Statistics

 Most of the statistics I look at — or the opinions resulting from statistical evidence — are to do with health or national politics.

When it comes to health, I'm particularly interested in the rôle of diet, since one way or another we do actually have to eat.

I've found it puzzling to see how doctors — proper doctors with degrees and a keen interest in metabolic health, high profile doctors with huge followings — profoundly disagree when it comes to diet. Every way of eating from vegan to carnivore has a cohort of high-profile doctors with huge followings passionately expounding their point of view and backing it up by statistics.

I've listened carefully, tried things out, made comparisons, followed logic, and made my own choices in the end. But it's made me wary of statistics. Yes, "There are lies, damned lies and statistics." So it would seem.

An illustration of the tangled web you can weave with statistics is found in a new set of statistics recently emerging from the statistical swamp about Hastings — the place where I live.

I first came to Hastings when I was nineteen, and I've lived here on and off since I was twenty-two (with brief spells of time living away during my years as a Methodist minister). I'm now sixty-eight, so I've had the opportunity to get to know Hastings well. A lot of poor people live here, and it's something of a sink town. Indeed, I came to live here for that very reason; the houses were a lot cheaper in Hastings than in the surrounding area, so our first family home was here even though my husband's job was twenty-six miles away. 

When my children were teenagers they began to notice the phenomenon that you could be dressed appropriately in Hastings, thinking you looked quite elegant and smart, but if you went on a day out, shopping or to visit relatives, you quickly realised that outside Hastings you looked eccentric or shabby.

It's a poor town. The roads are in bits, the place is full of drug dealers, the council is annually brought to the brink of bankruptcy trying to cope with all the homeless people. But it's also true that kids play out in the streets and women walk home alone at night, and it's a kindly, neighbourly place taken all round.

So I found this recent set of statistics intriguing.

Here's a map of England shaded according to social deprivation. Dark is deprived, light is prosperous,

You see that tiny dark dot down on the south coast, over to the right (east) as you look at the map? That's Hastings. You'll have to click on the image to make Hastings big enough to see.

The images I'm posting are just screen-shots, but where I saw the map originally (it's in this article) it was interactive, so you could check out the place where you live. I hovered on Hastings and it brought up this.

Intrigued, I looked to see the statistics for the area where Hastings is set — Hastings and Rother (the Rother is actually a river that gives its name to the area).

But what are the implications of that? Hastings is "highly deprived", outstandingly so, and deprivation usually goes hand in hand with crime. yet in a recent presentation by Hastings police to members of the borough council, I heard (from my husband who is a councillor and was at the presentation) that the police say crime is down in Hastings and (I'm paraphrasing) everything is lovely.

So I looked up the statistics and found this.

The crime rate is 132% of the national average — mostly made up of violent crime, sexual assault and robberies! Wow! That sounds dangerous. Further searches brought up and agreement that Hastings is the most dangerous place in a wide area. Here's a representative example result from a locksmith.

But my searches also brought up the result that Hastings is the safest major town in East Sussex — as well as being the most dangerous. What? Yes, that's what they say.

A resident sheds a little light, on Reddit (I agree).

Baffled by the statistical evidence that Hastings is simultaneously the safest major town in East Sussex and the most dangerous place in the local area, I asked the Google bots how both these things could be true.

They said this.

So, what they're saying is that compared with other major towns in the area, Hastings is very safe, but since there aren't that many major towns in East Sussex, it's farming country with a lot of little villages and small market towns, if you compare Hastings with the Sussex hamlets and villages, it's comparatively unsafe. All that tells us, I suspect, is that urban locations are usually more dangerous than country villages, which is not astonishing — especially as the houses in the country villages cost a lot more, so the residents have more comfortable and well-ordered lives.

But just to double-check, I asked the Google bots again this morning if Hastings really is the safest place in East Sussex. And they said this.

So Google searches have told me — all based on statistics — that Hastings both is and is not the safest place in East Sussex, that it is the most dangerous place in East Sussex but also the safest major town.

What I take away from this brief foray into statistics about something where I actually have substantial personal experience, is that statistics are useful for politicians or to win an argument, but of little or no use in navigating my way through life. Personal experience is better.

I suspect you are not surprised.

All Hallows Eve

Tomorrow is Hallowe'en, and I have mixed feelings about it.

When I was a child, it just wasn't a Thing. We sang For All the Saints at church, and other than that it went unremarked.

By the time I'd grown up and got children of my own, England had adopted America's Trick or Treat tradition, with costumes and children going from house to house. At that time I was adamantly opposed to it, and wanted nothing whatever to do with anything celebrating and death and the demonic, ghosts and witchcraft.

