The Thoughtful Sea!

I sat on age-old rocks in the warm of the sun and the cool of the wind at Calella de Palafrugell, wondering what these rocks would say if they were to give voice to their memories. Would they tell of a history of waves and weed, of fishermen and boats, of traditions which changed little over the centuries? Or would they speak with the forked tongues of men? Conscious of the differencees between Spaniard and Catalan, or facist and republican, or the modern invasion of tourists from accoss Europe. Is Calella Catalan any more? Is this the Costa Brava, or is it now Costa Turistica?

What has Calella lost since the BBC proclaimed it to be the least spoilt destination in Spain? To sit on those rocks in winter or spring; to dream with the gulls, to ferret around with the sparrows, to look into a swirling cremat, to sip on cafe solo, to enjoy the saltiness of Vichy water, solsos at lunchtime, the rocky crust of crema catalana, simply to be alone with history, culture, language, music and oneself .... these are forever lost. Tourists bring money and with money change ... eternal revolution of homes and bars, of tracks which become roads, and roads which grow into motorways.

So I sat and thought of these rocks and the stories they cannot tell ... how the sounds of the sea reassures those who doubt the realities of our world, how cormorants return each year to this remote pasture, how multitudes of fish are able to hide beneath these clear waters. The world goes on, mi amigo. It does not deny the superficial nor the beneficial, but human activity is on the edge, one facet only and the spirit of the earth and sea lives on. Garcia Marquez is right, the spirits walk our world, unseen by most, and only the spirits understand the force, the power, the omnipotence of nature. Our world is safe, if only we knew it!

April in Madrid!

Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England—now!
And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge—
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew,
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower—
Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

A poem by Robert Browning ..... but .... 12 April 2006 .....


Oh to be in England now that April´s here!
On this occasion, no contest .... the Copa del Rei with son-in-law Mario, and Español´s somewhat unexpected 4 - 1 victory over Zaragoza was an event to savour... a moment of history, a moment to enjoy being out of England!

Forza Español!

The Flea

A poem by John Donne that I have not read in many years ... but its meaning improves with age!

MARK but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
It suck'd me first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be.
Thou know'st that this cannot be said
A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
Yet this enjoys before it woo,
And pamper'd swells with one blood made of two;
And this, alas ! is more than we would do.

O stay, three lives in one flea spare,
Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.
Though parents grudge, and you, we're met,
And cloister'd in these living walls of jet.
Though use make you apt to kill me,
Let not to that self-murder added be,
And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Except in that drop which it suck'd from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st, and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself nor me the weaker now.
'Tis true ; then learn how false fears be;
Just so much honour, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion. 

Dead men naked they shall be one 

With the man in the wind and the west moon; 

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone, 

They shall have stars at elbow and foot; 

Though they go mad they shall be sane, 

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; 

Though lovers be lost love shall not; 

And death shall have no dominion. 

 And death shall have no dominion. 

Under the windings of the sea 

They lying long shall not die windily; 

Twisting on racks when sinews give way, 

Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break; 

Faith in their hands shall snap in two, 

And the unicorn evils run them through; 

Split all ends up they shan't crack; 

And death shall have no dominion. 

 And death shall have no dominion. 

No more may gulls cry at their ears 

Or waves break loud on the seashores; 

Where blew a flower may a flower no more 

Lift its head to the blows of the rain; 

Though they be mad and dead as nails, 

Heads of the characters hammer through daisies; 

Break in the sun till the sun breaks down, And death shall have no dominion. 

Dylan Thomas

Letter to Peter

Dear Peter

I was at your funeral this morning, trying to make sense of it all, all that pain and hurt and sadness …. asking myself the question … “why?” And yet through the tears, I also asked, “why not?” After all we have no monopoly over life and death; why should it be early or late in life, and why should we always be able to predict the timing of this inevitable event?

I looked at faces racked by tears, red-stained eyes that looked worn and old, noses than ran sore and were wiped incessantly. I felt the collective heave of a community bound together in the grief of your death. Family, friends from school and from life, colleagues from work, and those who were there only because they knew your name and who you were, all caught up in what we hoped would be a celebration of your life, but inevitably became for many, a catharsis, and for some a trauma.

