's version of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" in this post; personally I feel this is the most hauntingly beautiful version. The song is a conversation between a distraught, lovesick sailor and a siren (or mermaid) who appears to have also fallen in love with him. Early Christian opinion of mythological beings was coloured by the Etymologies of St Isidore of Seville, who described sirens as part virgin and part clawed bird. They were said to have wings and claws because love can fly and wound: of course love hurts, but I prefer to think of the mark of love as an exquisite badge of honour rather than a livid battle scar; Shakespeare's "ever-fixed mark".
Obviously, I have no idea which of the two teenage divas from the beginning of this post managed to get her man, nor if the victory would endure for a night or an entire season. All things considered, I doubt very much that such a battle could have birthed a lifelong union of soul mates. Maybe the boy wasn't remotely interested in either of them, which happens a lot in Brighton, allowing the girls to totter home together with their friendship intact, if not their pride or nail polish. I sincerely hope the evening ended well and safely for all concerned.

For my own part, I really must get my TV and aerial fixed before the start of this year's Tri Nations Rugby Championship: I simply can't be doing all that shouting and air-thumping in public.

"Whit's fur ye'll no go by ye"

(old Scottish proverb, mainly said by my granny and my mother)

"Song to the Siren"  This Mortal Coil  

When Tony Met Josie

Photo: Gigi's album

Wednesday, 13th June, was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary, apparently their Blue "Star" Sapphire Anniversary. My Dad died before I left school and Mum has been gone for more than eighteen months now, but my Mum maintained that she wouldn't remarry because she had never divorced; I believe my father shared that sentiment.

I rattle on a lot about the sanctity of marriage, but then this is my blog after all...  I believe firmly in faithfulness, forever love, soul mates and marriage. I see broken marriages and homes and in fact ones that were never forged in the first place all around me, not least in Brighton: it merely strengthens that belief. Anyone who knows me well, knows that I believe that marriage was intended to be a sacrament and that love and physical union are also God-given

My parent's love story was by no means a fairy tale or bed of roses, but recounting it against today's backdrop, it certainly reads like one. Dad was from a fairly well-to-do Walloon (French speaking) Belgian family; my Mum was a farmer's daughter from the wrong side of the tracks in rural Northern Ireland. At that time, being Catholic, her father didn't actually own the land he farmed or the cottage they lived in. My Mum was one of five girls and six children. She was christened Josephine, after St Joseph, but was eternally Josie. My Dad was an identical twin and one of five children; he was named after St Anthony of Padua and was therefore Anthony, never the French form "Antoine". By the time he met Josie, he was officially Tony.

My father was always very spiritual and expressed an interest in becoming a Benedictine monk in his teens. Although staunchly Catholic, his parents were not at all impressed by this, as the done thing was to marry your offspring into other wealthy Catholic families: keeping it in the family and the church. When Dad and his twin brother came out of the army, my grandfather packed them off to Europe to "live a little" and experience the sights and cultures before settling down with Monsieur So-and-so's daughters. Probably best translated as sowing le wild oats. At some point, they found themselves in England and out of money. Brother Maurice was happy to return to the fold but Tony was unsure what he wanted to do. He still felt a yearning for the monastic life and was loathe to walk straight back into the argument at home. With a wonderful Poirot-style French accent and a love of food that's clearly inspired mine, he passed himself off as a French chef at Margate for a few weeks. He was coming to the end of this time there when a cheeky Irish girl and her former ATS girlfriends walked in for an evening meal.

My Mum told me that she was also loathe to return home for reasons rather different from my father's: all her sisters had settled in London and there was simply no work and therefore no food or fun to be found back in Antrim. My Mum had also used up all her funds and couldn't even pay for her dinner; she ate it anyway and then complained that it wasn't good enough to pay for! When challenged, she asked to see the chef. Enter Tony. My poor Dad was immediately smitten and said he would like to make up for the "bad" cuisine by taking her out to dinner the following night. The rest is pretty much sixty five year old history, but of course it wasn't plain sailing.

My father took his Josie home to the Ardennes and presented her as the girl who had dispelled his monastic dream; he wanted to marry her as soon as possible. My grandfather was horrified. Although Mum was undeniably pretty, bright and Catholic, she was also dirt-poor and had no formal education beyond the age of fourteen or so. After much wrangling and heartache, my grandfather cunningly said that he would give his blessing to the marriage if my father entered his preferred Benedictine monastery on retreat for one year. If Tony still wanted to marry Josie after that, it would be agreed. So my father got his taste of the monastic life after all; my mother slunk back to Ireland broken-hearted. She knew Tony had longed to enter the monastery before he met her and she feared he would simply forget her. My Mum had previous GI suitors, one of whom seemed to own most of  Wyoming or something similar. I believe she corresponded with them for a while. But Tony didn't forget Josie. He completed his retreat with the Trappist monks and left the monastery with a penchant for fruit beer, chocolate and plainchant and with his love for my mother as strong as ever. He set off for Ireland to bring her back to Belgium once more.

