Breakfast conversation

I do so love living in our household, and often have cause to reflect on what a privilege it is to keep daily company with people so interesting and alive.

Over breakfast this morning – with its usual strange ingredients of a kale shake, cider vinegar, spirulina and porridge – we were chatting about editorial comments encountered over the years. Along the hall, sitting close beside his friend the concrete bodhisattva, our jellicle cat Ted gravely listened and observed.

I got up to make a cup of tea, and in that moment became aware of a change in the weather – a restless stirring and overshadowing, a rising wind, as if rain might be on the way.

I said so.

“Yes,” said our Hebe: “that’s the barley-set winds.”

I said: “The what?”

“Today,” she explained, is St Matthew’s day, “when he shuts up the bees.”

“Who?” I asked. “St Matthew?”

Probably so, Hebe thought. She told us that the barley-set winds last for two to three days, and they bring the cold and the wet. From the 20^th to the 23^rd we shall have the barley-set winds. Then on the 23^rd is the equinox (Mabon), and – all on the 28^th – a lunar eclipse, a full moon and a super-moon.

So, she said, on the 28^th we could expect to see gales, because the full moon strengthens the winds, and the super-moon reinforces that strengthening, as does the eclipse.

But (she told us) the 29^th, which is Michaelmas, is the day of prediction for the winds and weather of the next quarter. With the powerful moon effects of the 28^th, it seems likely we shall be looking at a very blustery autumn taking us into the winter.

Having covered that, she went on to discuss with Alice about a source of incense sticks made with very high quality essential oils absolute. And after that the conversation went on to strategies for managing car driving in neurologically atypical people.

It makes me happy. I learn so much. I mean, “the barley-set winds” – who knew?

Granddad

Today our family's beloved Granddad has gone to glory.

He leaves behind so many memories.

Headmaster at the Grove School in days when some of the pupils lived in grinding poverty. Children dismissed as delinquent, he understood, taking the trouble to know them. He knew that some who failed to hand in homework had no electricity at home except for a cable slung in through the window from a neighbour’s house.

His degree was in physics, and he ran maths lessons for children who got slung out of class. I remember him talking about one boy sent to him for misbehaving. This boy was hopeless at maths in school, but Granddad discovered the boy was saving to buy some boots, earning pocket money scoring for darts matches. Darts scoring is complex – there was nothing wrong with the boy’s arithmetic, he just needed a more imaginative approach from his school.

But then Granddad knew what it was to struggle, and to cope with adversity. His mum died when he was a little boy. Every morning his dad went out to work leaving him sitting in the greenhouse until it was time to go to school; and there he sat and waited for his dad to come home in the evening. After supper, he went to bed while his dad went down to the working men’s club. To understand him, you had to think of that child.

He grew up practical, self-reliant, and determined to establish a life of security. Doggedly, deflected by nothing, he watched over and protected those whom God gave into his care; his family. He was the most dependable man I have ever known. You could rely on him. Trustworthy, loyal, never judgmental. Cautious, discreet, observant. Private, independent, persevering. He was, to the core a northern man – a Yorkshireman.

His faith in Christ was steady as a rock; unswerving, unhesitating. But he thought deeply, and did not fear to question.

With his wry humour and pragmatic approach to life, he was not over-demonstrative; yet he loved deeply. He is one of very, very few people of whose love I have felt confident, always.

I shall remember him, forks stuck in the earth in three different locations in the flowerbeds, so that he could get a little gardening done when his grandchildren gave him five minutes peace.

I remember him sitting outside the tent at camp on a summer evening, a towel over his head to keep the midges away.

A lifelong Methodist, and a preacher since 1952, he nonetheless cheerfully abandoned his restraint around all things alcoholic when he took up making his own (delicious) wine.

I remember him making Margie’s wedding cake with Grandma – how they couldn’t agree on the sugarcraft flowers – but it turned out that was because they were each following a different picture in the recipe book.

I remember him saying of each child born, once she got to about three months, “Well, I think it’ll live.”

I remember him saying to me, “All right, lass?” There is nobody left to say that now. No one in the south calls me “lass”. I treasured it.

I remember him leading Boys Brigade Bible Class – and preaching on Parade Sunday about “Nothing”. “ ‘What are you doing?’ ‘Nothing!’ ‘What are you eating?’ ‘Nothing!’ What have you got in your hand there?’ ‘Nothing!’ ‘What did you just put in that desk?’ ‘Nothing!’” The kids loved him. Everybody loved him. His whole self preached the Gospel. But canny, reserved, watchful, loyal, he didn’t let that many close to him.

