Threshold

I may be mistaken, but I think in England we are on the brink of doing something really bad, from which there will be no way back.

If you live in England you will probably know that fracking sites are proposed for well over half the country.  The first one, at Balcombe in West Sussex, should be starting drilling soon.  This is at present being delayed by staunch and substantial anti-fracking protest at Balcombe; it reminds me strongly of the protest at Greenham Common.

Fracking, whether for gas or oil, is short for 'fracturing'.  There's a good explanation of it here.

The basic deal is that, to release the gas or oil deposits, chemicalised water is forced into places deep in the earth.  This involves poisoning the waters in the aquifers, which means water we could have accessed for drinking will become poisonous.

When I wrote to members of our Hastings council about this matter, I was assured that no fracking sites have been identified for 'our area'.  But when it comes to the aquifers, the air, the rivers, Balcombe in West Sussex is our area.  Airborne gas respects no county or borough boundaries.  Even so, if this is the only means of communicating to the UK civic authorities that we care about this, adding our voices to the protest here is the least we can do.

Here in the South East of England we have just received a leaflet from our water authority, explaining that we are still in serious water shortage - semi-drought - conditions.  All of us soon will be having metered water to encourage us to use less, and the leaflet reminds us of a number of ways we can all use water responsibly, to make it go further and alleviate drought.

Fracking is a very thirsty process.  Not only does it necessitate poisoning (not for a brief temporary period but long-term) water we could have accessed for drinking, but it also requires millions of gallons of water to run the heavy machinery.

They have a fracking plant in Texas, in an area already challenged by extremely arid conditions.  Here's  the result.

Of course fracking, whether for oil or gas, and also oil extracted from tar sands and piped away, will affect the air and the land as well as the water.  Read here about some of the implications for rural America.    You'll notice that ExxonMobil is one of the firms behind fracking in America. Exxon have been extracting oil from tar sands too.  Read about the effects of their work here.

Of course, at least initially fracking will be done in the countryside.  There would be too much of an outcry if towns and roads were spoiled to dig up the area and drill for gas.  So there will be a need to cut down more woodland.  And of course, one of the many benefits of trees is that they slow down the movement of water through the landscape, protecting us against both drought and floods.

Fracking is what's called a 'dirty technology'.  The benefits are not great and the pollution and damage is massive.  The cost in terms of the wellbeing of the Earth is huge for the commodity we produce.

It shouldn't need much explaining for it to be clear to you that the consequences of all this are sombre indeed.  But the urgency and importance of it is made clear in this article about Earth Overshoot Day.

Our life is good.  Our family runs a car, we have a gas boiler for the winter months (our summertime water is heated by solar tubes on the roof).   But I would be more than willing to have our government insist we stop using gas and oil forever and just do without it, rather than seek fresh supplies this way.  I look at the people walking around our neighbourhood, ordinary people, parents with little kids in tow, old folks struggling along slowly with walking frames, many immigrants, many who are very poor.  And I try to imagine what will happen if, just as the government is cutting assistance to people living with disability, fracking in West Sussex gives us here in East Sussex breathing difficulties nausea, asthma.  I try to imagine us turning on the tap to find the water is gone, ordered to let our gardens die because the fracking machinery needs the water, watching our dairy cattle and sheep in the meadows sicken and die because the rivers are poisoned, seeing our orchards perish because the land had been sucked dry and a secret cocktail of lethal chemicals blasted into the deep earth.

Our Prime Minister, David Cameron, is firmly in favour of fracking, saying it will make only a tiny difference to the English countryside.   He says "We must make the case that fracking is safe. International evidence shows there is no evidence why fracking should cause contamination of water supplies or other environmental damage, if properly regulated."  Hmm.

Once this Pandora's Box has been opened, there will be no stuffing back inside what we have unleashed.   In my soul, to the very depths, is such a dread of the future we are creating, such a grieving for the Earth, for the rivers, the hills, the wild creatures, the trees.   This is not the road of blessing.

Three Wise Things

In our house, one of us is called Hebe, and she is very wise.

At first I had only Two Wise Things to tell you about today (Beauty Cream and the Frankincense Tree), but two always wants to be three in lore and storytelling, so I am going to add a third one and tell you Three Wise Things about Hebe.

First Wise Thing:

Hebe is a Maker, and she has many magical and intriguing things in her room.

