" 'Abba' is the intimate word in a family circle where that obedient reverence was at the heart of the relationship..… The best English translation of Abba is simply 'Dear Father'.”
(Thomas A. Smail)
"Father! - to God himself
we cannot give a holier name."
(William Wordsworth)
Yesterday was Father's Day; my own Dad died many years ago, but I still see it as Dad's day. I often feel the paternal bond and role has been reduced in society today. Obviously a woman carries, nurtures and births her child. Thankfully, the umbilical cord has not been genetically modified: but what binds the father? In Kate Bush's paean to childbirth she wrote "Oh, it's hard on the man, Now his part is over; Now starts the craft of the father". It's generally said that it's far easier to become a father than to be one. For Christians, the shoes a man (or boy) must step into are vast and unfillable; the shadow of emulation, unfathomable.
Thomas Smail was an eminent Scottish theologian, primarily in the Charismatic Movement; he died in February this year. He had been a priest in both the Church of Scotland and the Anglican Church, ministering around Scotland and in County Antrim in Northern Ireland. In the 1970s, he wrote incisively about the Charismatic Movement in which he had been an enthusiastic participant. He often expressed his feeling that the emphasis on personal experience, so central to the movement, might sometimes eclipse the acknowledgement of God as our father, essential to Christianity. The Evangelical churches may place most emphasis on Jesus Christ, just as the Charismatics glorify the Holy Spirit centre-stage. In 1980, he wrote a book called "The Forgotten Father", which I would recommend if you can find a copy. Thomas Smail sought to restore the paternity of God as the creator of all. It's a very moving read but the message is starkly clear: our inheritance as Christians is entirely dependant on our acceptance that we are God's children.
A couple of weeks ago, I was fortunate to be part of a Sunday Eucharist service which also celebrated the First Communion for a dozen children. Due to the warmth and general excellence of the parish catechist, Cathy, the children were impeccably behaved; obviously excited by the occasion but very reverent. The parish priest spoke beautifully and made the service personal yet inclusive to all visitors. He showed the children his own watch, given as a present from his first ever parish some years before. He told them it had been inscribed, because the parishioners wanted him to remember them whenever he looked for the time. He asked how those parishioners and friends might feel if he tossed the watch aside, or simply put it away and forgot he even had it. I found this pretty powerful in the context of the first Eucharist for the little ones. The words "Do this in memory of Me" really struck home later in the mass.
There is a terrible beauty in the truth that an overwhelming number of fathers would lay down their lives for their children. I often overlook the equally painful and noble paradox of the Father who sacrifices His son. When I was little, I couldn't grasp why God would ask Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, compounding the awfulness by calling him "Isaac, whom you love." Later, I began to appreciate that although Abraham was ultimately spared the loss of his son at that time, God sacrificed His: God doesn't test us without honouring His promises.
My own Dad gave up a lot to be with my mother; he subsequently sacrificed a great deal for my sister and me. He also sponsored overseas students, some of whom turned up on our doorstep to thank him years after he had died, he donated to charities and animal sanctuaries, he had a smile and "Hello" for every neighbour. He's left a legacy of kindness. He taught me to say the Lord's Prayer when I was tripping over the words in infant school: "Harold be thy name", that kind of thing. He explained to me that although he was my Dad, God was my father and his father; Big Daddy if you like. I miss my Dad, but even though he's been gone since I was sixteen and a rather wishy-washy punkette ("I may have PVC trousers and a little pink fringe, but I don't smoke, drink or wear safety pins; please be nice to me"), the physical absence over the years hasn't dulled my reliance on his values or way of reasoning. I had a Dad; I have Dad. And just like him, I have the mother of all Fathers too.
The Sioux and other Native American Indian peoples worship God the Creator as the Great Grandfather Spirit. There's an ancient, unaccredited prayer to Him which I wanted to include here as I feel it echoes our own familiar "Our Father".