So many memories.

In these last months, weeks, days of his life, he has had to be very brave. He faced death quietly, uncomplainingly and with great dignity. He said he was comfortable, and peaceful. Grateful, appreciative, saying “thank you” for everything, accepting of what was happening to him: “It’s time to go home,” he said.

And in these last days, one morning when it was just him and me, I read him the words he loved from the epistle to the Romans, and the Shepherd psalm, and we said the Lord’s prayer together. Then I asked him if he wanted me to bless him on his way with the prayer for the dying; and yes, he wanted that. So I prayed this prayer for him:

“Go forth upon thy journey from this world,

O Christian soul,

in the peace of him in whom thou hast believed,

in the name of God the Father, who created thee,

in the name of Jesus Christ, who suffered for thee,

in the name of the Holy Spirit, who strengthened thee.

May angels and archangels,

And all the armies of the heavenly host,

Come to meet thee,

May Christ be thy Pilot and give thee safe crossing,

May all the saints of God welcome thee,

May thy portion be in gladness and in peace,

Thy dwelling in Paradise.

Go forth upon thy journey, O Christian soul.”

And he said, “Amen.”

Well done, thou good and faithful servant.

Words failing me

Today on Facebook a friend posted this beautiful quotation:

"Flee for a while from your tasks, hide yourself for a little space from the turmoil of your thoughts. Come, cast aside your burdensome cares, and put aside your laborious pursuits. For a little while give your time to God, and rest in him for a little while. Enter into the inner chamber of your mind, shut out all things save God and whatever may aid you in seeking God; and having barred the door of your chamber, seek him."

                                 ~ Anselm of Canterbury

Monks (and, perhaps to a lesser extent, nuns) often write thus about silence and seclusion, encouraging people to, as William Penn put it, ‘live retiredly’. More and more it speaks to me.

It’s not meant to be a way of leisure and idleness, of course. For one thing there are many chores to be done – washing, sweeping, cooking, gardening; generally setting the house in order. And there is the community to attend to, whatever that may mean in any one individual’s circumstances. Being present when people are gathered. Being free and willing to help with whatever supports and encourages them. In the case of our household, that can mean taking time around a meal table to talk through issues that interest, perplex or challenge one or some of us. Or bringing someone else’s laundry in if it comes on to rain, or volunteering to cook the supper or wash the dishes, or be part of the expedition to the store to get the Friday groceries. Or clean the bathroom. Taking care of the fabric of life in such ways is also how we care for each other. 

And beyond the household, the wider family, then whatever responsibilities sit right with my own gifts/graces/obligations to the household of God in the church, and to the community. This week, for me, that means Sunday worship, preparing a seminar talk and a Quiet Day, attending the Local Preachers’ meeting; also selecting things I think I could easily do without to give away on Freegle, or donate to the hospice charity shop.

And then there is the tending to the wellbeing of creation, in my case no more than sending permaculture messages along the jungle drums, being part of maintaining the wildlife garden we have made here, feeding the foxes, the badgers and the crows, and living in ways of simplicity that tread a fraction more lightly on the Earth.

But in all this, which is the outworking of my faith, I am conscious that words come into it relatively little. I get the impression that most writers thrive on books and reading, but not me. I do read, and I research, but it is increasingly the case that words don’t really do it for me. I prefer silence, and thinking. I know I am in the presence of God, but it becomes artificial when I import words out of a sense of duty.

Thinking about it today, I realized how weighty is the portion given to words in the common practice of the Christian faith. So much emphasis is placed on sermons, prayers, Bible reading, meetings held together by a tissue of liturgy, creeds, doctrinal formulae … Beyond that – chatting, phone calls, social calls …

As though the substance of faith were the application of an unremitting diligence of words.

For me, this has become dry and weary. My life feels the lifeblood of God pulsing along its veins – but in firelight, in early dew, in bird flight, in cloud banks, in the eyes of a child. Not in words.

I didn’t expect it would become so. My faith lives and thrives, but would prefer to be expressed in silence.

Quietness

 Hello m’dears.

Two things ~

Firstly, my publisher has accepted A Day and a Life, which will be the last book in The Hawk and the Dove series. It’s scheduled to be out next summer – July, I think. So that’s good news.

