Really interesting and inspiring documentary of a year-long Australian exploration of simple living and permaculture.
Monday, 30 September 2019
Sunday, 29 September 2019
Saturday, 28 September 2019
Sharing
Climate change is — rightly — the foremost concern of our age. I think about it a lot, as everyone else does. I'm interested in the forays into zero waste living, and technologies that need less fuel, in lowering food miles and finding wiser farming methods. I admire, and I am so grateful for, the work of Allan Savory and permaculturists like Geoff Lawton (see here and here). I continually explore into the lives of such people as Dee Williams and this Australian family. What they are doing lifts my heart and gives me hope.
I was so blessed to discover the life and influence of St Francis when I was only fifteen. Life is lived moment by moment, and I had no idea then how slow I would be to learn and how little I would achieve. And yet in so many ways the influences I have found shaped my life, and my children's lives, made a difference to the family and home we created, the choices we made.
Ina May Gaskin's book Spiritual Midwifery came out in 1976, four years before my first child was born — in good time to radically shape my approach to childbirth and mothering, and give me the chance to find Frederick Leboyer and Sheila Kitzinger and Michel Odent as well. And then as my children grew, I found the work of John Holt (of all his books I loved How Children Fail the best. So wise) and A.S.Neill, and so it went on. Studying, thinking, learning as I went, following the trail of simplicity, peace, health and faithfulness to the gospel, looking into the Catholic way, the Methodist way, the Anabaptist way, the Quaker way, the Taoist and Buddhist ways, growing gardens and making music and finding new friends and writing and teaching, padding along the trail . . .
And always himself was with me:
I was so blessed to discover the life and influence of St Francis when I was only fifteen. Life is lived moment by moment, and I had no idea then how slow I would be to learn and how little I would achieve. And yet in so many ways the influences I have found shaped my life, and my children's lives, made a difference to the family and home we created, the choices we made.
Ina May Gaskin's book Spiritual Midwifery came out in 1976, four years before my first child was born — in good time to radically shape my approach to childbirth and mothering, and give me the chance to find Frederick Leboyer and Sheila Kitzinger and Michel Odent as well. And then as my children grew, I found the work of John Holt (of all his books I loved How Children Fail the best. So wise) and A.S.Neill, and so it went on. Studying, thinking, learning as I went, following the trail of simplicity, peace, health and faithfulness to the gospel, looking into the Catholic way, the Methodist way, the Anabaptist way, the Quaker way, the Taoist and Buddhist ways, growing gardens and making music and finding new friends and writing and teaching, padding along the trail . . .
And always himself was with me:
He still is.
Then the other day, thinking about climate change and social problems, about poverty and environmental degradation and all the challenges we face, I realised that of all I'd learned and read and seen and discovered, there is one outstanding, simple, accessible powerful, life-changing thing that any of us and all of us can do; and that is nothing more sophisticated or spectacular than sharing.
Sharing is revolutionary. Of itself it doesn't necessarily cost any money, so you can start right in and it doesn't matter how poor you are.
Sharing fosters humility and simplicity — you have to put up with other people and you don't have all the space to yourself. Sharing information by learning and teaching is life-changing, and it is in encountering those who are different from ourselves, sharing life with them, sharing our perspective and letting them share theirs, that we acquire wisdom.
The tiny house movement is lovely, and the little dwellings delight my soul — I like anything small! But in terms of loving the earth, sharing is better. On a winter's day in a northern climate, you could have 6 tiny houses all in a row, each with their propane heater or log burner keeping the 6 inhabitants individually warm, — or they could share one house with a fire in one room, gently warming the whole house and there to sit round together in the evening.
Loneliness and isolation are huge problems to people growing older, and the practical tasks of life don't get easier with the passing years. If people share, living together in households, old and young, then strength and knowledge unite and the possibility of maintaining a garden and carrying firewood and fetching groceries all extend — plus the money goes so much further. One fridge, one freezer, one furnace, one TV, one kettle, one car — four or five people.
I love the possibilities of what's called grace/gift economy; of sharing what you have in a John the Baptist kind of way. If you give away anything you can spare — give it, not sell it — the exchange generates joy and gratitude, in yourself as well as in the recipient. Giving freely makes life flow easily.
Sometimes, though, there's a good reason to sell rather than gift what you have, whether in a steady ongoing pursuit of your trade or in moving on to others what you no longer need. And when you do that, if you give over and above what the money you are paid should buy, again it generates joy.
In an era of mass-production, buying and selling (or giving away) second-hand belongings is a vital aspect of slowing down the demands we place on the earth, giving the forests and the land a chance to renew. And this, too, is a form of sharing, even if money changes hands. The same winter skirt can be bought and sold numerous times if it's gently cared for. People lose and gain weight, change their style or taste, move into different climates and occupations — clothes once appropriate are no longer so. Then they can be donated or moved on, and be just what someone else is looking for.
If ever you are feeling despondent about the dying of the earth and the disintegration of society, then you can maybe think of one act of sharing as a candle you can light in the holy space of your life. Sharing brings hope and generates joy; it also develops the muscles of patience and humility. Sharing is a fundamental element of the gospel. It's the way of love. It's the root of revolution.
Friday, 27 September 2019
Cabbage Whites and other creatures
We have two kinds of Cabbage White butterflies in England — the Small White (Pieris Rapae) and the Large White (Pieris Brassicae).
The Small White looks like this:
Its eggs look like this:
Its children are green, like this:
We have these.
I planted kale in our veggie plot in the spring, and it started well but there has been adversity. First the cats dug over the earth where I'd planted it, minimising and disordering the kale rows. Then the seagulls came down to see if we had anything they could scavenge there. But I nurtured along what grew, watering it assiduously and replacing some of the lost and destroyed plants with new ones that also grew well.
Then in recent weeks, when the weather has been dry and the bugs and worms have gone down from the surface to where the earth is damp lower down, the badgers' nightly visits have included excavations in search of bugs and grubs to eat. So I wound garden wire as trip wires around the kale patch, and stuck multiple stakes in the earth there, because they kept digging up my plants and there's only so many times you can dig up a kale plant and expect to replant it successfully — especially in dry weather.
Because one of our horticultural ambitions is to make a kind of mini eco-system, with lots of animals and birds, insects, worms, snails and toads and anything else that lives, like Noah's ark really, we are happy to have woodlice on our apples and little green caterpillars and bright yellow butterfly eggs on our kale. We had plenty to eat ourselves these last couple of months, and we just put the caterpillars back in the garden (though I did accidentally steam one with my lunch on Tuesday) and avoid the leaves with eggs on.
We get some fruit and veg to eat, and so do the birds and other creatures. It was a delight to see our crow sitting high in the cherry tree in the summer, contentedly sampling hard-to-reach cherries at the top, lovely and ripe in the sunshine.
But when I went to get some courgettes (US, zucchini) yesterday, it became apparent that in addition to the Small White butterflies, the Large White had also been visiting to widespread effect.