Then at some point I saw a TV programme about Temple Grandin, an autistic woman made famous by Oliver Sacks chronicling in one of his books her work as a designer of abattoirs that reduced stress for animals to be slaughtered. The TV interview with her was done in the days approaching Hallowe'en. Temple Grandin had no children of her own, but she remark with joyful anticipation, "The children are coming!" — and that made me see Hallowe'en differently. She completely bypassed all the disturbing and sinister spiritual shadows, and went straight to a consideration of little children coming to her home in hope of being given sweets; which she looked forward to doing, with delight. This changed my outlook; I thought her approach felt healthy and sane, and adopted the same way of looking at it.

For a few years I carved pumpkin lanterns, some with a smiley face and some with a cross cut unto them. Some years I made up bags of sweets and included a little leaflet I'd written, saying to children to remember if ever they are afraid of any kind of darkness, that Jesus is the light of the world, and you only have to call out to him and he will help you.

More recently (I'm not over-keen on pumpkin) I moved on to just a couple of light-up artificial pumpkins in the window, and a few tubs of sweets to offer to children who called at our house.

But in the last two years my approach changed again. I came to the realisation that I find Hallowe'en immensely stressful. Sitting for several hours in readiness to answer knocks at the door — frequent but unscheduled and unpredictable — caused me such tension and anxiety that I found it exhausting (yes, I am on the autistic spectrum and flourish in predictable routine). The women we lived with before we moved shared the same sense of it being stressful, so the last couple of years we just turned out the lights at the front of the house and pretended to be out.

Four years of illness and pain have left me less resilient and more used to solitude. This summer, our house move has involved many days of tradesmen working here, each of these days requiring many hours of being on duty like a receptionist, ready to leap up and respond every time they stood at the door and shouted for attention. I found this so exhausting it left me flattened. It was like an extra illness of its own. And I realised the other day that on the back of this I am dreading Hallowe'en. 

Enquiring of neighbours, we have discovered that Hallowe'en is big in our neighbourhood — a lot of families with little kids live here. I have bought tubs of sweets (I think sweets are pretty much poison, but hey, I don't want to be a kill-joy), and acquired a light-up pumpkin to go in the window; but I'm conscious of having to steel myself to face a whole evening of random unpredictable callers knocking on the door and having to leap up and rush in response to open up and offer sweets, while my nervous system is progressively shredded.

I just don't want to.

I'll be glad when it's over.

But I don't object. No ghouls, no ghosts, no death's heads, just sweets and a smiley pumpkin and some window clings saying "Happy Hallowe'en". 

What John Martyn's song said — "I don't want to know about evil; I only want to know about love."

 

Chronic illness and the Rife frequencies

 I think several friends who come by here face the daily challenges of chronic illness.

Of course you may have a good and trusted practitioner to whom you can turn, and of course if you have physical symptoms then the responsible thing to do is get them thoroughly checked out.

But like many of us (especially since the interventions that began in 2021), you may have strong physical symptoms that defy diagnosis no matter how many scans, blood tests, stool/urine tests, etc etc you may undergo to find the problem.

Perhaps, like me, you have identified a healing pathway for yourself, because you are working with zero effective help from the usual practitioners, but are not yet all the way there and are living with significant and intrusive levels of pain — which in turn create tiredness, stiffness, and all the usual spin-off problems.

If that's you, have you had a go with the Rife frequencies? I find them remarkably helpful.

You can get actual Rife frequency generators, like this one, but for me that is (at present) both too complicated and too expensive to consider. Having your own generator like that — provided you can figure out how to use it successfully — is the most powerful way to administer frequency treatments, but on Youtube, for free, you can administer them aurally, which is not as powerful but good enough to make an impressive difference.

The ones I go to are this channel and this one. I have a playlist that lasts all night, and if the pain is bad I just go to bed with my ear-buds in and let the frequencies roll in while I sleep. 

Not only does it help reduce pain, but it eases my whole body, so that, instead of a solid clump of pain, my body is just loose and easy, just itself, albeit with areas of pain still within it.

In case you have never heard of the Rife frequencies and don't know what I mean at all, there's an explanation here and here.

Riot Women and The Spectator. A journey of the mind.

 The last five years have been among the strangest in my life. Isolated by the illness (defying diagnosis) that has dogged me since the beginning of 2022, I have been startled by the rapidity with which my life dwindled away to nothing. That of itself is another story of its own, potentially worth considering and discussing — but what triggered these thoughts today was the attendant isolation.