Phil talked about your illness, Ged about your life and work, but so many spoke only to themselves and to their God, knowing there was no answer to the questions “Why?” and “Why not?” We listened to these brave words from those who would do anything to go back a week, pick up a telephone, call at the house, do something different to change the course of history, and thus not need to be here today. All pointless … we cannot go back. We make our choices and must live by their reward.

Phil started and ended with the reminder that no event, no one illness can define or determine you or anybody else in our world. We are who we are with all our history, successes and failings, laughter and tears, choices made and avoided, friends and colleagues; we are all these things and not just the final event of our life.

It was good to hear this, reassuring, and it reminded us of all the pleasure that you gave us at home, at school, at work. Your work is not undone by death; it is perpetuated, complete. Your laughter, your energy and commitment is not lost; we are the people that you influenced, that you helped to form; and so your qualities and something of you, live on in us.

So, Peter, look down on us from wherever you are, smile your smile and talk your talk. Maybe when we look at sun or moon, your face will be there. When we hear the sound of that gentle wind it will carry your muffled words into our world. Whatever else you do, remember that we loved you, the person you were and the person you remain, and then, my friend, my child ….. rest in peace.

Gethsemane

is being alone with your thoughts, sharing them only with your God!

Dawn or realisation?

I boarded that train at some provincial stop, and at some unearthly hour. This is my job, I told myself and sank into seat. As night gave way to dawn, to light, to landscapes, to skies, what did I see? People? No, this land is empty of them, but full of fields and folds, copses and ponds, lanes and tracks which all deserted looks so natural. Only the canals and bridges look man-made. Man’s influence seems almost sympathetic as hamlets, farmhouses, barns and stacks pass by. What I cannot see is the track on which we ride, this iron road rebuilt on white and soon to be grey stone, fenced in with railings which in time will rust. And as they do, will they blend in and be consumed by this rural scene? 

Will earth’s colours again assume their dominance? Can cuttings and embankments, straight and fine, ever stand out against nature, or will they mellow, soften, and be weathered by wind and rain and sun? This arrow, this sharp and silver shape, cuts through our land at speeds we cannot comprehend. London in two hours they say, when once it took a week! But trains are urban, not rural, filled with the urges and noises of those who work and chatter and shout orders down their phones. Why can they not stop for a moment and take in what they do not see. Obsessed by work, efficiency and outcomes, they take their worries and concerns, their intensity and commitment, to transform this world they say … for the better, and without even a glance at these passing sights, this ancient world which will see us out. A world of quiet, of birds, of rats and shrews we never see, of quiet cattle, of sheep, of those who mind their own affairs, those who relax, take the longer view, and take life as it comes. So town and city dwellers just halt your race into oblivion. 

The train speeds not to London, but to eternity. One gets on, but will it ever stop? Like some great wheel, the train speeds on, in relentless chasing of a perfect world. Think on, my friend; this is not heaven but hell, a denial of our humanity, a false faith in our dominion when what we need is quiet and humble eyes for the marvels we have missed. Sleep on my friend, and when you wake, the world will not have changed.

Os pensamentos num trem

I woke to the sound of overwhelming, utter exhaustion. The mobile was ringing, waking me from a sleep induced by the monotony of the rhythm of the train. All day I had discussed, debated, analysed, and to what purpose? Putting the world to rights, condemning injustice, Opposing anarchy? No, none of these; just reflecting on the differences between the meanings of monitoring, evaluation and review! If only we spent our time productively. We protest out commitment to efficient service delivery, and what do we do? Use our tongues rather than our hands, our mouths rather than our heads! Is this like the difference between Lenin, Stalin and Trotsky? Who proved to be the most effective? Was it the thinker and planner, or the one who acted decisively? One left us a political philosophy, another a corrupt and inhuman empire; the third was exterminated because of the threat he posed. 

The parallel for today might be the interactions between militant Islam and the secular West. The former protests at the cartoon sacrilege upon their prophet (peace be upon him), oppressed both by Western domination of oil and the vestiges of a thousand years of clerical rule. Meanwhile, in the name of freedom, our governments and peoples rape the resources of our world, threaten the future of the planet and of humanity, jeopardise the quality of the very air we breathe, and are never brought to account for these crimes. 