The Large White butterfly looks like this:
Its eggs look like the same as the Small White's:
but its children are rather more exotic:
And this, today, is our kale patch:
The Small White looks like this:
Its eggs look like this:
Its children are green, like this:
We have these.
I planted kale in our veggie plot in the spring, and it started well but there has been adversity. First the cats dug over the earth where I'd planted it, minimising and disordering the kale rows. Then the seagulls came down to see if we had anything they could scavenge there. But I nurtured along what grew, watering it assiduously and replacing some of the lost and destroyed plants with new ones that also grew well.
Then in recent weeks, when the weather has been dry and the bugs and worms have gone down from the surface to where the earth is damp lower down, the badgers' nightly visits have included excavations in search of bugs and grubs to eat. So I wound garden wire as trip wires around the kale patch, and stuck multiple stakes in the earth there, because they kept digging up my plants and there's only so many times you can dig up a kale plant and expect to replant it successfully — especially in dry weather.
Because one of our horticultural ambitions is to make a kind of mini eco-system, with lots of animals and birds, insects, worms, snails and toads and anything else that lives, like Noah's ark really, we are happy to have woodlice on our apples and little green caterpillars and bright yellow butterfly eggs on our kale. We had plenty to eat ourselves these last couple of months, and we just put the caterpillars back in the garden (though I did accidentally steam one with my lunch on Tuesday) and avoid the leaves with eggs on.
We get some fruit and veg to eat, and so do the birds and other creatures. It was a delight to see our crow sitting high in the cherry tree in the summer, contentedly sampling hard-to-reach cherries at the top, lovely and ripe in the sunshine.
But when I went to get some courgettes (US, zucchini) yesterday, it became apparent that in addition to the Small White butterflies, the Large White had also been visiting to widespread effect.
The Large White butterfly looks like this:
Its eggs look like the same as the Small White's:
but its children are rather more exotic:
And this, today, is our kale patch:
I have conceded defeat and left them to it. One of many things about climate change that grieves us sorely is the decline in insects, butterflies and birds that go with the hideous pesticide spraying and loathsome Roundup in and on the plants. So right at the top of our list of objectives in developing our garden was the provision of a haven for all these creatures.
Evidently they feel welcome. Good. And we did manage to get a reasonable share of kale for ourselves before our butterfly population explosion occurred.
We also have plenty of evidence of Codling Moths in our apple ad pear crop. There's a very nice botanical illustration of their appearance and activity here:
We have to look suspiciously at our apples all over before eating them — it's no good just munching in with a great incautious bite. If there's even the teeniest hole, it's wiser to cut them up first. And even then you have to be careful not to inadvertently chop any resident Codlings in half.
And then there are the snails who like to doze off in the spouts of the watering cans, and the Leopard Slugs who live in the compost bins.
Not only that but our cat Miguel was having a laugh at three o'clock in the morning, playing excitedly at hunting the speedy teenage shrew he'd dropped inside our Alice's duvet cover. She ended up out on the front doorstep unpacking the duvet from its cover, shaking first one then the other, wondering where the shrew had gone — and then she saw it clinging on tight with its little hands to the cover she was shaking up and down.
Life is never boring, is it?
Thursday, 26 September 2019
Words
If you look up what makes humans different from other animals, the world will rush to tell you.
Religious speakers and writers like to make the point that "We alone . . . etc", that the human race is distinct from and elevated above the rest of the animal kingdom.
The Age of Enlightenment (should really be called the Age of "Enlightenment") ushered in the mechanistic world view that still plagues the scientific and therapeutic community to this day. It strongly influenced Christian thinking away from the biblical understanding that all creation is in a covenant relationship with the living God, depends on God, responds to God and lives according to the commands of God. Instead we got the idea of absolutely everything that is not ourselves being "natural resources" — a giant store cupboard/playground for us to use in any way we please. Which has gone badly, as we are discovering.
I do think there's a difference between humans and other beings, but I don't agree with the modern development in Christian thinking that says humans have souls and nothing else does. This is why animals are called animals, of course — they are alive, by the same breath of God that enlivens us, they have souls. That's what "animal" means; ensouled.
In relating with other living beings (animals, plants, birds, fish, etc), I find that they usually know what I mean and what I'm thinking, but I typically struggle to understand what's on their minds. I'm not the exalted, clever one; on the contrary, in their company I appear rather dim. I do sometimes hear them loud and clear, because I've practised a lot, but often I fail completely.
And yet they do speak — just as the bible says, for example in Psalm 19.
After a great deal of thinking about it, my perspective on the matter is that what divides humans from the rest of creation is words. Not language, because there are many different kinds of language, and plants, animals, birds, fish — and even rocks — all certainly have language and will speak to you if you listen. They are surprised and interested when you hear them. But, apart from some primates and birds (parrots, corvids, etc) and dolphins, they don't generally have words.
The acquisition of words as a form of communication is a two-edged sword, of course. It both empowers and disempowers, especially if we include the written word. If you can't read, if you don't know the spoken language (or even the lingo), you are disenfranchised and made vulnerable. A friend was telling me the other day of Chinese people taking advantage of the Western fashion for putting Chinese words on objets d'art and clothing — leading to manufacturers producing garments with Chinese characters translating as "I'm too stupid to know what this says." Apart from feeling mildly irritated at the usual tendency to misidentify lack of knowledge as lack of intelligence, I also felt sad that Chinese manufacturers should respond in this way to Western celebration of the beauty of their logograms. That someone should buy a t-shirt they thought said "Peace and Kindness", and discover it said "I am stupid", seems a very hollow victory to me. Each to his own.
My friend Julia Bolton Holloway has an Alphabet School for the Roma in Florence, because their traditional illiteracy is one of many barriers to social acceptance. Words are currency as well as communication in the human race.
Oliver Sacks did some interesting work, written up in his book Seeing Voices (well worth reading) about verbal language, sign language, deaf communities, and deaf people I hearing communities. Nora Groce also wrote a wonderful book on Martha's Vineyard, studying this, Everyone Here Spoke Sign. At the time of the early settlers in America, a whole lot of people from one small area in the Weald of Kent settled in the fishing territory of Martha's Vineyard. They came from one separate and isolated situation to another very similar one, bringing with them a gene for deafness which developed into a significant feature as this isolated community intermarried. They relied heavily on signing, which proved very handy on the fishing boats where they earned their living.
In Seeing Voices, Oliver Sacks writes about the importance of language (verbal or sign) for the development of abstract thought. Words do not merely allow us to express our theology, philosophy and ideology, but are prerequisite for their development. People without words are found to have a peculiar immediacy to their thinking, dealing with what is concrete and at hand, not what is speculative.