When I went in there looking for the First Wise Thing to photograph it, I couldn’t find it at all.  With Hebe, sometimes things are Apparent and Sometimes they are Hidden, because she is a friend of Mystery and can’t help picking up enigmatic ways.  Now you see it, now you don’t; that’s how it is with Hebe.  But while I was searching vainly for the First Wise Thing, I did see some other Things, and I photographed them with my camera Lumix, so you would not be disappointed by having no picture to see when I tell you about the First Wise Thing.

So, here you are.  Look – this is the corner of Hebe’s shelf.  The baton that holds it up is made of a small branch that fell from the ash tree at the bottom of our garden.  That makes me happy.

And these are some of the Magical Things I saw while I was in her room; the tiniest giraffe possible, two handmade wooden spoons, and a strange bottle obviously for some Magical and Mysterious Use.

That’s how it is in Hebe’s room.  But the Thing I searched for and couldn’t find is a button badge she wears sometimes, that says:

“It’s always the quiet ones”

 This small and modest statement contains an inherent wisdom that unfolds like a flower as you hold it in mind.  “It’s always the quiet ones”.  It is too.  So that was the First Wise Thing.

The Second Wise Thing came about for two reasons (two to keep it company in its second place on the list, you see); because Hebe loves Healing Herbs and Wildflowers, and because she is an Explorer and Finder.  She moves at the speed of love around the garden.  The speed of love, unlike the speed of light, is very, very slow.  Nobody knows the speed of love; sometimes it is quite still.  Another Wise Person I know, Martin Baddeley who was once my Teacher, said: “Jesus walked, and He stopped.  What is the speed of love?”  This has only ever been a question; never an answer – it has this in common with many Life’s in-sights.  While Hebe is in the garden she is Looking.  Not looking, you see; Looking.  Insects, flowers, toadstools, raindrops, spider webs, bark, pebbles, toads, ferns, moss; she really Looks, so she really sees.   This is how she puts her Quietness to good use.

A plant she didn’t find in our garden but often includes in the Healing Salves she makes for us, is Frankincense.  Sometimes, quietly, like a Sniffing Animal, Hebe takes her time poking and rootling in the moonlight on the World Wide Web, balancing precariously along its many strands until she finds out things and can weave them into her own Wisdom, much as she includes herbs in her Healing Salves.  On the World Wide Web one dark night, Hebe discovered that the Frankincense Trees of the Earth (and as far as we know there are none anywhere else) are In Danger.  Human Beings in their Ignorance and Sin have been greedy and impatient with the precious resin of the Frankincense Trees, and taken too much.  

The Frankincense Trees did what they could, climbing to the Rocky Outcrops of High Mountains and standing there on tiptoe clinging on by the Barest Root in the hope they could never be reached, but even there Human Beings came with their cutting knives for the healing sap of the tree that has the fragrance of all beauty and can make people well again.

So the Frankincense Trees upped the ante and decided to have no more children.

When Frankincense Merchants in Wales heard of this pass, they decided to Do What They Could.  It takes patience to germinate a Frankincense Tree.  Only three in every hundred seeds germinate at all.  And Frankincense Trees grow at the speed of love.  But the Frankincense Merchants in Wales persevered.  A year ago Hebe added her name to the Waiting List and at last the tiny trees the Merchants had been able to germinate were ready to go out (at considerable expense, mark you) to their new homes.

When the Quiet Ones advise, you listen; so when Hebe suggested we incorporate into our household a Frankincense Tree,  we said "Yes; of course," because that was the Right Answer.  

The postman brought it here from Wales.   Royal Mail!  Very fitting.

First it must live in the bathroom, where it will like (we hope) the diffused light and the cool mountain air with its mists and fogs.  

Here it is.  God bless you, little tree of hope and promise.  May you grow and prosper!  May you rise from strength to strength!

So the Second Wise Thing concerned the finding, considering, advising and acquiring of a Frankincense Tree – a privilege and a responsibility.

Then the Third Wise Thing, Hebe gave to me on my birthday this year, when she made especially for me a pot of wonderfully fragrant Beauty Cream.  It came with a Sheet of Advice:

And if that’s not Wisdom, I don’t know what is.

Hysterical delight

Oh, man, I am SO PLEASED with myself!!!

I've spent HOURS today patiently learning how to do stuff on a Mac, and figuring out how to make montages and graphic layouts in the absence of Microsoft Paint.

I wanted to be able to upload things to our church Facebook page, to make it a) relevant and b) pretty.