As for so many older people, many of my friends — the loyal ones, the understanding ones, the ones to whom I could always turn — have died. Writing (even from an isolated situation) has of course brought me numerous new friends; however not only are those far-flung, overseas for the most part, but some of those have died too, and they were not old. It's the time we're passing through; it's all part of the crumbling away of the familiar world we knew. It has been very lonely.

Amidst it all — and I cannot write about this because I have nothing good to say — I have been so bitterly disappointed by the church. Some of the alienation and isolation has been to do with that; but I've learned a great deal from it. Today's pastors, it seems, are Ezekiel 34 shepherds.

Part of the whole psycho-spiritual odyssey has been a re-evaluation of my political views. My outlook is more or less as it has been all my life, but around me the political tribes and emphases have shifted and changed, so that when I look at the left-leaning movements that once were fellow travellers, I am dismayed by what they have become. I won't go into why, because I don't want to start a political argument, just set a context.

Much alone, then, and often lonely and bored but interested in current affairs and the world of ideas, I have spent hours and hours exploring contemporary political thinking, and to my surprise found myself nowadays better in harmony with the centre right (that our UK government and media unjustly lump together with the far right), that somewhat nostalgic political cast of thinking, yearning for the way things were. Like the poetry of Rupert Brooke, perhaps:

    Say, is there Beauty yet to find?
    And Certainty? and Quiet kind?
    Deep meadows yet, for to forget
    The lies, and truths, and pain? . . . oh! yet
    Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
    And is there honey still for tea?

Feeling my way to those who expressed what I was searching for, I liked Douglas Murray, and Rory Stuart, and warmed to the much reviled Jacob Rees Mogg (unjustly smeared as holding all kinds of ideas he never professed), and I became interested in the work of Roger Scruton.

Exploring these thinkers — new to me, for I had swum in other seas hitherto), I spent yesterday evening watching a YouTube interview from a few years ago (pre-pandemic) with Douglas Murray and Roger Scruton. Though I like both thinkers, I found the conversation a little shallow and self-congratulatory, not as good as I had hoped and expected. But in the course of it I learned that Douglas Murray is/was (not sure if he still is) an editor for The Spectator. I had heard of that journal (but never read it) and, while browsing among the publications on display at the supermarket recently, thought it looked interesting.

So I looked up The Spectator online, to see what they had to offer. 

The first article to catch my eye was this scathing review by David James, of Sally Wainwright's Riot Women recently aired on the BBC.

Sally Wainwright is a superb writer, one of the best in our generation. Her characterisation and power of observation and insight are astonishingly good. Riot Women is a tour de force; it is magnificent. I find not one false note in it. It has a standing ovation from me.

So I want to go through some of what David James has to say about it.

He says: 

"Picture the scene: five middle-aged male actors playing rockstars are lolling about on sofas in a recording studio. In front of them is an attractive young female producer; the men start making obscene gestures behind her about her bottom, sniggering and giggling like schoolboys, one sticks out his tongue through his fingers, intimating what he would like to do to her. Such a scene, if it was ever commissioned, would no doubt have been left on the cutting-room floor. It would be seen as puerile, sexist and outdated. Well, it was commissioned, and by the BBC, and is being broadcast this month in the final episode of Riot Women. Everything is accurate in my description except for one detail: those men are actually middle-aged women, and the target of their offensive behaviour is a man."

The thing is, he's got it wrong. I strongly suspect he has not watched all the episodes — only the first and last perhaps? — and he's got the wrong end of the stick.

The scene he portrays has elements he has either missed or misunderstood.

Let me explain.

The sound engineer in question (what he describes as the producer) is already known to one of the central characters because she met him through a dating site; a man much younger than herself. She was shocked and disappointed to discover that he wanted her to engage in sexual practices she found disgusting and demeaning, and she detached from the encounter. She is taken aback to come face to face with him again (unexpectedly) when he is allocated to their band as their sound engineer.

When it is her turn to record, he goes with her into the studio (alone) but their conversation is inadvertently transmitted through to the adjacent room where the other band members are waiting their turn to record, so they overhear and thus discover the nature of the sexual liaison and her disappointment in it.

Their response is not disapproval or indignation but hilarity. When her turn to record is completed, she returns to find her friends hardly able to contain their giggles. Sitting on the sofa with them, the sound engineer having his back to them as he sits at the sound desk, she asks (mimes, gestures) what they are laughing at. Pointing at him, one of them mimes the sexual practice that he asked of her, the one which disgusted and disappointed her. But they don't judge him; indeed one of them later, generously, pronounces him attractive — they heal her embarrassment and sense of shame by letting it be something funny. It is transformed by the solidarity of friendship that rescues her from the tawdriness and indignity of the failed encounter.