This can be important in changing people's thinking. I found it most interesting to see in action what Sacks described, back in the 1990s when inclusive language (in respect of gender) was becoming a thing. Again and again I encountered people who, as they told me, couldn't see the problem. Tellingly, a friend of mine more open-minded than some, described how she had never been able to "see the problem", until on one occasion she attended an act of worship where she felt uncommonly welcome and loved, accepted. As a social worker, her first reaction was to try and analyse why. Eventually she realised, the officiant at the service was using inclusive language; for the first time, as a woman, she felt welcomed in from the margins to belong. She became enthusiastic about inclusive language from that moment on. Our ideas change after, not before, we put the words in place.
So words can be both powerful and unifying. Words create beauty ad take us on voyages of the imagination, and there are may advantages to them.
One of the severe disadvantages, though, and this is a great loss to our species and sets us apart, is that we have become so heavily reliant on words that we have lost the ability to communicate with other species — apart from impoverished variants, like saying "Sit!" and "Heel!" and "Walkies!" to a dog.
Not only has enclosure in our world of words lost communication with other species from our experience, it has also lost from our awareness that communication is happening that we don't understand.
In all kinds of ways, bodily, telepathically, by sounds and movement, by smells, myriad means, creation intercommunicates. By and large the human race remains deaf to the conversation.
That's what sets us apart.
Religious speakers and writers like to make the point that "We alone . . . etc", that the human race is distinct from and elevated above the rest of the animal kingdom.
The Age of Enlightenment (should really be called the Age of "Enlightenment") ushered in the mechanistic world view that still plagues the scientific and therapeutic community to this day. It strongly influenced Christian thinking away from the biblical understanding that all creation is in a covenant relationship with the living God, depends on God, responds to God and lives according to the commands of God. Instead we got the idea of absolutely everything that is not ourselves being "natural resources" — a giant store cupboard/playground for us to use in any way we please. Which has gone badly, as we are discovering.
I do think there's a difference between humans and other beings, but I don't agree with the modern development in Christian thinking that says humans have souls and nothing else does. This is why animals are called animals, of course — they are alive, by the same breath of God that enlivens us, they have souls. That's what "animal" means; ensouled.
In relating with other living beings (animals, plants, birds, fish, etc), I find that they usually know what I mean and what I'm thinking, but I typically struggle to understand what's on their minds. I'm not the exalted, clever one; on the contrary, in their company I appear rather dim. I do sometimes hear them loud and clear, because I've practised a lot, but often I fail completely.
And yet they do speak — just as the bible says, for example in Psalm 19.
After a great deal of thinking about it, my perspective on the matter is that what divides humans from the rest of creation is words. Not language, because there are many different kinds of language, and plants, animals, birds, fish — and even rocks — all certainly have language and will speak to you if you listen. They are surprised and interested when you hear them. But, apart from some primates and birds (parrots, corvids, etc) and dolphins, they don't generally have words.
The acquisition of words as a form of communication is a two-edged sword, of course. It both empowers and disempowers, especially if we include the written word. If you can't read, if you don't know the spoken language (or even the lingo), you are disenfranchised and made vulnerable. A friend was telling me the other day of Chinese people taking advantage of the Western fashion for putting Chinese words on objets d'art and clothing — leading to manufacturers producing garments with Chinese characters translating as "I'm too stupid to know what this says." Apart from feeling mildly irritated at the usual tendency to misidentify lack of knowledge as lack of intelligence, I also felt sad that Chinese manufacturers should respond in this way to Western celebration of the beauty of their logograms. That someone should buy a t-shirt they thought said "Peace and Kindness", and discover it said "I am stupid", seems a very hollow victory to me. Each to his own.
My friend Julia Bolton Holloway has an Alphabet School for the Roma in Florence, because their traditional illiteracy is one of many barriers to social acceptance. Words are currency as well as communication in the human race.
Oliver Sacks did some interesting work, written up in his book Seeing Voices (well worth reading) about verbal language, sign language, deaf communities, and deaf people I hearing communities. Nora Groce also wrote a wonderful book on Martha's Vineyard, studying this, Everyone Here Spoke Sign. At the time of the early settlers in America, a whole lot of people from one small area in the Weald of Kent settled in the fishing territory of Martha's Vineyard. They came from one separate and isolated situation to another very similar one, bringing with them a gene for deafness which developed into a significant feature as this isolated community intermarried. They relied heavily on signing, which proved very handy on the fishing boats where they earned their living.
In Seeing Voices, Oliver Sacks writes about the importance of language (verbal or sign) for the development of abstract thought. Words do not merely allow us to express our theology, philosophy and ideology, but are prerequisite for their development. People without words are found to have a peculiar immediacy to their thinking, dealing with what is concrete and at hand, not what is speculative.
This can be important in changing people's thinking. I found it most interesting to see in action what Sacks described, back in the 1990s when inclusive language (in respect of gender) was becoming a thing. Again and again I encountered people who, as they told me, couldn't see the problem. Tellingly, a friend of mine more open-minded than some, described how she had never been able to "see the problem", until on one occasion she attended an act of worship where she felt uncommonly welcome and loved, accepted. As a social worker, her first reaction was to try and analyse why. Eventually she realised, the officiant at the service was using inclusive language; for the first time, as a woman, she felt welcomed in from the margins to belong. She became enthusiastic about inclusive language from that moment on. Our ideas change after, not before, we put the words in place.
So words can be both powerful and unifying. Words create beauty ad take us on voyages of the imagination, and there are may advantages to them.
One of the severe disadvantages, though, and this is a great loss to our species and sets us apart, is that we have become so heavily reliant on words that we have lost the ability to communicate with other species — apart from impoverished variants, like saying "Sit!" and "Heel!" and "Walkies!" to a dog.
Not only has enclosure in our world of words lost communication with other species from our experience, it has also lost from our awareness that communication is happening that we don't understand.
In all kinds of ways, bodily, telepathically, by sounds and movement, by smells, myriad means, creation intercommunicates. By and large the human race remains deaf to the conversation.
That's what sets us apart.
Wednesday, 25 September 2019
Two homely poems
As a teenager, I came across a poem that took my fancy. I found it written on a prayer card at the Bible bookshop in Frinton, when I worked there in the school holidays at a home for geriatric blind people with my friend Jan. Back then I did a lot of sewing, and when I got home I embroidered this onto linen:
Lord of the pots and pipkins,
Since I have no time to be
A saint by doing lovely things and vigiling with thee,
By watching in the twilight dawn
Or storming heaven's gates,
Make me a saint by getting meals
And washing up the plates.
Now the world is all different and we have Google, I've been able to discover that it has two more verses, was written by Klara Munkres, and that the words I had weren't quite right. It's here.
In fact, the version I originally had started "Lord of the pots and pitikins", but pitikins aren't an actual thing. The only use of the word is the archaic oath, "Od's pitikins", which is a contraction of "God's pitikins" and would have meant something like, "Oh for pity's sake!"
I was thinking about the poem recently, and how these days I do in fact have loads of time for vigiling with Thee and watching in the twilight dawn. Life has moved on. There was a patch in the middle when the art of multi-tasking became an urgent necessity, trying to write books and look after five children and get the groceries in and cook the meals and make sure the house was clean and the laundry done, while also finding time to write sermons and correspond with prisoners and generally help out at church — but those days are long gone.