Our world is in our trust, not our ownership or dominion! Meanwhile, in Latin America, in Africa, in Asia, and in so many of the West’s urban centres, people suffer and starve in the names of capitalism, secularism and religion. When did religion last protest on behalf of the poor? Nearly always it is tied into a political regime. While our prophets prophecy in truth and in justice, Christians at least have both oppressed and been oppressed in the name of Jesus. Of other prophets, I cannot speak. Maybe I should take refuge in sleep, undisturbed by worry, concern, pain and violence, or the threat of these. Back to sleep on my train. Boa noite meu amigo!

A Village of two faces?

I drove through Lymm this afternoon, a posh yet unpretentious place, the product of centuries of growth and decline. So close to Mother Nature, yet so lacking in life. Maybe it was the mist and rain, the damp and cold, the wind and rain, the wet and cold that drove the living into their tomb-like homes. Closed doors, locked doors, curtains drawn to hide from the outside world, like cowards wrapped in comfort, escapees trapped in another jail. What of the life of those who haunt the fields on this drab, drab day. Excluded from these cells, they walk alone, but in the company of trees, of hedges, of fences which have weathered these extremes. They may be wet but they are warm with the lashing gale on hooded heads, in tune with season, time and age. 

The steeple pierces the low-blown clouds, wrapping this Cheshire world in fast-moving grey. The Lymm Damn, that still flat lake protected by its slopes and woods, its surface broken only by the blown leaves and by those still small ducklings rippling like a chain as they race for cover. Dark, black, murky, even haunting is the feel of that spot. As night approaches, there is no good here. Away! And so as Autumn grows, I ask, “Quiet, empty, still, where are they all, the people of this place, hiding in the remoteness of their homes?” Their trimmed hedges, lawns and borders betray a people chained to garden habits, like robots, automatons in a marble world. 

And where is nature? Hiding round the corner? In that field, waiting its chance to return and once again go soft and green? Patient, untidy yet at peace!

No Man is an Island

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated...As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

John Donne (1572 - 1631)

America, America

I have been just once to the USA, the north-eastern corner, but we call the huge country America which it is not! So much confusion about the difference between perspective and reality. And of the last week since Hurricane Katrina ……? Who am I to comment on the USA, Bush, the people of New Orleans, the black poor, the politics of America, the media? Just an interested and committed observer, appalled by the images of the last few days, of old people dying on camera, of babies dying of thirst, of patient and composed people waiting patiently for their fate, of parents risking their lives for their children, of others giving their lives to the rescue. 

And what do our TV screens show? White policemen targeting looters while their poor and black brothers and sisters starve. It seems to me that irony is not strength of the local media and politicians. What victory is there in parading a looted television in a city without power? What arrogance to knock stolen food from the hands of a father anxious to feed his family. When the world stops, people have time to reflect, and reflections can be brutal. The Image is of overwhelmingly black people trapped in this flood … those who could not escape. “Give me your poor” says the Statue of Liberty but the American dream does not liberate; it entraps so many in poverty and repression. 

The President, were it not so shameful, is a figure of fun and derision at home and abroad. He is naked, with no judgement, poor communication skills, and no instinct for intervention. However, he has a vision of a rebuilt New Orleans at a time when people are drowning in a sea of faeces and corpses. Most of all for a conviction Christian, he does not look for meaning and understanding in this sign from his God. The Media change their take on the story from day-to-day. First there was the hurricane, then death and damage, then the human stories, followed by political indifference, but thank God, the looters saved the day and allowed us to report “increasing lawlessness and violence”, something that would put the blame for this mess firmly in the poor black communities. Finally, after days of criticism, came the Marines and Fox News reporting so eloquently on the effectiveness and commitment of these cavalry from over the horizon (bring back Reagan and the cowboy films of old)! How easy it is to turn tragedy into success! 