In his rush to disdain and sneer, David James has completely (not partially) failed to grasp not only the dynamics but the actually plot-line. And gone to press in The Spectator slating Sally Wainwright for something that was his invention, not hers, saying erroneously, "Everything is accurate in my description except for one detail: those men are actually middle-aged women". Not so.

But I had been looking for the path the light shines on. I was looking for thinkers of integrity, and wondering if The Spectator might be worth a subscription. Truth finds us, doesn't it, if we look?

I won't be buying even one copy of The Spectator. I am not interested in disdain and contempt, nor in writers (and their editors) who make their living denigrating other writers without even doing their homework. 

I've read enough: back to the drawing board. I'll look elsewhere.

As Bertrand Russell so memorably said, "A stupid man's report of what a clever man says can never be accurate, because he unconsciously translates what he hears into something he can understand."

[I am happy to use the term "man" here advisedly, in its original gender-neutral sense with its etymological derivation from the same root as the Germans got mensch. In the origins of our language, "man" meant simply "person" — the male and female of the species were represented by wer and wif; as in "werewolf" and "wife".] 

 

Scrupulosity: When Faith Feels Like Fear — Debra Peck

Do you know the work of my friend Debi Peck? 

She wrote a particularly excellent book called The Hijacked Conscience — a book about a form of OCD called religious scrupulosity — which has become a must-read resource for pastors, and is illuminating for anyone who goes to church. I am fairly certain that even if Debi's struggles aren't the same as your own, you will know a fellow-Christian who has faced the same challenges and will find her wise and kind and brave account very helpful.

Recently Debi's son Brenton has launched himself upon the unsuspecting world as a podcaster — Yay! Go, Brenton! — and the very first person he wanted to interview was his mother.

Here they are, settling down for a chat on the subject of scrupulosity — when faith feels like fear.

Listening to Lucy

Until this year I haven't spent much time thinking about polarisation. 

Our divisions, whether political or racial or religious, seemed unnecessary to me. I had a curiosity about people who were different from me, and enjoyed seeking them out when I could, to discover their point of view; but like most people I tended to swim in particular seas (ideologically) and assumed what people said was what they meant, and it all seemed fairly straightforward.

But the shifts and changes combined with the explosive acceleration of communication affecting the ideological landscape have resulted in a very different terrain from where we were before the pandemic. Truth has emerged magnificently at the same time as lies have proliferated astonishingly. It's hard to pick a way through the muddle. Everything is in such a confusion of development and emergence that it's tricky to spot the path the light shines on. It's there, of course, it just takes patience and time and spaciousness (simplicity), watching and waiting until its fragile light strengthens up into a clearly discernible thread.

Adding to the chaos is polarity. It's hard to discuss anything with somebody who holds the view that if you believe this then you must believe that. It's like getting out the hair that gets stuck in the plughole of the sink. You pull out what seemed to be just a little bit, only to find it has all kinds of accumulated crud attached to it. It has become impossible to have a perspective on any topic without it being assumed you have internalised all the rest of the ideological package.

Because of all this, it is only with my husband — who has different politics, different spiritual understandings, and a different cultural outlook from mine — that I feel free to discuss these things frankly and in depth. He is very patient with me.

Then a thought occurred to me today that I found helpful. Have you read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe (C.S.Lewis)? I think you probably have. If you haven't, or read it years ago and no longer have a copy, just at the moment you can get it free on Kindle (at Amazon).

I wanted to quote you a snippet from it, but when I went back to it I realised there isn't a short part encapsulating what I was remembering. You really need to read the whole chapter (Ch.V — Back on this side of the door) , but I'll summarise and explain why I've brought it to your attention.

This is the chapter where Lucy's older brother and sister (Peter and Susan) begin to think she must have lost her mind because of the nonsense she's spouting (about the existence of Narnia — ridiculous, right?). They ask the opinion of their brother Edmund (who has also been to Narnia), but he lies about it and pretends that she is just making it up. 

Troubled, and unable to pick out truth from lies/make-believe, thinking that Lucy might actually have become a little unhinged, Peter and Susan go to ask the Professor (I've given him capitals because in a story like this a professor is a wisdom/authority archetype and I think Lewis expects us to recognise that). 

He listens to them very carefully, and then he asks them, "How do you know your sister's story is not true?"