Now that everything has gone quiet and not a lot happens, I'm unsure if I do the vigiling and whatnot or I don't. I spend a lot of time thinking, and I constantly weigh up possibilities and practicalities in the light of faith and truth, trying to discern where the boundary line lies between what I want to do and what the Lord is asking of me. I talk to him. I try my best to listen to him. In all honesty I don't know I'm any the wiser most of the time, but he is patient with me and ever present.
There was another poem, that I came across after my first child was born. It went like this:
Cooking and cleaning can wait 'til tomorrow,
For babies grow up, as we've learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep,
I'm rocking my baby,
And babies don't keep.
In my twenties I loved that poem, but I've done a whole lot of editing since then, and now the "quiet down cobwebs" annoys me, because cobwebs aren't loud, are they? And dust is already fast asleep. It never gets up and walks unless there's a violent gust of wind. Also, I appreciate that "sorrow" rhymes with "tomorrow" and that's why it's there, but I was never one of those mothers (though I met plenty) who enjoyed babies but went off them once they became ambulant, adventurous and able to express an opinion.
In fact, I found babies and small children rather frightening, because they are so uninhibited. I'd never spent time with people who screamed loud and long at the slightest thing and kept being sick, before I became a mother. I didn't find it easy, and I was scared of being left on my own with them. What I looked forward to more than anything was the time when they hadn't yet left home but were old enough to discuss faith and politics over supper. Ha! We hadn't quite reached that point when their father did the most surprising thing that ended up with us losing our home and our jobs and we were all scattered everywhere. I worked hard to get it all back together, but they were adults with lives of their own by the time I achieved it, so the bit I specially wanted never happened.
But today, for no reason I can identify, those poems came back to my mind, and I asked myself if I was sorry my children had grown up — no; if they'd stayed babies forever it would have implied some kind of serious brain condition — or if, now I have more free time, I do use it constructively in the Lord's service; not sure, but I doubt it.
I think often of the words of Jesus, "Will any one of you, who has a servant plowing or keeping sheep, say to him when he has come in from the field, ‘Come at once and sit down at table’? Will he not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, and gird yourself and serve me, till I eat and drink; and afterward you shall eat and drink’? Does he thank the servant because he did what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that is commanded you, say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty.’" (Luke 17.7-10 RSV)
It sounds tiring and hard work. And then there's the parable of the talents, where he says: "His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a little, I will set you over much; enter into the joy of your master.’" (Matthew 25.23 RSV)
Those words, "Well done, good and faithful servant" — oh, my goodness, how I would love to hear Jesus say that to me!
But then the story goes on: "He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.’ But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sowed, and gather where I have not winnowed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him, and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to every one who has will more be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness; there men will weep and gnash their teeth.’" (Matthew 25.24-31 RSV)
And I am horribly conscious that, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours’, resonates with me all too well. I get tired and discouraged, I give up and want to leave, want to be left in peace.
"Do not grow weary in well-doing" (Galatians 6.9) the Bible says; but I certainly do.
I've read carefully what the Bible says about heaven, too, and it sounds hard and crystalline, made up of minerals in one form or another, and they never turn the light off and the sun never goes down. But I love the dusk and the dawn, love the end of the day when it's time to go to bed, love the firelight and the candlelight and the starlight. And my favourite thing is conversation with the people I love. And I like the garden and the birds, the flowers and the moving light. Will that all be gone, in heaven?
Sometimes I feel marooned, here on earth. The way back isn't easy to find, and I can believe with no trouble at all that "Here we have no abiding city". But it what sense, once you weigh it all up, will we ever come home? Where is the place of rest, where you don't have to worry any more and things will just be all right?
Thich Nhat Hanh says, "There is no way home; home is the way."
I see what he means. Coming home to ourselves is a foundational skill of living; it's no good thinking in terms of destinations, we have to arrive where we are, be at peace with what is (whatever that might be).
Sometimes in the past when Jehovah's Witnesses have called at our home on a mission, and I've been unwary enough to open the door, they've asked me what I think will happen at the end of the world, what will happen to me after I die, and if I think I'll go to heaven. And I've always said to them that it's an unnecessary question; that if I live now with goodness and truth, with faith and integrity, then what happens after I die will take care of itself. The future is the natural consequence of the present.
Which I think is the thing I liked in those two poems — the one about rocking your baby and the one about finding meaning in mundane daily tasks. That's what I believe, really. Life is big and eternity impossible to conceptualise. I am smaller and less important and more mediocre than I thought I would be when I was younger. In one sense, what I am and can do is almost immaterial. But it's like that thing Martha Graham (the dancer) said, "There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost."
I suppose if God does really allocate a number to every single hair on your head, then nothing is lost or wasted, nothing is pointless. Being really present to it with love — the daily chores, the unseen tasks, mothering a little child with all the mopping of sick and tears it entails — is what matters in the end. And the chance to be part of this earth — with everything from oak moss to sunsets to chocolate eclairs to crochet — is something I wouldn't have missed.
Lord of the pots and pipkins,
Since I have no time to be
A saint by doing lovely things and vigiling with thee,
By watching in the twilight dawn
Or storming heaven's gates,
Make me a saint by getting meals
And washing up the plates.
Now the world is all different and we have Google, I've been able to discover that it has two more verses, was written by Klara Munkres, and that the words I had weren't quite right. It's here.
In fact, the version I originally had started "Lord of the pots and pitikins", but pitikins aren't an actual thing. The only use of the word is the archaic oath, "Od's pitikins", which is a contraction of "God's pitikins" and would have meant something like, "Oh for pity's sake!"
I was thinking about the poem recently, and how these days I do in fact have loads of time for vigiling with Thee and watching in the twilight dawn. Life has moved on. There was a patch in the middle when the art of multi-tasking became an urgent necessity, trying to write books and look after five children and get the groceries in and cook the meals and make sure the house was clean and the laundry done, while also finding time to write sermons and correspond with prisoners and generally help out at church — but those days are long gone.
Now that everything has gone quiet and not a lot happens, I'm unsure if I do the vigiling and whatnot or I don't. I spend a lot of time thinking, and I constantly weigh up possibilities and practicalities in the light of faith and truth, trying to discern where the boundary line lies between what I want to do and what the Lord is asking of me. I talk to him. I try my best to listen to him. In all honesty I don't know I'm any the wiser most of the time, but he is patient with me and ever present.
There was another poem, that I came across after my first child was born. It went like this:
Cooking and cleaning can wait 'til tomorrow,
For babies grow up, as we've learned to our sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs, dust go to sleep,
I'm rocking my baby,
And babies don't keep.
In my twenties I loved that poem, but I've done a whole lot of editing since then, and now the "quiet down cobwebs" annoys me, because cobwebs aren't loud, are they? And dust is already fast asleep. It never gets up and walks unless there's a violent gust of wind. Also, I appreciate that "sorrow" rhymes with "tomorrow" and that's why it's there, but I was never one of those mothers (though I met plenty) who enjoyed babies but went off them once they became ambulant, adventurous and able to express an opinion.