Then secondly, if anyone is close by and interested, on Wednesday September 23^rd I am offering a Quiet Day at Penhurst. Its title (taken from Desiderata) is Aridity and Disenchantment. All of us go through times when we are disappointed, weary and disillusioned, when prayer feels too difficult to persevere, and life seems pointless. How can we remain faithful and grow in our discipleship when such times come, especially if the aridity persists over months and years? This is what we shall be exploring in the beautiful setting of Penhurst Place, an ancient tiny manor house deep in the Sussex countryside. Details here.

I loved these photos we managed to capture of our cat Ted, above sitting quietly alongside the bodhisattva in the passageway (no mouse – he was just praying), and below luxuriating in a fluffy throw on the beanbag chair in Hebe’s peaceful room.

Peace to you. xx

Just bits and pieces

CROWS ~

Our crow family visits faithfully, the parents now sometimes watching from a distance to give the children a chance to do things by themselves.  

Some of the young ones are bolder than others. A few days ago, the father crow brought one of his children to get some breakfast. Perhaps because I was nearby, the child was too scared to relax and eat. S/he stood on the wall, the other side of the dish from her/his father, while he ate. His idea was that he should eat, then fly away leaving her to eat. Each time he flew away, so did the child. On the few occasions the child stayed on the wall, s/he just stood stock still (Er… can I … should I…) It’s not that s/he wasn’t hungry. There were dried meal worms, suet with bugs in it, old scraps of cat food – in fact a delicious breakfast, almost as good as an eyeball. S/he just stood there, dribbling, wanting to eat but not quite sure … So I took pity on them and went in.

Each crow has his/her own distinct call, quite different from the others. The boldest of the young ones, very interested in us, has an erratic gargling voice – I love it.

Yesterday when I took out their supper, I couldn’t see them around so I took the crow call with me to let them know the food was ready. Then I saw one sentinel crow waiting patiently in the tree; but I blew the call anyway. He was dozing, and it woke him up - made him jump, poor thing.

WATER ~

We had a day without water last weekend – a burst pipe just north of the area where we live left our neighbourhood with no mains water, without warning. 

Happily, because it has rained a lot recently and our water butts are all full, and because of our various eco-practices, it made barely any difference to us. We just had to tie the taps in cloths to break the habit of going to turn them on. 

We did get some extra spring water (bottled), because I haven’t yet sorted out a system for filtering the roof water to make it potable – I could put it through the distiller, I suppose; the only problem with that is it loses its goodness then as well as its badness.

SUN ~

This is the day to send in our solar panels meter reading for the tariff the government pays us for the electricity we send in to the National Grid. 

Blessedly, my father died just before these tariffs began, under Gordon Brown’s under-appreciated and imaginative government. My father left me some money, enough to pay off our mortgage and put solar panels on the roof. The timing meant that because we were in at the beginning of the government solar scheme, we got the top rate (the amount offered went down year by year). We depend on it now. 

There’s something so pleasing about living in a house that pays its own bills – I mean, how sweet is that? The house contributes to the housekeeping! 

We are paid according to the quarter's meter reading , and part of last quarter’s payment went to buying a big stash of upcycled sawdust wood briquettes. They’re fantastic – they burn as hot as coal, kindle with immense ease, and though they are made of wood, it’s the sweepings, waste from the timber industry, so no cutting down extra trees just to burn. And there are no noxious fumes, they are made only through pressure, no glue involved. This quarter’s payment will buy the rest of our fuel for the winter.

FIBROMYALGIA ~

I have been a bad girl and eaten what I should not, and given myself the most awful fibromyalgia flare-up. 

Sigh. 

Tired unto death, and full of moving pains and stiffened joints. 

So I’ve gone back to eating Only What I Should, and it’s gradually easing. Emphasis on ‘gradually’! 

I am grateful for it really – it’s good to have a system sensitive enough to keep me on the strait and narrow; either I see to it that I stay extremely healthy or I’m prostrated in short order! 

What was it Thomas Cranmer said in the Book of Common Prayer (the General Confession)? “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done, And we have done those things which we ought not to have done, And there is no health in us”. 

Yep. That’s me at the moment. Still, onward and upward. 

The future (“But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us miserable offenders”) is in kale and organic free-range eggs.

*        *        *

Well, I think that’s it, really. I am reading Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search For Meaning; today I will visit our beloved Granddad in the hospice, nearing the end of his life, and my beautiful Mama in her apartment that looks out over the hills and fields. And now I  must get up and feed the crows.