He asks them which they would evaluate as the most reliable — the most truthful — their sister or their brother? And Peter says that up until now he'd have said "Lucy" every time. So the Professor asks the same question of Susan; and she says that she likewise would have said the same as Peter — but that what Lucy is saying couldn't be true. She admits they have been worried there could be something wrong with Lucy's mind.

The Professor says it is very clear Lucy is not mad. He says that logically there are only three possibilities: either she is mad, or telling lies, or telling the truth. He says that, since she is clearly not mad and they know she does not tell lies, they must assume she is telling the truth.

Now, in the landscape of confusion and dissension where we currently find ourselves, we have to acknowledge there is a fourth possibility: that a sane and truthful person could simply be mistaken, given the depth and breadth of muddle that surrounds us. They might be confused, might have been taken in by the propaganda of others, might later change their mind. So they might be sane and truthful, but gullible and misinformed.

Even taking that into account, I think in our present position, we should be quietly bypassing Edmund and listening to Lucy (whoever is the equivalent in your own life).

So, in picking your way through the chaos, trying to find your bearings, I'd recommend asking yourself, "Who let me down in the past? Who deceived me? Who played me? Who tried to blag me and manipulate me? Who used me?" Discount them as a reliable guide.

Then ask yourself, "Whom have I found trustworthy in the past? Who turned out to hold the wise perspective? In circumstances of conflicting narratives, who told me the truth before? Whose life and practice do I hold in esteem?" And listen to them. Listen to Lucy.

Look at the people you know, and select the ones who are wise and honourable, people of integrity, people who have sheltered others and built up something good and brought order out of chaos. Listen to their opinions. 

Of course we should pay some attention to everyone, because sometimes surprising individuals hold the luminous vision, and if we simply ignore them we could miss that. As Max Ehrmann said, "Speak your own truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story." But in general, the ones whose lives are a mess, and who rely on others and let people down, are less likely to offer you a trustworthy evaluation. As someone else said (Chuck Swindoll? James Dobson?), "If your Christianity doesn't work at home, it doesn't work: don't export it." 

And then, of course, what Susan and Peter did next was to go through the wardrobe themselves (in their case by happenstance, but we could go on purpose). They listened to Lucy and did not dismiss her (or believe her), but it was making their own exploration that changed their minds. And the same applies to us; we can do our own diligence. Listen to the voices of those you know from experience are holding the light (even if their views sound improbable or are unpalatable); then take the time to do your own exploring. Go and look. Thoroughly. Go into the territories beyond what is familiar to you, and see for yourself. Then you will be in a better position to decide what is wise, what is true.

Listen to the spiritual voices, not just the political ones. Listen to what is visionary and weigh it up against what is practical and realistic. Be cautious about adding your own voice to the cacophony. If you want to act prophetically towards bringing in the Kingdom, do so by small acts of kindness and love in your immediate circle. Roaring and waving flags is not always necessary. Sometimes holding your light steady is more effectively accomplished in quietness.

I hope that helps. Your own thoughts??

Vicki's blog 'Written Down Big'

 Do you know Vicki Kauffman's blog Written Down Big ?

I really like it.

It's a haven from all the snarling stuff, but without being trivial or shallow. It's thoughtful and interesting and well written. 

She has a subtitle for it: "on living expansively, honestly and hopefully", which I love.

Just recently Vicki and I did an interview because she had some questions abut my Hawk & Dove stories. It's here if you think you might enjoy reading it. 

All this turbulence in the world — does it bother you?

 So, how are you doing, friends? All this turbulence in the world — the extremism, polarity, accusation and fear — does it bother you?

Are you someone who has made the decision to stay high on your eagle's perch to avoid being dragged down into the mire?

Are you very politically engaged, and if you are — what is your perspective? Left? Right? Centrist? Floating voter? Has your perspective changed in the last few years, or are you steadfast to the course you'd set?

And if you do feel tossed about by everything tearing the world apart, what are your preferred ways of keeping your equilibrium?

From the wise spiritual people I listen to online, I'm hearing unanimous recommendation that we do well to find solidarity in groups that lift us up and encourage us. Are you in a group like that, or are you more isolated? If you are in such a group, do they keep you steady? How? By what means?

And your group — is it near (walking distance) or do you have to travel to meet up, or can you meet only online?

So many questions! I hope you don't mind!

It's a gloriously sunny day here on England's south coast, as you can see.

Of other news, our kitchen is now fixed and — praise be to God — when the cabinet came out so we could inspect the damage, the disastrous effects were mainly restricted to that one cabinet. The work tops had to be replaced, but the floor was okay, and the wall behind it. It's all calmed and back in place now, looking like this.   