In fact, I found babies and small children rather frightening, because they are so uninhibited. I'd never spent time with people who screamed loud and long at the slightest thing and kept being sick, before I became a mother. I didn't find it easy, and I was scared of being left on my own with them. What I looked forward to more than anything was the time when they hadn't yet left home but were old enough to discuss faith and politics over supper. Ha! We hadn't quite reached that point when their father did the most surprising thing that ended up with us losing our home and our jobs and we were all scattered everywhere. I worked hard to get it all back together, but they were adults with lives of their own by the time I achieved it, so the bit I specially wanted never happened.
But today, for no reason I can identify, those poems came back to my mind, and I asked myself if I was sorry my children had grown up — no; if they'd stayed babies forever it would have implied some kind of serious brain condition — or if, now I have more free time, I do use it constructively in the Lord's service; not sure, but I doubt it.
I think often of the words of Jesus, "Will any one of you, who has a servant plowing or keeping sheep, say to him when he has come in from the field, ‘Come at once and sit down at table’? Will he not rather say to him, ‘Prepare supper for me, and gird yourself and serve me, till I eat and drink; and afterward you shall eat and drink’? Does he thank the servant because he did what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that is commanded you, say, ‘We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty.’" (Luke 17.7-10 RSV)
It sounds tiring and hard work. And then there's the parable of the talents, where he says: "His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a little, I will set you over much; enter into the joy of your master.’" (Matthew 25.23 RSV)
Those words, "Well done, good and faithful servant" — oh, my goodness, how I would love to hear Jesus say that to me!
But then the story goes on: "He also who had received the one talent came forward, saying, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.’ But his master answered him, ‘You wicked and slothful servant! You knew that I reap where I have not sowed, and gather where I have not winnowed? Then you ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest. So take the talent from him, and give it to him who has the ten talents. For to every one who has will more be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away. And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness; there men will weep and gnash their teeth.’" (Matthew 25.24-31 RSV)
And I am horribly conscious that, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and I went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours’, resonates with me all too well. I get tired and discouraged, I give up and want to leave, want to be left in peace.
"Do not grow weary in well-doing" (Galatians 6.9) the Bible says; but I certainly do.
I've read carefully what the Bible says about heaven, too, and it sounds hard and crystalline, made up of minerals in one form or another, and they never turn the light off and the sun never goes down. But I love the dusk and the dawn, love the end of the day when it's time to go to bed, love the firelight and the candlelight and the starlight. And my favourite thing is conversation with the people I love. And I like the garden and the birds, the flowers and the moving light. Will that all be gone, in heaven?
Sometimes I feel marooned, here on earth. The way back isn't easy to find, and I can believe with no trouble at all that "Here we have no abiding city". But it what sense, once you weigh it all up, will we ever come home? Where is the place of rest, where you don't have to worry any more and things will just be all right?
Thich Nhat Hanh says, "There is no way home; home is the way."
I see what he means. Coming home to ourselves is a foundational skill of living; it's no good thinking in terms of destinations, we have to arrive where we are, be at peace with what is (whatever that might be).
Sometimes in the past when Jehovah's Witnesses have called at our home on a mission, and I've been unwary enough to open the door, they've asked me what I think will happen at the end of the world, what will happen to me after I die, and if I think I'll go to heaven. And I've always said to them that it's an unnecessary question; that if I live now with goodness and truth, with faith and integrity, then what happens after I die will take care of itself. The future is the natural consequence of the present.
Which I think is the thing I liked in those two poems — the one about rocking your baby and the one about finding meaning in mundane daily tasks. That's what I believe, really. Life is big and eternity impossible to conceptualise. I am smaller and less important and more mediocre than I thought I would be when I was younger. In one sense, what I am and can do is almost immaterial. But it's like that thing Martha Graham (the dancer) said, "There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost."
I suppose if God does really allocate a number to every single hair on your head, then nothing is lost or wasted, nothing is pointless. Being really present to it with love — the daily chores, the unseen tasks, mothering a little child with all the mopping of sick and tears it entails — is what matters in the end. And the chance to be part of this earth — with everything from oak moss to sunsets to chocolate eclairs to crochet — is something I wouldn't have missed.
Tuesday, 24 September 2019
September
Such a sense of the year turning! The feast of the Holy Rood on the 14th is when the Passion Flowers bloom — our neighbour grows these along her fence, and they have been opening their faces to the sun these last weeks; the bees love them.
The last couple of days have been wild, as the barley set winds that come every year around the equinox have been tossing the trees. St Matthew shuts up the bees, and his feast, which was on Saturday, brings the rain and the dew — and so it proved to be. I'd been using our stored rain water for the parched fruit trees standing in earth like dust, and the fall of new rain was so freshening and welcome. I'm so glad we made a moment to go out and gather bags of fir cones and fallen twigs for the winter kindling; we got loads up at the burial ground, all as dry as bones, and I feel very smug about it now.
Then this Sunday coming is the feast of St Michael and All Angels, a good time to take note of the wind direction which will prevail from then until Martinmas on November 11th. St Michael sets the tune they say, so if it's fine on Sunday there's a good chance we'll enjoy mild weather prevailing in the main through to Martinmas. The Michaelmas daisies are blooming in the garden — we sent some up to the chapel for last week's harvest festival. Folk say the devil puts his foot on the blackberries on Michaelmas day, so pick them while you can if there are still any to be found on the bushes near you.
St Michael the archangel stands pointing down the year, towards the coming dark, and his word is "Prepare!" We had the same message from St John the Baptist, likewise a herald, whose feast is at high summer alongside the solstice at the xenith of the year's wheel turning. John, the herald, is there where the year is glad and the days are long, to point past the harvest to the winter coming, with the dying of the old year and the birth of the infant light. And now it comes again — "Prepare!" — at Michaelmas.
Michaelmas is also the proper time for harvest in my opinion. It begins with the barley harvest at Lammas right at the beginning of August when the men put the sickle in and slay John Barleycorn, and then Michaelmas concludes it, when all is safely gathered in. It's the time to think on the harvest of our lives and the work of the grim reaper, the gathering in of souls to God's garner.
This is one of my very favourite times of year, and in this turning of the seasons the wings of the angels brush the hair of our heads. A wild time, a golden time, a fruitful time. September is a blessed month.
The last couple of days have been wild, as the barley set winds that come every year around the equinox have been tossing the trees. St Matthew shuts up the bees, and his feast, which was on Saturday, brings the rain and the dew — and so it proved to be. I'd been using our stored rain water for the parched fruit trees standing in earth like dust, and the fall of new rain was so freshening and welcome. I'm so glad we made a moment to go out and gather bags of fir cones and fallen twigs for the winter kindling; we got loads up at the burial ground, all as dry as bones, and I feel very smug about it now.