"Oh, Great Grandfather Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind,
Whose breath gives life to all the world.
Hear me; I need your strength and wisdom.
Let me walk in beauty, and make my eyes ever behold the red and purple sunset.
Make my hands respect the things you have made and my ears sharp to hear your voice
Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people.
Help me to remain calm and strong in the face of all that comes towards me.
Let me learn the lessons you have hidden in every leaf & rock.
Help me seek pure thoughts & act with the intention of helping others.
Help me find compassion without empathy overwhelming me.
I seek strength, not to be greater than my brother, but to fight my greatest enemy - Myself.
Make me always ready to come to you with clean hands and straight eyes,
So when life fades, as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame."
It's long been my own opinion that if your heart leaps, you should follow it...
“Your soul knows the geography of your destiny. Your soul alone has the map of your future, therefore you can trust this indirect, oblique side of yourself. If you do, it will take you where you need to go, but more important it will teach you a kindness of rhythm in your journey.”
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!
"In this world there's a whole lot of cold,
In this world there's a whole lot of blame;
In this world you've a soul for a compass
And a heart for a pair of wings" (Mary Chapin Carpenter)
"The heart is the only broken instrument that works"
(T E Kalem)
Colleen writes a lovely blog called "Thoughts of Grace" . She has a very gentle turn of phrase which is also extremely resonant. About ten days ago, she posted about the reassuring "click click" of her beloved husband'smechanical aortic valve replacement: for the past fourteen years she's been able to hear his heartbeat without a stethoscope. Colleen also wrote that sometimes we forget to listen for the heartbeat of God.I'm often silenced by the beauty of the words of others these days and this was one such moment. I recently read somewhere a quote from The Book of Ezekiel, about God giving man a singleness of heart and replacing our hearts of stone with tender ones of flesh. Lately, I've been struggling to keep my head above the waterline with many things: trying to keep up with friends' relationships, stressing about what people think of me, counting pennies instead of sheep at night. My own little heart is not so little as it's enlarged on one side and a common or garden chest infection has introduced a wee atrial flutter: beat beat beat skip skip beat. This could be due to many things, including stressing over all of the above! Of course I've focused on it and have been drawn into myself. I listen to "outside" noise looking to be irritated by it, I listen to the opinions of others, I listen to background music; and I get hung up on the irregularities of my own heartbeat. What I really need is to be quietened by the constance of the heartbeat of God. God doesn't succumb to stress or atrial fluttering. His beat never skips. It's the primeval pulse, the essence of vitality, peace and reason sought by the new age crystal practitioners in Brighton's North Laine as much as by the suited and booted church regulars taking their love to the altar, their babies to the font, and their flowers to the cemetery. Listen; and you will find it in the murmur of well wishers, the unsolicited greetings of strangers, in birdsong and the cheerful nonsense of children, in the rhythm and ritual of the Mass, in the ticking of your late father's watch, in the certainty of your own name from another's lips. It's in the hush at either end of each day, it's the breathing space before words spoken are heard, it's the soft echo of longing, remorse or forgiveness of everything unsaid.
My Mum was a petite lady whose frailty in her later years belied the strength of purpose of her own enlarged heart. The congenital failure which claimed her last beat started with a hole in her heart, discovered after scarlet fever as a child. During one of her last cardiac checkups in 2010, the consultant was incredulous that although the left side of her heart was barely functioning, she was still alive. Ironically, whatever her faults and the fallouts of her Norn Irish temper, my Mum was known to be all heart. After Dad died, Mum and I clung together through the tantrums of my teenage years and she indulged my penchant for various indie, protest-pop and rock bands. Once introduced by me, she and Bruce Springsteen got on like a house on fire. She came to see The Boss at Wembley Stadium, leaning on a walking stick after a hip replacement (Mum, not Bruce) and stood for his four hour show, thumping the ground to her favourite songs. She later complained that, although she thought he was "smashing", he could have played for a bit longer for the money. Towards the end of her life, as Mum grew more weary of being housebound, I would often chivvy her into watching the music chart show on TV; I can still hear her today saying such and such a tune had "a good beat". Somewhere in the brash eighties production of "Dancing in the Dark", I can still grasp her walking stick keeping tempo. I wasn't there when Mum's heart gave up the beat; in the dreadful fester of days afterwards, I have no idea when her rhythm slipped in step with mine. Now when my heart skips, I can feel my Mum beating for me, just as she did from before I drew my first breath.