I've got ox-tail pieces in the slow cooker, making meat broth.

Wish me luck!

 There's always something needs doing when you move into a new house, isn't there? Something you haven't thought of.

We knew there were interventions needed in the garden and, Gott sei dank, the weather held good all through August while we tackled that, which involved jackhammers and poured concrete and dismantling and Freegling as well as hedge removal.

But we didn't think there were any issues inside the house — apart from the disentanglement of more wiring and installations than I could ever have imagined to be likely. However, we were wrong.

The sink and the counters in our kitchen are black — our tenants' choice when we installed a new kitchen for them a few years ago. 

These tenants were the best — clean and responsible and conscientious; they were brilliant.

So I think they must simply have been unaware that, for nobody knows how long, the kitchen tap was dripping badly.

So badly in fact that the cabinet into which the sink is set, and the counter top, are essentially dissolving. And what's happening with the wall behind it and the floor underneath, we do not yet know.

Ever the optimists, we did check if our house insurance would cover it. No it won't; what were we thinking? But the surveyor the insurance company sent round to check was a cheerful young man called Adam who used to be a carpenter and joiner before he got involved with the insurers. "Oh, I can do that for you," he said. Hallelujah!

So he will be on our doorstep at 8.30 sharp tomorrow morning, and thus I have spent the evening re-organising the functioning of our life. Because really, what is a home but a kitchen with armchairs and beds to the side?

I didn't do this spontaneously. I have been thinking through it and planning and mentally moving things for several days now.

Would you like to see the result?

The kitchen is all emptied and ready for Adam to start work.

Our kitchen has a little pantry, and I have put in it a small cookie station for his snacks. We'll make him cups of tea/coffee when we do our own, but he'll need something to nibble on and somewhere to put down his mug of tea, as the counters will all have been removed.

I have the new sink ready for him, propped against the wall just outside the kitchen door in the hallway.

At the other end of the hallway, opposite the front door, I put the fridge-freezer, with the thing on top that filters our drinking water from the spring.

I took the cutlery drawer out of the cabinet — all the under-counter cabinets needed emptying because the ones surrounding the sink will be ripped out and the counter tops likewise, so the inside of the cabinets will have to be washed down afterwards — and put it on our dining table in the front room, where I also set out all the crockery I thought we'd be likely to use.

On the other side of the room I put the air-fryer which cooks most of our meals, and our Jackery power station — because presumably Adam will need to turn off the electricity if he's dismantling the kitchen.

Meanwhile in the back sitting room I hung the cloths and oven gloves ready on the radiator —

— and turned my desk into a tea station, with the trash bins underneath it and the compost scraps bin perched on my shelves.

The trolley table for tea and coffee is handy to put the propane camping hob.

And then I set up a washing up station in the corner, because I should think the water will be turned off until everything's done.

Having the water off means we won't be able to flush the toilet, so I drafted in the watering cans from the garden, filled them up and set them ready in the bath.

We have no idea how long this will go on for — it all depends on the state of the walls and floor when the cabinets come out.

But now I'm tired —

— and listening to this song.

"Whom resist ye, steadfast in faith"

 The Office of Compline begins with the words:

The Lord almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect end

which I always think is particularly beautiful and full of peace.

After that comes the short reading from the first epistle of St Peter:

Brethren, be sober, be vigilant, 

because your adversary the devil goeth about as a roaring lion,

seeking whom he may devour; 

whom resist ye, steadfast in faith.

I think that admonition is peculiarly apposite for our times.

This last week we have seen a dizzying outpouring of responses to the death of Charlie Kirk. 

On the one hand were those from the political Left, saying such things as that they felt sorry for the bullet having to enter his body, or that they wished his whole family — or President Trump — had died as well. The more moderate among them contented themselves with a few sentences denigrating his character, followed up by a pious remark about how they, personally could never condone violence.

The political Right, meanwhile, seems to have elevated this good man to the level of sainthood, planning statues in his honour and donating huge sums of money in his memory, beyond what is moderate and proportionate. There has been a swathe of sackings and cancellations of Left-leaning people who offered tasteless and negative comment about him.

Both approaches seem to be making political capital out of what is simply sad and awful.

On the Right, many are asking what has happened to the Democrats, saying they have lost their minds.

Those on the Left have been anxious to suggest that the person arrested for the crime had nothing to do with trans-sexuality but was in fact a Right-wing heterosexual, while voices from the Right have been raised to point out that his partner was trans and insist that he had been radicalised by the Left.