Then this Sunday coming is the feast of St Michael and All Angels, a good time to take note of the wind direction which will prevail from then until Martinmas on November 11th. St Michael sets the tune they say, so if it's fine on Sunday there's a good chance we'll enjoy mild weather prevailing in the main through to Martinmas. The Michaelmas daisies are blooming in the garden — we sent some up to the chapel for last week's harvest festival. Folk say the devil puts his foot on the blackberries on Michaelmas day, so pick them while you can if there are still any to be found on the bushes near you.
St Michael the archangel stands pointing down the year, towards the coming dark, and his word is "Prepare!" We had the same message from St John the Baptist, likewise a herald, whose feast is at high summer alongside the solstice at the xenith of the year's wheel turning. John, the herald, is there where the year is glad and the days are long, to point past the harvest to the winter coming, with the dying of the old year and the birth of the infant light. And now it comes again — "Prepare!" — at Michaelmas.
Michaelmas is also the proper time for harvest in my opinion. It begins with the barley harvest at Lammas right at the beginning of August when the men put the sickle in and slay John Barleycorn, and then Michaelmas concludes it, when all is safely gathered in. It's the time to think on the harvest of our lives and the work of the grim reaper, the gathering in of souls to God's garner.
This is one of my very favourite times of year, and in this turning of the seasons the wings of the angels brush the hair of our heads. A wild time, a golden time, a fruitful time. September is a blessed month.
UK TV — Inside the Vatican
I think probably people outside the UK won't be able to see this yet, though I expect it will eventually find its way to you (I've linkified the picture).
But for UK friends, I wholeheartedly recommend it.
I watched it with great curiosity, realising that though I've read about the Vatican and heard a lot about the Pope, I've never seen inside.
I was delighted by Episode 1 (Episode 2 airs on Friday). The members of staff came across as so genuine and thoughtful, and the whole place has an ambience of gentleness and humanity that took me completely by surprise. There are a couple of places in it where one of the (adult) choristers is interviewed. Reviewers speak of this as him expressing his religious doubts, but I heard more humility than doubt — "What do I know? I'm a baritone." He spoke of how, when he sings, he senses himself to be part of something greater and deeper. I thought what he had to say made the effort to be realistic and truthful, such a refreshing relief from the sententious piety he might have been expected to offer.
And the snippets (all too short) of Pope Francis's addresses had depth and originality; a wise and humane soul. I feel blessed to be here in this time that he is head of the church.
My introduction to life in the Vatican has mainly been from books like Robert Harris's Conclave and Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, both brilliantly written and entirely absorbing, but leaving me with a sense of a place characterised by intrigue and uneasy relationships, competitiveness and jealousy. This TV series doesn't give me that feeling at all. I felt intrigued and delighted by the women who worked there — how they seemed such genuine people and so at ease with themselves, not trapped in the tight-skirt-high-heels-and-make-up masked ball of the business world, nor yet formed and shaped primarily by taking refuge in carbohydrates as is so often the fate of women who work for the church.
If you haven't seen it and you have access to it, I do recommend it.
But for UK friends, I wholeheartedly recommend it.
I watched it with great curiosity, realising that though I've read about the Vatican and heard a lot about the Pope, I've never seen inside.
I was delighted by Episode 1 (Episode 2 airs on Friday). The members of staff came across as so genuine and thoughtful, and the whole place has an ambience of gentleness and humanity that took me completely by surprise. There are a couple of places in it where one of the (adult) choristers is interviewed. Reviewers speak of this as him expressing his religious doubts, but I heard more humility than doubt — "What do I know? I'm a baritone." He spoke of how, when he sings, he senses himself to be part of something greater and deeper. I thought what he had to say made the effort to be realistic and truthful, such a refreshing relief from the sententious piety he might have been expected to offer.
And the snippets (all too short) of Pope Francis's addresses had depth and originality; a wise and humane soul. I feel blessed to be here in this time that he is head of the church.
My introduction to life in the Vatican has mainly been from books like Robert Harris's Conclave and Dan Brown's Angels and Demons, both brilliantly written and entirely absorbing, but leaving me with a sense of a place characterised by intrigue and uneasy relationships, competitiveness and jealousy. This TV series doesn't give me that feeling at all. I felt intrigued and delighted by the women who worked there — how they seemed such genuine people and so at ease with themselves, not trapped in the tight-skirt-high-heels-and-make-up masked ball of the business world, nor yet formed and shaped primarily by taking refuge in carbohydrates as is so often the fate of women who work for the church.
If you haven't seen it and you have access to it, I do recommend it.
Monday, 23 September 2019
Gadding about
I rarely go out. The discipline and practise of simplicity and frugality confer many benefits, among them the quietness of a secluded life. I don't delude myself that my days resemble monastic life, but undoubtedly there are certain similarities.
However, I have been out to a concert, not once but two Saturdays in a row! My very darling and indulgent husband paid for our tickets, both times.
The first concert was staged by a member of our chapel congregation, drawing together the village choir, a local band and some local children (including my wild grandchildren) to perform songs from the show Joseph. The event was cheerful and good-humoured, well-attended by an encouraging audience who applauded with enthusiasm and obeyed when instructed to join in. A happy occasion, the result of several weeks' very hard work (not mine — I only went to see the performance).
Then, the following week I went out again, once more to see local performers, grown-ups this time, united by a love for opera.
I enjoyed the music, and it was an interesting evening for other reasons beside. Evening dresses had to be sourced by the performers, some of whom were more joggers and t-shirt people left to themselves, included a dear friend of mine who was in it, and came to tell us all about her adventures in obtaining not only an evening dress but a bra to go underneath it. Her daughter had advised her that her regular choice of a sports bra wouldn't do. My loving husband wisely kept quiet as he underwent this initiation into the complexities of balancing off cup against band to get a good fit. My friend had discovered that, like many women, she had been wearing too large a band and too small a cup for years and years and years; and I was able to recommend to her the trusty Miss Mary of Sweden.
The performers at this particular concert were, for the most part, folk I have known for decades. We have chatted before on the threads of this blog about the curious phenomenon of invisibility, and once again at the concert I experienced its unsettling effects — I don't mind, it isn't unkindly meant, but it does feel strange.
The conductor was at university with me, a good friend of my first husband. When I moved to this town by the sea, he was the first person I knew socially. He invited us to dinner, and came to our home once we had one. We saw him moderately often and were on very friendly terms. When his first marriage sadly ended, we invited him round, and again when he found his lovely second wife. I think you could say we are old friends; except that he doesn't recognise me — doesn't appear even to see me.
One of the singers in the concert was likewise someone I've known many years. He belonged to a theatre group I welcomed to rehearse in our chapel when I was a Methodist pastor. He and I were never close friends, only acquaintances, but though he has changed his appearance radically since those days — the mop of corkscrew curls has been swapped for a neater cut — I would know him anywhere. But he no longer knows me.