A couple of weeks ago, I heard God's heartbeat loud and clear during a Mass for the Sick. The service took place in the Hampshire parish where my Mum is buried, and where I've since made some very dear friends. As one of the seven sacraments, "Extreme Unction" was known as the blessed anointing of those who were terminally ill. Since 1972, the Roman Catholic Church has used the name "Anointing of the Sick" and the sacrament is extended to all those who are suffering in mind or body.
Photo: Gigi
Photo: Frances
The Anointing of the Sick is given to restore and strengthen the body and the spirit; and to enable a state of grace for any continuing journey with pain or anguish. That Sunday, I watched other people after they had received their blessing, with a slight smile and an upward tilt to the chin. Several people I spoke to said they felt such peace after the mass. I also felt that the congregation and the men who were anointing them were moving quietly in step with the heartbeat of God. Intention, purpose and effect seemed to beat as one.
When my little cat Sooty was terminally ill, with a chest tumour that was growing over her own heart, I often pressed my cheek to her fur for the familiarity of it and also to catch her brave little heartbeat. I miss her terribly, and often find myself reaching across the stillness of a moment to rekindle that scent and softness; her beat. When I'm even more still, I feel I can catch other inexorable rhythms finely underpinning every traffic hum, every tick of every clock in my home; and yes, my own sporadically dysfunctional beat beat beat skip. I believe we live between God's heartbeats, carried by His constancy. When our own hearts flutter and finally fail, I believe our names are still found by others in His comforting rhythm. His pace is oblivious to our progresses, stresses and turmoil: His love doesn't miss a beat; He is the pacemaker of the world.
"In prayer it is better to have a heart without words than words without a heart"
"My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaiden"
(The Magnificat, from The Book of Common Prayer)
Last Thursday was the Feast of The Visitation, when young Mary carrying Christ in her womb went to visit her cousin Elizabeth, who was known to be far beyond child-bearing years. The older woman was aware that she was already carrying her own blessed baby; a son who be known as John the Baptist and would prepare the way of the scriptures for Mary's son. When we were at school, we learned from Luke's gospel that Elizabeth greeted her cousin;"Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb"; Mary responded with the beautiful prayer of the Magnificat.
I've been laid low with a chest infection for a couple of weeks now, but I wanted to share, somewhat belatedly, a lovely latter-day sonnet about this meeting between the women, written by the poet, musician and Anglican priest Malcolm Guite. Simply called "The Visitation", I think it captures the wonder and devoted acceptance of both women and something of their intuitive love and strength. Mary would have been a virgin of about fourteen or fifteen; today, a gymslip mum. There are so many depictions in Marian art highlighting her ethereal beauty and grace, but I always feel those that show her guilelessness and girlishness are incredibly moving. Beyond the sheer enormity of becoming the vessel of God, she would face the gossip and disbelief of friends and strangers alike and would need to trust herself to the care of her betrothed Joseph: he in turn would need all his devotion to defend her honour and faithfulness. Today, Joseph would be pitied on the odious Jeremy Kyle Show. And it's often forgotten that Mary was a child herself, committed to giving birth in disadvantaged circumstances, at a time when death in labour was not exceptional.
Mary, Elizabeth and Joseph are part of a story of feminine strength and wisdom, the eternal parental bond and of unerring faithful love in all it's forms which still resonates.
“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."
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