The British in our inimitable style have done little except watch and listen. Our greatest ally is in big trouble and there is no national mourning, no great appeal for help. We have not even been encouraged to send donations. What does this tell me? That while the suffering people are to be pitied, their government and country are not. That there is a belief that if the USA is so great, it deserves the opportunity to resolve this situation without outside help. Not our problem, we seem to be saying. As a nation, we may be embarrassed at our own silence, but at least we are asking the question of ourselves about the meaning and relevance of our life. The End Game! 

The world will never be the same again. The USA is enfeebled by this tragedy more than by Vietnam and 9/11. Its economy is threatened. The world’s greatest military power has little heart, little compassion for its own, never mind the rest of the world. Is this the death of capitalism? Never. As always, it will present the rise in oil prices, the impoverishment of millions by the catastrophe as an opportunity for individuals to make an impact, to succeed, and to break out of their imprisonment in poverty … the American Dream! Ha! As for “little government”, the flagstone of Republican politics for a generation, where were you when you were needed? With your rich friends, safe from the winds of change. Big government might have been slow to react, but at least it speaks for all the people. If liberation is action on behalf of justice, then this blog is nothing, as are the words of all those who pontificate on Katrina and its consequences. Prayer and sentiment may help us as individuals. Who will help the poor of New Orleans?

On Twenty Wasted Years!

A Brazilian friend has just asked the question, “Are you a man or a mouse?” In the context of my first world credentials, it is a hurtful question, and it needs to be. Whatever happened to my commitment to the third world, to my study of Liberation Theology in the 1980s? Liberation can never be study; it is always action, in this case, action by the poor in light of the gospels. So where did I go wrong? History, politics and salvation are in the soul of most people, where we came from, what we hope for, and our current ambition and commitment. The West has no ambition, simply platitudes, conservatism and a wish to retain the present state at all costs. 

So what of my history, my politics and my salvation? My family originated in poor agricultural and then mining stock; I was one of the first in my family to go to university. Did I turn my back on their poverty? … on their history of oppression in Ireland and in the Welsh mines? Do I still value their principles and what they worked and stood for, or am I just another catholic capitalist paying lip-service to justice and peace? The enslavement of generations of Latin Americans in sinful structures supported by the Church and state challenges not the existence of God, but the identity of God. It is clear from Old and New Testaments that to know God is to do justice; the Church (both the institution and individuals) is failing the people. Scripture cannot support a political ideology of oppression and exploitation which is anti-Christian. The gospels renounce any identification with rich and authoritarian societies and their compromise with capitalism and imperialism. Didn’t Christ reject the coin and the head of Caesar … if we accept the coin, we accept all that goes with it … this is prophecy! 

The witness of the Church is the process of liberation, liberation from sin and oppression. Structural factors, economic rationalism and development theory perpetuate the same neo-colonialist existence that they pretend to challenge. They deny Latin America the opportunity to value its Indian and Iberian cultures and traditions, and to integrate its hopes into regional solutions. It is time to renew the relationship between political activity and Christian faith. When will the Church give witness to community rather than to communities? A clinic in a Peruvian village is no response to oppressive employment practices and the need for agrarian reform. It is a sop to the conscience of the West. Transformation of society is required with Christians opting for political action rather than personal prayer! 

From Puebla onwards, the tension between these two views has been marked. We have a choice, a “popular church” united in a struggle for liberation, or a “magisterium” trapped in its own theological bureaucracy, a choice between an egalitarian distribution of wealth and the need for cheap labour, a choice between participation and shared decision-making and the doctrine of national security. God’s people are, like Christ, free, redeemed, but we need to be evangelised in the gospel of Christ, not that of Mammon. 

Christ gave us humans freedom in our relationship with the world (we are trustees), freedom in our relationships with each other, and freedom in our relationship with God. Our world is typified by the sinfulness of ambition and envy, and these produce injustice, domination, violence and conflict at all levels of society. It is significant that the false evangelisation of centuries has made a virtue out of poverty, but theology is written by the rich and powerful. Is it “blessed are the poor” or “blessed are the poor in spirit”? True evangelization will enable us, not to ape the sins of our oppressors, but to proclaim the gospel of liberation. It is ideology and idolatry to associate God with domination and exploitation. The Church has failed! It is time for me to choose. Am I a man or a mouse?

A Reflection on Helplessness !