Sometimes, I realise, people drop you if you are not socially advantageous to them (which I am not, to anyone), and pretend not to know you when they really do. But there are always tells, especially that flicker of the eyes when they recognise you then decide to pretend they haven't. But nothing of that in this instance; I was no more present for those men than the chairs in the row or the darkening windows of the church as night fell. They just looked through me without the slightest hint of recognition, as if I were not there.
The same happened last Sunday when I went to a chapel to preach. I found my way to the pulpit and began to set out my papers, when the steward discerned from my location that I must be me. She had greeted me courteously when I came in to the building, so I hadn't realised she didn't recognise me until she came through the church to apologise. As always when this happens, the other person feels caught on the back foot and feels the need to explain that this is my fault not theirs. Usually they tell me I've changed my hairstyle, or my weight has fluctuated. This can happen, but I usually recognise them when it's the other way round; they look the same but fatter or thinner, with shorter or longer hair.
It's kind of them to apologise, but unnecessary really — I'm so used to it. I missed my vocation; I should have been a spy.
By contrast, to my surprise and delight, on the occasion I travelled to America to hear Diana Lorence of Innermost House speak at Stony Brook Quaker meeting house in Princeton, New Jersey, when my host for those three days was dear Rebecca, a Friend and an online friend, she recognised me at once.
My flight to New Jersey had been cancelled, and I was anxious to get there before night fell, because it was mid-winter and Rebecca lives down a track in a wood. So I hopped on the next flight that had a seat, which took me to JFK airport instead of Newark Airport where I was meant to be going. It was exciting and quite a challenge finding my way by foot and bus in a country where I'd never been, improvising my way to Penn Station and finding a train. Everything is different in America — the trains, the buses, the rules of the road, the people, and also the officials. American officials take themselves very seriously, but in those days I wore Plain dress, and their behaviour to me was markedly gentle and respectful. Interesting.
I had been assured my phone would work in the United States. It did not. As I wasn't where I was meant to be at all, at the time I should have arrived, I had no way to get in touch with Rebecca except the kindness of strangers, who let me use their phones to update her of my progress. The last call I made was in the station car park at my destination, where an African American sheltering from the snow allowed me to use the last dregs of her battery to tell Rebecca I'd arrived.
And, walking across the wheel ruts in the heaped snow, looking through falling snowflakes, we knew one another at once. I had the happiest time staying in Rebecca's home.
People say, do they not, that internet friendships aren't "real", that to experience "real life" you need to get out and mix with people who are "real". I understand why that seems plausible, but it doesn't match my experience. Friends I've met online have become very dear to me, and I have never been disappointed on those occasions we've found a way to meet in what Buzzfloyd calls "meatspace".
What is real and unreal, what is enduring and what fades, what is as you expected and what is decidedly not, can be surprising at times.
However, I have been out to a concert, not once but two Saturdays in a row! My very darling and indulgent husband paid for our tickets, both times.
The first concert was staged by a member of our chapel congregation, drawing together the village choir, a local band and some local children (including my wild grandchildren) to perform songs from the show Joseph. The event was cheerful and good-humoured, well-attended by an encouraging audience who applauded with enthusiasm and obeyed when instructed to join in. A happy occasion, the result of several weeks' very hard work (not mine — I only went to see the performance).
Then, the following week I went out again, once more to see local performers, grown-ups this time, united by a love for opera.
I enjoyed the music, and it was an interesting evening for other reasons beside. Evening dresses had to be sourced by the performers, some of whom were more joggers and t-shirt people left to themselves, included a dear friend of mine who was in it, and came to tell us all about her adventures in obtaining not only an evening dress but a bra to go underneath it. Her daughter had advised her that her regular choice of a sports bra wouldn't do. My loving husband wisely kept quiet as he underwent this initiation into the complexities of balancing off cup against band to get a good fit. My friend had discovered that, like many women, she had been wearing too large a band and too small a cup for years and years and years; and I was able to recommend to her the trusty Miss Mary of Sweden.
The performers at this particular concert were, for the most part, folk I have known for decades. We have chatted before on the threads of this blog about the curious phenomenon of invisibility, and once again at the concert I experienced its unsettling effects — I don't mind, it isn't unkindly meant, but it does feel strange.
The conductor was at university with me, a good friend of my first husband. When I moved to this town by the sea, he was the first person I knew socially. He invited us to dinner, and came to our home once we had one. We saw him moderately often and were on very friendly terms. When his first marriage sadly ended, we invited him round, and again when he found his lovely second wife. I think you could say we are old friends; except that he doesn't recognise me — doesn't appear even to see me.
One of the singers in the concert was likewise someone I've known many years. He belonged to a theatre group I welcomed to rehearse in our chapel when I was a Methodist pastor. He and I were never close friends, only acquaintances, but though he has changed his appearance radically since those days — the mop of corkscrew curls has been swapped for a neater cut — I would know him anywhere. But he no longer knows me.
Sometimes, I realise, people drop you if you are not socially advantageous to them (which I am not, to anyone), and pretend not to know you when they really do. But there are always tells, especially that flicker of the eyes when they recognise you then decide to pretend they haven't. But nothing of that in this instance; I was no more present for those men than the chairs in the row or the darkening windows of the church as night fell. They just looked through me without the slightest hint of recognition, as if I were not there.
The same happened last Sunday when I went to a chapel to preach. I found my way to the pulpit and began to set out my papers, when the steward discerned from my location that I must be me. She had greeted me courteously when I came in to the building, so I hadn't realised she didn't recognise me until she came through the church to apologise. As always when this happens, the other person feels caught on the back foot and feels the need to explain that this is my fault not theirs. Usually they tell me I've changed my hairstyle, or my weight has fluctuated. This can happen, but I usually recognise them when it's the other way round; they look the same but fatter or thinner, with shorter or longer hair.
It's kind of them to apologise, but unnecessary really — I'm so used to it. I missed my vocation; I should have been a spy.
By contrast, to my surprise and delight, on the occasion I travelled to America to hear Diana Lorence of Innermost House speak at Stony Brook Quaker meeting house in Princeton, New Jersey, when my host for those three days was dear Rebecca, a Friend and an online friend, she recognised me at once.
My flight to New Jersey had been cancelled, and I was anxious to get there before night fell, because it was mid-winter and Rebecca lives down a track in a wood. So I hopped on the next flight that had a seat, which took me to JFK airport instead of Newark Airport where I was meant to be going. It was exciting and quite a challenge finding my way by foot and bus in a country where I'd never been, improvising my way to Penn Station and finding a train. Everything is different in America — the trains, the buses, the rules of the road, the people, and also the officials. American officials take themselves very seriously, but in those days I wore Plain dress, and their behaviour to me was markedly gentle and respectful. Interesting.
I had been assured my phone would work in the United States. It did not. As I wasn't where I was meant to be at all, at the time I should have arrived, I had no way to get in touch with Rebecca except the kindness of strangers, who let me use their phones to update her of my progress. The last call I made was in the station car park at my destination, where an African American sheltering from the snow allowed me to use the last dregs of her battery to tell Rebecca I'd arrived.