And FINALLY I managed to make this:

Hooray!  I am just so pleased that I did that  :0D

Habitat. Home.

This week my heart is heavy to hear of two homes lost under the soul-less administration of UK government.

One is Oaken Wood near Maidstone in Kent.

Despite lobbying by local people who love the woodland, and the best efforts of the Woodland Trust, permission has been given to cut down the trees to quarry for stone.

Here is Oaken Wood photographed for the Daily Telegraph newspaper:

It will soon look like this:

  

That’s Kent.  Meanwhile, in Pembrokeshire (Wales), the owners of an earth-friendly turf-roofed straw and wood round house who failed to seek planning permission to build their home, have been told to tear it down on the basis that it harms the character and appearance of the countryside.

Charlie Hague and Megan Williams built their little house for £15,000 on William’s parents’ land, in time for the birth of their first child. 

This is the house:

Charlie and Meg are fighting to save it.

I feel heartsick when I read about these things.

I have done what I can.

I signed the petition to save Meg and Charlie’s home – there is no reason why Pembrokeshire County Council cannot grant them retrospective planning permission.  Perhaps you might like to sign it, too?

And I sent some money to the Woodland Trust towards their campaign to buy Fingle Wood in England’s West Country.  Only 2% of England’s ancient woodland remains, now.  98% gone.   

This is Fingle Wood:

The trees are our guardians against drought and flood, for they slow down the movement of water through the landscape.  They purify the air and stabilise the land.  They shade us against fierce heat in summer and temper the winter winds.  They are home and shelter to countless species.  They are the lungs of the earth.

Do what you can to speak up for the trees, for your life is in their hands just as their life is in yours.

My favourite picture.

I want to show you my favourite picture ever.  

I have stacks of images saved on memory sticks – of nature, the countryside, people, sunsets, waterfalls, flowers, inspirational quotes, cats, elephants, rabbits for Julie – but this is my very favourite picture of all time.

There’s a page I go to on Facebook, Advocates For Spalding Dogs – where you can donate to pay release fees for lost dogs in the pound at Spalding County.

Sometimes they have a rescue opportunity – if not, or if no-one pays their release fees, their lives are brought to an abrupt halt with a lethal injection.  So the people who are the Advocates For Spalding Dogs work tirelessly to find the opportunities and finance that will save their lives and find them forever homes.

If you have the emotional stamina for it, you can watch while donations gradually come in for dogs sometimes overdue for euthanasia.

Once there was a little dog who – if my memory of this is correct – had no donations.  Time was running out.  The lethal injection was the next stop.

And then, this photo:

. . . the little dog as the sole passenger in a private jet, winging away to a most luxurious forever home.

I’m a preacher.  I could think of all kinds of things to say about the Saviour who lifted me from hopelessness, the good Shepherd who found me and took me home when I was lost, the Lord who supplies my every need and by whose grace I am sustained.

But for now just let me say – that photo of a little dog being airlifted out of the pound is, in my opinion, the best pic ever.

Grandma

This afternoon our Grandma – my mother-in-law from my first marriage – slipped out of this world and went home to Heaven.

A kind, patient, gentle woman, full of faith with a particular quality of innocence, and integrity .  She had a ready laugh and was always the first to offer what she could when any of us were in need of help.

When my children were little, Grandma and Grandad’s place was a second home.  Too many to count, the roast dinners she cooked us every Sunday.  We’d all pile in after church, littlies to bed in the cots she had dotted about in the bedrooms, then the adults enjoyed lunch together while the children napped.  As one by one they woke up, often Grandma was the first upstairs to fetch them down, playing peek-a-boo as she opened the bedroom door.

They loved the books and dressing up box, the paddling pool and wigwam, the dolls’ houses and many other toys at Grandma and Grandad’s house.

She was our main baby-sitter, and every week when she did her own grocery run she would call by our place with two big bags of goodies to help out with our big family.

When my youngest was born she would come by every week to take my twins (then nearly three) to the beach for an ice-cream and to play by the sea.

Grandma was the one who made sure my oldest child remained a little girl even though she had four younger sisters – she was always Grandma’s special little one, and Grandma held the boundary, ensuring big sister had a space to be unburdened by responsibility.

A housegroup leader for years, the one who headed up the pastoral team at chapel, the confidante of countless ministers who learned they could trust her kindness, wisdom and discretion, she supported every church event imaginable – including Boys’ Brigade camp.