Meanwhile, as all this was unfolding, the Democrats report that on Fox News a presenter, live on air, proposed that homeless people be killed: "involuntary lethal injection … or something. Just kill ’em."

The presenter made this suggestion because of the death of Iryna Zarutska, whose killer — a homeless man — left the train where he stabbed her saying (repeatedly) "I got a white girl".

Before that was the horrific shooting of children in Minneapolis by a trans person.

But of course, horrific crime continues to be committed by people who are not homeless or trans, who may be of any political persuasion or none.

Vocabulary is extreme from both Left and Right, insisting those criminals whose ideology is opposed to their own are sub-human, or not human at all, or are demons. Citations of criminals from the opposing side are brandished in increasingly toxic discourse, a dialogue of the deaf.

Meanwhile in England we are in a flag war, with Union Jacks and the English flag raised everywhere in grassroots protest against unchecked immigration, partly in reaction to the Palestinian flag being flown en masse in a variety of locations over this last year, because of the hideous situation in Gaza.

Flags in support of the various expressions of sexual identity have also been raised, or their colours incorporated into clothing and décor. Opponents have stressed the importance of family and having children.

People are being criminalised and arrested by an increasingly stressed and overwhelmed government/police force for both Right and Left opinion — whether that be speaking up for a pro-Palestinian organisation or for posting opinions online of a racist or Islamophobic nature, or for praying (silently) near an abortion clinic. One man was even arrested for calling somebody a muppet. 

I could go on, but I am sure you are aware and know all about this.

Both Left-wing and Right-wing politics have histories of unthinkably cruel régimes of oppression to cause them shame. Either the Right or Left approach could work as a method for ordering society, applied by just, moderate, conscientious, wise, humble people of integrity.

Yes, if you go through what Charlie Kirk had to say (a lot) with a nit-comb, no doubt it is possible to find regrettable remarks.

Yes, a trans person did shoot those children.

Yes, a homeless person did kill Iryna.

Many of the accusations and vilifications have evidence to substantiate them. But the thing is, this travels in both directions, so it isn't "the Left" or "the Right" at the root of the toxicity.

I have several socialist friends and several conservative friends, and all of them are kind, gentle, generous, compassionate, thoroughly lovely people. If you put them all together to run one organisation, they'd manage to do it splendidly without killing anybody at all in the process.

In times of such immoderate polarity and incontinent expression of views, it may be that we can pause and consider how we might be of help.

I expect that, like me, most people who come and read here have very little money or influence or say in how anything is run. All we can do is engage in a steady practice of quantum activism, patiently addressing ourselves to bringing about a new world of peace and kindness through the minutiae of our daily and ordinary dealings with one another, observing other people with understanding and compassionate imagination.

Looking at the modern world, I can see the wisdom of my parents' generation in keeping religion, sex and politics out of social conversation.

In the same way as it's inadvisable to touch with your bare hands a hot iron pan taken straight off the stove, so maybe for a while we would do well to take our hands off these topics, just to let it all cool down.

Surely if a person is a Muslim, Christians can respect that, or if someone is a Christian then a Muslim can likewise respect that.

Surely if there are dangers in trans ideology, one can just discuss those discreetly with one's children, without starting a campaign of hatred against people who identify as trans.

Surely a family can incorporate members whose sexuality or faith or race may differ, and still love one another.

It's not the sexuality or the race or the religion or the political affiliation, or whether people are rich or poor or even homeless, that is at the root of the problem; it's all the same old human sins — rage, greed, violence, lust for power, selfishness, discourtesy, ambition, intolerance. It's looking for where others are getting it wrong rather than taking a while to think over one's own shortcomings. 

This does not mean that we should adopt a laissez-faire approach to life, abandoning all sexual morality and celebrating unchecked illegal immigration and ceasing to put in place any kind of wise boundary.

But it does mean being kind and considerate and forbearing with the individuals we personally encounter as we travel through life, and saying sorry when we get it wrong, and helping those who are poor or ill or disabled or homeless or in trouble — helping them first, and addressing the causes after that.

We are here to hold our light steady, to anchor the light, in and for the place and circumstances and community where we personally live.

If we notice ourselves getting anxious or irritable or angry or overwhelmed, that's the time to step back before we begin to add to the toxic load.

We are here to practice simplicity, living within our means and leaving something over to help other people. We have a responsibility to live so simply that we can stay spacious and peaceful, not overrun by material possessions or oppressed by a packed schedule or bewildered by too many encounters and responsibilities. It behoves us to take the time to educate ourselves, to look deeply, to find out what causes irritation in the nervous system and discontent in the soul. We do well to practice a discipline of eating simple wholesome food and being cautious with pharmaceuticals and staying away from drugs and alcohol and sugar. And we do well to ask many questions and listen to a balance of opinions before we add our own conclusions to a conversation — going beyond habit and received 'wisdom' and preconceptions.