And, walking across the wheel ruts in the heaped snow, looking through falling snowflakes, we knew one another at once. I had the happiest time staying in Rebecca's home.
People say, do they not, that internet friendships aren't "real", that to experience "real life" you need to get out and mix with people who are "real". I understand why that seems plausible, but it doesn't match my experience. Friends I've met online have become very dear to me, and I have never been disappointed on those occasions we've found a way to meet in what Buzzfloyd calls "meatspace".
What is real and unreal, what is enduring and what fades, what is as you expected and what is decidedly not, can be surprising at times.
Sunday, 22 September 2019
Garlic
Garlic. I recommend it.
For about three years now, I and the other women in our household have every day taken some mashed raw garlic, and a tiny amount) less than a quarter teaspoon of very powerful Manuka honey, the really good medicinal sort. I buy the honey when Holland and Barrett put on their Penny Sales. One pot costs well over fifty pounds, but the second one costs a penny.
I have not had a cold in all this time. Other people around me caught colds, but I never did.
Recently, we changed our eating rhythm in a way that didn't work so well with our garlic-taking rhythm, and our dance of life got wrong-footed. We began to miss out the garlic, and in the last month I have taken garlic and honey, but not very often.
And now I have an absolute corker of a cold.
Not last night but the night before, I could feel I had this germ travelling round my body, visiting one place after another — first my feet and ankles felt ill and painful, then my hips, then my head, bit by bit it travelled round, and I was very tired. The germ settled in my pharynx and made it very sore, then moved on purposefully to my left tonsil, which seems to act as Older Sister for them both. I went to bed early and slept twelve hours. In the morning I did my usual cleansing things, and emerged feeling better, so I thought I was okay.
Last night I went to a concert, and I do hope I haven't spread germs to everyone I met. By bedtime I felt distinctly coldy, and by the time I lay down to sleep my nose was — quite literally — running like a tap. I had to lie on my back or wind a hanky round my nose!
And this morning I have a humdinger of a cold! In fact I'm not sure this even is a cold. I'm wondering if I haven't somehow contracted Man Flu.
I suspected something like this was travelling my way, because last week I was by myself at home for several days so I took the opportunity to prepare everything for my preaching appointment next Sunday, where normally I wouldn't begin to prepare until the Monday before, not the best part of a fortnight in advance. In general I find when things like that come about, it's to make space for something I haven't foreseen. So I was a bit worried in case a calamity was travelling towards me — but no, only this cold, which will put me out of action for two or three days I think, and I'll need to have hymns and order of service ready for the steward tomorrow morning.
Well, that's taught me a lesson! Right now I'm in bed, but in a minute I'll go downstairs proclaiming "Unclean! Unclean!" and commander a clear space in the kitchen to mash myself some garlic.
Back on the daily menu, then. Raw garlic and high strength Manuka honey.
Oh, look!
My family has put together a Healing Tray for me. It has the mashed garlic (hooray!), a BIG emergency-sized spoon of Manuka honey, some (fresh) lemon and (fresh) ginger tea with more honey, a cup with dilute cider vinegar, turmeric (anti-inflammatory) and cayenne pepper (stops me getting venous clots), a cup of bone broth, and a lovely glass of chilled water from our spring, with a slice of lemon. Ha! Makes me feel better just looking at it.
I hurtled out into the garden and picked some apples from the tree, and got a little bowl of nuts to eat, and a toilet roll for mopping my eyes and nose.
I changed our bed linen and put it on a hot wash in hopes of defending my hubby from germs, because he has swampy lungs and is prone to pneumonia (Noooooo!).
And now I'm happily ensconced in our Fiona's bedroom — she's in Dorset; waving, Fi, if you're reading this — and I'm going to watch the first Strictly Come Dancing of the season on catch-up TV. Could be worse, no?
For about three years now, I and the other women in our household have every day taken some mashed raw garlic, and a tiny amount) less than a quarter teaspoon of very powerful Manuka honey, the really good medicinal sort. I buy the honey when Holland and Barrett put on their Penny Sales. One pot costs well over fifty pounds, but the second one costs a penny.
I have not had a cold in all this time. Other people around me caught colds, but I never did.
Recently, we changed our eating rhythm in a way that didn't work so well with our garlic-taking rhythm, and our dance of life got wrong-footed. We began to miss out the garlic, and in the last month I have taken garlic and honey, but not very often.
And now I have an absolute corker of a cold.
Not last night but the night before, I could feel I had this germ travelling round my body, visiting one place after another — first my feet and ankles felt ill and painful, then my hips, then my head, bit by bit it travelled round, and I was very tired. The germ settled in my pharynx and made it very sore, then moved on purposefully to my left tonsil, which seems to act as Older Sister for them both. I went to bed early and slept twelve hours. In the morning I did my usual cleansing things, and emerged feeling better, so I thought I was okay.
Last night I went to a concert, and I do hope I haven't spread germs to everyone I met. By bedtime I felt distinctly coldy, and by the time I lay down to sleep my nose was — quite literally — running like a tap. I had to lie on my back or wind a hanky round my nose!
And this morning I have a humdinger of a cold! In fact I'm not sure this even is a cold. I'm wondering if I haven't somehow contracted Man Flu.
I suspected something like this was travelling my way, because last week I was by myself at home for several days so I took the opportunity to prepare everything for my preaching appointment next Sunday, where normally I wouldn't begin to prepare until the Monday before, not the best part of a fortnight in advance. In general I find when things like that come about, it's to make space for something I haven't foreseen. So I was a bit worried in case a calamity was travelling towards me — but no, only this cold, which will put me out of action for two or three days I think, and I'll need to have hymns and order of service ready for the steward tomorrow morning.
Well, that's taught me a lesson! Right now I'm in bed, but in a minute I'll go downstairs proclaiming "Unclean! Unclean!" and commander a clear space in the kitchen to mash myself some garlic.
Back on the daily menu, then. Raw garlic and high strength Manuka honey.
Oh, look!
My family has put together a Healing Tray for me. It has the mashed garlic (hooray!), a BIG emergency-sized spoon of Manuka honey, some (fresh) lemon and (fresh) ginger tea with more honey, a cup with dilute cider vinegar, turmeric (anti-inflammatory) and cayenne pepper (stops me getting venous clots), a cup of bone broth, and a lovely glass of chilled water from our spring, with a slice of lemon. Ha! Makes me feel better just looking at it.
I hurtled out into the garden and picked some apples from the tree, and got a little bowl of nuts to eat, and a toilet roll for mopping my eyes and nose.
I changed our bed linen and put it on a hot wash in hopes of defending my hubby from germs, because he has swampy lungs and is prone to pneumonia (Noooooo!).
And now I'm happily ensconced in our Fiona's bedroom — she's in Dorset; waving, Fi, if you're reading this — and I'm going to watch the first Strictly Come Dancing of the season on catch-up TV. Could be worse, no?
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