She and Grandad were a brilliant team – lovers, friends and partners in building Christ’s kingdom.

A staunch Methodist, she loved hymnody and often used to say “Methodists sing their faith”.  This was one of her favourites:

Her passing was serene and gentle.  As we sat with her this day, we felt peace and beauty fill the room and observed the kindness and tranquillity in her face.

May she rest in peace and rise in glory.

Pressed down, shaken together and running over

You have to get back some time, don’t you?  Some perspective.

This has been an even more hectic patch than usual.

Let me tell you about my (extensive . . .) evening yesterday.

The night before, I’d been at our church PCC (Parochial Church Council) meeting.  I am its secretary. 

Last Sunday we said farewell to our much loved parish priest as he departed for the next phase of his journey, and we sent him on his way with gifts expressive of so much love.

Hot on the heels of that came the Archdeacon to our PCC meeting the following night.  He addressed us on the subject of our duties as a PCC during the vacancy as we search for a new priest.  His advice proved comprehensive and detailed, his delivery focused.  It was my job as secretary to make sure I had it all minuted for circulation.  A bit like this, with no music:

The next day (yesterday) had various obligations but by evening I settled down to write up the minutes, as the PCC members need them now, not just in advance of the next PCC as usual – now, so we know what to do!

In the actual meeting my pen just flew over the paper, as I concentrated on getting down what the Archdeacon had to say – all my critical faculties suspended, just capturing words.

Thus it was that when I came to write it all up, though in Paragraph Two the Archdeacon had evidently said our advert had to be in to the Church Times for the 2^nd September, by Paragraph A-Lot-more-Than-Two he stressed we must complete all our documentation in time to have the ad ready for the second week.

Uh-oh.  What second week?

After some puzzlement I thought he must have initially said not “the 2^nd of September” but “the 2^nd week of September”.

However, as there is an implication of considerable discrepancy between these two dates and we have to get our time frame fairly exact, and it’s my responsibility to produce correct minutes, I wondered how I might verify this.

I thought I’d email the Archdeacon to check – despite the nagging remembrance that his chronic busyness made it unlikely he’d see or reply in the time I needed an answer.

I looked at the diocesan website for contact details.  His address appeared there, and phone number, and a live link saying “email”, which I clicked.  It brought up a requirement to enter a password for Outlook, which I neither have nor want.  Darn.  I spent a fruitless while rummaging through my 455-email archive for our church looking for the correspondence between the Archdeacon and our rector that had been forwarded to me . . . er . . . last summer??  No joy.

I gave up, plumped for rendering his instruction as the 2^nd WEEK of September, sent a covering cry for help/verification out to the PCC with the minutes; job done.  They have responded en masse today.  He did say the 2^nd week.

So I finally put those minutes to bed and got the hard copy file in order around 2am this morning and fell into bed exhausted.  At 4am I was awaked by the oh so familiar sound of a mosquito in my bedroom.  Nyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eee  ee e eeeeeee  by one ear.  Then nyeeeeeeeeeee eee e ee eee e eeeeeeeeeee  by the other ear.

I have soft skin that responds badly to every alarum including stress.  At any given time I have sores, blisters and whatnot to contend with.  I did NOT want mosquito bites too.  I sat up and put on the light again.   Nyeeeeeeeeeeeeee e ee  eeeeee  ee  - I could see its little body blurring the air just in front of my face, but failed to catch it.  I got up and hunted around.  It fell silent. I went back to bed and turned out the light.  Nyeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee e eeeeeeee e.  I covered myself entirely with the duvet and stifled and sweltered until I could no longer bear it, then re-surfaced.  Nyeeeeeee.  Nyeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.  

Expletives deleted.

I got up, went upstairs to the Badger’s empty nest (midweek = Badger in Oxford), crashed out there as the seagulls began to rouse and the dawn lightened the sky, and slept until 8.30.

 Various chores have filled the day.  Correspondence.  Laundry.  A visit to my beautiful mama.  Some complex driving through insane traffic and congested streets.  Grocery shopping for salad, fruit, fish – because I’ve been eating such trash!  When life is very busy, I forget what people might possibly eat and just grab whatever’s handy; cheese, cake, bread, cake, bread, tea . . .  tsk.   I declare it’s been possible to sit and watch myself getting fatter!  In desperation today I raided Marks and Spencer for healthy food.

Then this evening I’ve been roaming YouTube listening to opera.  Recouping time for life and beauty from so much rush and tear.