Physical and intellectual overwork brought me to my knees. Exhaustion was utter, total and overwhelming. I was unable even to climb the stairs to bed that Sunday evening. The therapy of physical endeavours, as a contrast to the mental stresses of the week helped only to allow my body and mind to protest, and as I crawled crab-like to the bathroom at dawn, I knew that my brain had taken over from my heart. My world was spinning in a clockwise ellipse, relentlessly pursuing its course around me. Closing my eyes could not shut it out. Retching like a child could not change it; nor could the almighty sweat which drenched me and the floor on which I sat. What was I to do? Nothing …. For probably the second time in my life I was helpless, unable to help myself, only this time I knew it; I understood! 

Labrynthitis is not pleasant. Its disorientation is total. It does not respond to drugs, only to time, and of that I have plenty. Those two skulls, one inside the other which moved at different speeds, one always following the other, make for discomforting life. To lie still is one’s only hope, but patience is a virtue which is not my strength. So to reflect on life and love and work, and on a future? What is there for me now, just a warning that I must or should learn to balance those elements of my life to which I have given so little thought? Firstly there is me, myself and I, a complex character, often hiding from his other self. What of me and my selfishness? Should I continue to work sixty plus hours each week? Should I limit myself to the local maximum of thirty-seven and see the quality of service to the community diminished? Should I challenge my managers to give me the support they have always denied, or close down the service and say, “To hell with those who need advice, those who have potential to change our world for the better?" 

My wife and family I do not write about. That is personal, private, confidential and precious. Why should they devote themselves to this man who is everywhere else too often? Suffice to say, “Thank you!” And so my interests, hobbies, addictions. What value do they have? What place in the history of our world? Am I allowed these selfishnesses, or are they like leaves upon the wind, a passing fad, a mere dot in the history of mankind? Is this how I will end my days building the garden fences even higher to shut out others’ gardens, to protect my passions and prejudice? Shall I soak myself in the history of the family, back to the Brayles of 1200? Why look back, unless it is to inform the future. It is not the names, dates and places of the past which matter but the social history which tells me and us of man’s search for betterment. 

So what shall I do? Return to work with its absence of boundaries, little management and impossible demands, or shall I choose the better path, of reason and reasonableness, and put on my ageing frame only the burdens where I can make a difference … as a teacher. After all, this is my profession, or as a writer of what I do not know. Short stories perhaps. So to the computer, my greatest love, I remain faithful. Armed with my mobile phone, PDA and laptop, I can travel the world knowing that I am never more than a call or text or email away from what I love, and to which and whom I will return. The choice is made. Technology matched with reason will save my life, my health, my life’s work. Thank you one and all for your support and friendship. 

To work at last … there is no other course. But my work is words, communication, trust and challenge, poetry and prose in equal measure, and debate, discussion and argument. There really is no choice. I am who I am. I cannot change the person, just learn to remember who and what I am!

A green and pleasant land?

And did those feet in ancient days, walk upon England’s green and pleasant land. What is fantasy … and who can understand? Who can see inside the secrets of a heart and mind? Of frustrated hopes and unreachable desires. All is chalk, dry, and senseless, lying unfulfilled under the shallow soils and wispy grass. And do people thrive here? With what? For what? How do they make a fist of it? With their sharing, their openness, stubbornness, carelessness or just pure genius. So what of me, trapped in my locked tower, locked in, not out; have I the key, the password which will untrap me from myself? In this maze of life, where decisions are forced on me, taken for me, presumed or just written in the future and in history, where do I make my bed? Is it at work, in play, in thought or deed, with a spade or a mouse … so much to ask, so little time to ponder. 

This confusion is of my own making. I have read Marx and Engels, Guttierez and Boff, Manley Hopkins, Thomas and Tolstoy, and what do they do? Simply set even more challenges for this world. Europe is divided between those who want, those who have and those who dream. The have-nots are forgotten. As for the States, they have their monopoly on power, right, freedom and communication. Who cares? More and more, we walk on by. It is in the East that the war is waged between the Arab and the Jew, the European and the Moslem, the Sunni and the Shia. And ideas? Do we have time to debate? Oh no! Our time is spent, wasted on petty tasks, clothes, shopping and TV. Where is our world? Dylan got it right when he said, “Dead men, naked they shall be one with the wind and the west moon!" 