Of course my grandfather had no intention of keeping his word and flatly refused to give his blessing or enable a wedding: he promptly disinherited my Dad and subsequently refused to entertain my Mum or their first child (my sister, who was born in Belgium six years later).  My grandfather had passed away by the time I was born in London, some eight and a bit years after my sister. As I grew up, we holidayed in Northern Ireland and in Belgium, but my French grandmother clearly blamed my mother for the rift and never really warmed to her. When I was fifteen, Granny died, and my aunts didn't inform my father for a few days, just long enough to make sure the family home had been stripped bare, presumably still in accordance with my grandfather's wishes. I heard my Dad cry into the night afterwards, comforted by Mum; it seemed to break him. He died a year later, still a relatively young man.

My Mum certainly gave up her dreams of America and endless leisure to be with Dad; wherever Dad found work in Europe in the early years of their marriage she worked too, often in domestic service. She didn't see her own mother regularly and wasn't able to relocate with her sisters in England for several years. My Dad gave up his dream of the cloistered vocational life, his inheritance and his own family to some extent. He eventually became a teacher of languages, a translator and linguist. He sometimes worked four jobs while I was growing up in sarf lundun: I would have loved more time with him, but to me he was always the ideal of a father and husband. My Mum's Irish temper involved the odd clip round the ear and some colourful maternal advice, but if my placid and laughing Dad raised his voice or treated me coldly, I was immediately chastened and upset. Likewise, my Mum's warning of Hell as the ultimate punishment was loaded with fire and brimstone. My Dad would talk about the awful damnation of being kept away from God and those you loved: I can see so clearly where this analogy was formed. My father's Catholicism was quite romanticised and all about the ethereal and the contemplative; Mum's background was one of rugged and often harsh religion rather than spirituality, with a healthy measure of superstition thrown in. It happened that my parents married on 13th June, which is also the feast of St Anthony of Padua, my father's patron saint. When I was a child, I often heard my harassed mother saying "Tony, Tony look around, something's lost and must be found!" It was a few years before I realised that she was calling on one of her favourite saints of the hapless, and not nagging Dad in his absence.

There is of course a legend surrounding the saint's patronage of all things lost or taken. A novice of St Anthony, grown tired of the religious life, decided to leave the community. In addition to going AWOL, he took St Anthony's psalter with him. When Anthony realised his psalter was missing, he prayed for its safe return. Soon after, the psalter thief felt compelled to return it to Anthony as well as returning to the order. I've always felt that Dad was quite aptly named after the saint. Anthony was born into a very rich and noble family who arranged for him to be instructed at a cathedral school: against the wishes of his family, he entered the community of the Abbey of St Vincent, just outside Lisbon, later becoming a Franciscan and an eminent teacher. My Dad didn't give up on his love for my Mum; likewise, he always said if he could have married and been a monk, he would have done both, but he never lost his own faith when he was forced to choose.

My maternal Granny, who I never knew but feel very close to, was deeply God-fearing (literally) but still read tea-leaves and palms (don't tell my bishop) for people from neighbouring villages, to great acclaim. My mother claimed she even read the local Catholic priest's tea-leaves. When Mum was little, her mother told her that she would marry a good man who was "of the faith" and that they would have two children, one dark and one fair; that she would have many adventures but only ever one love. I don't know what brew she was using but it was certainly accurate. I know many Catholics may frown on such things as fanciful or even faithless, but my parent's union was certainly self-sacrificing, kind, passionate and devoted. My Mum would later say it was a match made in Heaven; I believe it was simply meant to be.

Whatever curve-balls life has pitched at me over the past couple of years, I'm strengthened by the knowledge that I'm the product of love: I sincerely wish it was so for all children. Ostracised from his own family, my Dad embraced the warmth and extended familiarity of Mum's relatives; he became a very Irish Catholic, still with the Poirot accent. I see more and more of him in me, yet I have always "felt" my Irishness more keenly than being half Belgian or even being born a Londoner. I've inherited a love of Irish music and dance, and like my father I struggle to keep my nose out of Irish and church politics. There were no blogs then, but Dad was no stranger to the Letters page of the Catholic Herald. My mother's passion for a particular red is evident throughout my little house and in my wardrobes; the perfect backdrop for a collection of icons and crucifixes which rivals my Dad's. My father corresponded with monks in Belgium and beyond for the rest of his life, keeping postcards, literature and always tapes of monastic music. Consequently, I adore Gregorian chant, even though I can cuss in three languages like my Mum. I said at Mum's funeral that I was always my father's daughter and my Mum's baby; the passing of my parents and the passage of years will do nothing to alter that.