Mozart.  My very favourite.

And now, at just gone midnight, I think it’s time for bed again.

Ooh – update on Iceni!

And congratulations to Wills and Kate!

Buzzfloyd's little girl

Iceni Elizabeth Garner

born on 6th July 2013

Welcome to Earth, little one!

Good Morning

Washed its hair.

Got its breakfast.

Said its prayers.

Listening to this song (you have to set it off).

This is going to be a good day.

This is the day that the Lord has made.  We shall rejoice and be glad in it.

The tasks of this day are challenging but not insurmountable.  The sun is shining and the sky is blue with insouciant drifts of white cloud. Today I pick up my little blue car and shall be free for the time being of the effing awful Stagecoach bus service.  Mwahaha!   

Today as in all recent days I am thinking of Buzzfloyd and that little baby digging its heels in and laughing quietly, refusing to be born.  La belle Sardine.  Hasten the day when we may cry “Zut alors!  She ’as emerged!”  All is ready for her. 

Today I will practice driving (haven’t driven in almost two years) so tomorrow I can whisk my beautiful mama away in a cloud of loveliness to a perfect café with adorable knick-knacks for her to buy and vast slices of heavenly cake and magnificently frothy cappuccino.  With chocolate sprinkles.

Et toi?  What are you doing today my friend?  Is it a good day for you, or shadowed with dread and anxiety?  Do you have enough money and something to eat?  Is your home secure and are there people who love you?  Have you companions for your journey up the mountain or are you afraid and alone?  Do you have the strength to make beautiful this day that has been given to you, or are you too stressed to care and simply seeking comfort and peace?

What is this day for you?  Apart from the Lord’s gift to you.  His present.  Like all men, the Lord chooses some odd presents, but He does heed requests.  Think carefully what you speak into being!!

Miss Marple

The morning obligations have been fulfilled, I’ve had my lunch and washed up, and I don’t have to sally forth again until the evening.  I have a little correspondence to attend to, but I prepared tomorrow’s funeral last night; so right now I’m going to sit down with a cup of tea and watch Julia MacKenzie play Miss Marple in the film based on Agatha Christie’s Why Didn’t They Ask Evans?

Somewhat to my surprise I find that Miss Marple is my rôle model for the stage of life I have now reached.

The great thing about a fictional rôle model is that they cannot surprise you with disappointing choices – well, I say that, but maybe it’s not always the case; I had some vigorous protests from readers when my Father William opted for the course of action that concluded Remember Me.  But then he always did manage to upset everyone.

Anyway Miss Marple is everything I aspire to.

She has a quiet but clear and effective Christian faith.

She’s observant and intelligent.

She dresses modestly and becomingly, with understated elegance becoming to her age group.  I love Miss Marple’s dress sense.  She always looks wholesome and . . . erm . . . what’s the word . . . pleasant . . . neat . . . restful to the eye.  I like her fine lawn blouses and her well-cut tweed jackets, her sensible lace-up shoes and her soft blue woollens.  I like her graceful, tidy hairstyle. 

Her gaze is direct and acute, shrewd. She takes in what she sees and grasps its significance.

She is understanding and compassionate; she listens properly and reflects on what she hears.  She is wise and kind, never prejudiced or hasty in her judgements.

She is not bossy or pushy, but she perseveres and can be insistent when the well-being of others is at stake.

She is self-effacing, courteous and serene, soft-spoken and approachable.

She doesn't have to be slim.  Thank you, Miss Marple; I love that.

Oh, Miss Marple, I have so much to learn from you.

I have a boxed set of DVDs of Margaret Rutherford’s Miss Marple, a present from the Badger.  My absolute favourite is The 4.50 From Paddington – I love the detail of the station and  the old train (like they used to be – happy sigh), and the kitchen with all the old-fashioned things that make the world feel comforting and secure. 

I prefer Joan Hickson’s and JuliaMacKenzie’s Miss Marple attire to Margaret Rutherford’s and Geraldine McEwan’s – I don’t like the fantastical, comedic get-ups they dress the latter two in; lampooned, somehow.  Miss Marple had dignity, style and quiet flair – she was an English country gentle-woman.

In a bewildering and alarming world full of urgently and aggressively promoted agendas, antagonism, chatter and opportunism, I feel that Miss Marple has what it takes to help me thread my way through the chaos, and reach afternoon tea still smelling faintly of soap and lavender.  Or maybe violets.  Or roses.