Perhaps if we try such a course of action, we can not only refrain from adding to this horrendous and dangerous instability, but begin to establish a radiance of kindness and peace, to facilitate a change of direction, and provide shelter from the storm to those who are battered and distressed by it all.

xx Pen

 

Ordinary time

 I'm sure you know that in the Church of England the designation of the main portion of the ecclesiastical year was changed.

The Church year begins on the first Sunday of Advent, and rolls around through Christmas, Epiphany, Candlemas, Lent, Easter and Pentecost to Trinity Sunday. Then there's that long section going all the way through to All Hallows and All Souls, taking us back to Advent again. If you go to the Book of Common Prayer, you'll find the long green bit (green vestments in church on a Sunday) designated as the Sundays after Trinity. At some point in the Methodist Church (and maybe in the Anglican Church too I don't know) they altered that to being Sundays after Pentecost. But meanwhile, I think in the Catholic Church (correct me if I'm wrong about any of this and I'll come back to amend what I've written), these Sundays after Trinity were called Ordinary Time. The Methodists and Anglicans also adopted this phrase, but I think stuck with "Sundays after Pentecost" for the lectionary.

I love tradition, for which reason alone I have a nostalgia for the Sundays after Trinity, but for the most part it's Ordinary Time that speaks to my heart. Because that's where we live, isn't it? Ordinary time. And "ordinary" has both an everyday sense of "normal" but also a liturgical sense — "ordained" or "called", subject to the Word of God.

I like it that in the ecclesiastical year there are feasts and fasts, special times of observation, but that most of it is a long slow peregrination through ordinary time. We saunter through it. That word, "saunter" comes from saint terre (holy ground) and was the term for how pilgrims walked. You can't go quick march on a pilgrimage, it's just too long, you have to take it slowly, you saunter.

This is how we walk, in ordinary time, how we move through the fields of grace in simplicity, sauntering home.

Not long ago Tony and I moved to a new home. We have lived fifteen years with Alice and Hebe in their house in Beaufort Road, and we loved that house and loved our shared life with them; but — do you know this song? — you gotta move when the Spirit says move, so that's what we did.

We are very happy in our new place.

This is what it looks like from the outside. That tower block behind it is one of four that are slowly but surely to be dismantled and replaced by low-rise apartment block over the next few years.

It's an ordinary house in an ordinary street that looks like this.

It's a dear little house, just right for us. We had a bit of decorating to do, but not too much. Our front room now looks like this, very peaceful and cosy:

Our back room looks like this — well one corner of it does:

It's where I'm sitting right now.

Here's the other side of the same room, with evening falling now.

The feeling of the house is very happy and welcoming, and as we've settled in we've found a steadily increasing sense of peace.

There has been a dizzying amount of work to do — the day after tomorrow our very modest-sized kitchen —

— will be turned inside out because there are problems of damage cause by a long-term leaking tap. 

There are details like this still to fix — 

— the legacy of televisions having been installed in every room, plus a satellite dish, a CCTV camera, and some defunct aerials and internet sockets from former times.

And my bedroom has some decor issues!!

— which we are slowly addressing. The wardrobes used to be just black, adorned with panels of peel'n'stick dark grey glitter textured wallpaper. Yes. Anyway, moving on; though the room will in due course be painted a soft shade of green, my friends are there already:

So that's OK.

We began with the garden, which had a hedge too large and dominant for our capacity to maintain. We like hedges but said farewell to most of it, and are now slowly replanting with other choices.

And these — don't you think? — are the matters of Ordinary Time; the place where we shape our lives, where we work patiently to repair and maintain, the place where we pray and eat and think and lie down to sleep. What I love about Ordinary Time is that it is essentially our home, the spot of Earth where we are formed and challenged and loved, the place where we meet Jesus and are steadied by his voice.

It came to my mind today, as I was enjoying looking at the posts of Lynda by the River, that maybe now is a time for those of us separated (and even isolated) to draw closer to one another online, for the peace and comfort of one another's company in these wild days of unrest and antagonism. 

Peace to you, then, my friends. Waving from East Sussex, this little patch of England.

This I know: "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well." Our work is to hold the light steady. We are all anchorites now, anchoring the Light to our local spot of Earth, in our ordinary homes through this most extraordinary ordinary time. 

God bless you. xx