Photo; Gigi's album

This post has been pure self indulgence for me, and in that spirit of indulgence I've included two songs. "Plaisir d'Amour" was my Mum and Dad's "tune", as sung by Dad's long term crush, Nana Mouskouri. I included it on the playlist for my Mum's wake and it would just as surely have been played at my Dad's. My mother's mother was actually Scottish by birth, and I share her love of Robbie Burns, in particular the  ballads. I wanted to include "My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose", not only because my parent's wedding took place "newly sprung in June", but also because I think the words form one of the most sublime love letters ever written. No wonder Bob Dylan cited this song as the greatest poetic influence of his life.

Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad; here's to the next 65 years.

"Plaisir d'Amour"  Nana Mouskouri

"My Love is like a Red Rose"  Eddi Reader

"My Love is like a Red, Red Rose"

(Robert Burns)

O, my love is like a red, red rose,
That is newly sprung in June.
O, my love is like the melody,
That is sweetly played in tune.

As fair thou art, my lovely lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my Dear,
Till all the seas go dry.
Till all the seas go dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt with the sun,
O I will love thee still, my Dear,
While the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Love,
And fare thee well a while!
And I will come again, my Love,
Though it were ten thousand mile!

Great Expectations

“There is the solitude of suffering, when you go through darkness that is lonely, intense, and terrible. Words become powerless to express your pain; what others hear from your words is so distant and different from what you are actually suffering.”  

(John O'Donohue) 

I was originally going to title this post "Faux Amis". Literally "false friends", this is a grammatical term for  pairs of words or phrases in two languages or dialects which may look or sound similar but can have contradictory opposing meanings:  "equisito" in Spanish means exquisite, special; "esquisito" in Portuguese means strange or odd. I was intending to demonstrate how varying definitions of friendship can lead to actual division and ultimate disappointment; I was trying to be too smart for my own good.

I wrote the poem "Humbug" a couple of years ago when a dear friend of mine was continually being let down by people who had no idea she might feel she could, or should, depend on them. In recent weeks, I've felt that I was living through very dark days indeed. No particular details are necessary, but money, career, health and hopes have been depleted or even dashed. I told one longstanding friend that I didn't recognise myself and wondered where I'd gone! She immediately said she wanted the old Gigi back: the one who's always first with a laugh and the last to admit defeat; the one she's always depended on. Her words were sweetness to me, but they brought home the sourness I've been feeling. What happens when the Dependable One crumbles, when the broadest shoulders are hunched, when everyone's best friend suddenly needs a best friend his or herself? My admission of being shaky seems to have upset some friends' equilibrium; some have been short with their advice and impatient with their hugs.

Of course, the answer is that my own perception of the relationship between us was flawed. I've almost instinctively turned to those I've given time and emotion to in the past months, during their own dark times. I'd forgotten the golden rule of giving: there is no "returning the favour"; one doesn't give a favour, one gives a gift. It simply isn't giving if you expect something in return. When I was little, my favourite auntie told me I had a talent for friendship. Certainly, the Irish side of me sees all strangers as acquaintances who could be your new best friends. And yet there's nothing wrong or lacking in being acquaintances. Essentially, there are no bad friends, just false expectations. Expectation as a judgement on friendship is the mother of all disappointments.

My heart tells me that a friend is the nicest thing to find and the best thing you can be: my experience now shows me that the two need not be intrinsically linked. I may have been a friend to those who now don't feel the need to respond to me in kind. That doesn't negate what has happened between us; it doesn't prohibit the situation altering in the future. And far from being Billy-No-Mates, I have dear friends who love me and have become family to me; some I've known for more than half of my life, others I've met more recently,  yet the bond has been as instant and strong as Superglue. The late Catholic mystic John O'Donohue said: “Real friendship or love is not manufactured or achieved by an act of will or intention. Friendship is always an act of recognition.” True friendship can't be bought with gold, nor earned by kindness.  I know I will carry on giving and will try my darnedest not to expect anything back: then any return will be the wonderful bonus it should be. There is an old Scandinavian proverb which asks simply "Love me when I least deserve it: that's when I need it most."

My blogger friend Ramon read my poem and immediately sent me "Solitude", by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. It's a clever little poem: the complex shades of friendship are coated in a symmetrically melodic rhyme. I've happily reproduced part of it here. I find it rather poignant at the moment, but it doesn't illustrate what I truly feel. People often say you should be your own best friend: ultimately I believe God will either give you the strength to walk your street unaccompanied or He will place those He intended to be part of your story along your way. We can't dictate who we will love or when, nor whether or not someone will love us. True love should always be unconditional, whether it is the romantic idyll of soul mates, the love of our "besties" who are the friends of our soul, our blood-relatives, or the love of God living through us. Our original soul mate will always be God: the way of God in others can inspire and encourage us; His way in us will sustain beyond any expectations.

From "Solitude"

(Ella Wheeler Wilcox)
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.

"I Won't Let you Go"  James Morrison

“You have travelled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back."

(John O'Donohue)