Roll on spring into summer. Where will we be this autumn? With the devil and the deep blue sea, or in that garden of mellow fruitfulness? Only time will tell!

A Trojan horse, or virus?

I found her swaying like a reed in the wind, asking why I could not speak, challenging me to believe that all was as it should be. My response of “It’s time you owned up to being an alcoholic,” was greeted with silence, resentment, a twisted expression which betrayed both hatred of what had been said as much of herself. What caused this? How to control or cure it? Time has proved there is no answer to these questions except for the alcoholic. What had happened to this beautiful and talented friend, this Trojan woman with looks and personality who radiated her attractiveness in her small but trusted coterie of friends? Maybe the secret was there, hidden in her past. Was it insecurity, this need to be liked? Was it self-deprecation, low self-image, or lack of confidence? Was it inherited …. are the sins of the ancestors dumped on our children? Questions, more questions, always questions! Answers, never! 

 And so, I look back over years of abuse, firstly enjoyed, then tolerated, never challenged, abuse which addles the mind, the judgement, the emotions and dumps upon a homeland beach this human wreck with no mast, no rudder, and no compass. And of the crew, where are they? Just one or two left, those who cannot, through love, indecision, confusion or blame, drag themselves away, and suffer but do not share the guilt. Who are these people? A mother maybe, a husband, a brother or sister, a friend? Fewer than the fingers on a hand, they dither, not knowing what to do, to challenge, to resist, to support without a word, and all tortured in their hearts and minds, distracted by the turmoil, unable to sleep or even to slump in a chair. 

What is human spirit? From where do we gain the strength to challenge and to fail, to try and try again against this evil ghost that haunts our every thought and action? The seeds of our destruction are within, and once planted, like some virus within the register, remain to regenerate at any time. Yet, when we see that pregnant look of potential unfulfilled, dare we hope for a future with a smile. Take a chance, risk it, our minds demand. Nervously, cautiously, desperate for self-belief, our friend and goddess offers us her hand. She is secure, not cured! She is responsible for this hope … is it misplaced? We have no choice but to obey; we cannot and dare not fail her. If she has strength, then so must we. If she has faith, we must believe. As for hope, it is not changed … there to be greeted like the dawn of a new day, the day that Trojan horse was locked up but not away.

Anna's advent!

What do I write? Sympathy? “My thoughts are with you and Pete?” Some trivial comment to sooth the guilt? Or do I challenge the confusion of emotions and stare, white-eyed into the scars of their and our future? Disappointment and despair, trauma and an empty void; they push in on every side; utter helplessness, and the slow monotonous tick of time, an unwanted and changeless company. There is no short cut, no other gear, no quick fix, no spin to resolve this hurt. 

A life, conceived in love is at stake, and human intervention does not give hope, just graphic detail of prospect and potential. This foetus, this child soon to be, is loved, secure in its sack of warm, protective fluid. Oh why? Oh no! Oh yes! Why her? Why them? Why not? Nature has a will and logic of its own. Their hopes and expectations are destroyed, not in the technology of scans, but in facing truth and reality. And how do we come to understand, to make sense of this cataclysmic event, so small, and yet a tragedy for all, and for all time? 

There is no refuge in motherhood shattered in an image on a screen, in abnormality, in this child who lives on for how knows long. A child, her child, their child, our child, everybody’s. Tears which refuse to flow, a heart which will not break, a body shaken to its core, yet unable to bend. Pain is the baptism of maturity, pain is the birth of wisdom; pleasure … a fatuous smile on a mindless face. What now, what next, how to face the future with or without a child? Time is set in the dial of dawn and dusk. Delay is in the nature of prognosis. Our child is damaged, does it matter? After all, all creation has the potential to be loved. This child is their creation and we must care, if not for ourselves, then for this work of art, this foetus, this nameless babe who waits, who rests, who sleeps within those peaceful waters. When will they break, prematurely or at full term? And will our hopes and aspirations be that treasured memory of what might have been, or grow and thrive and shine in a world where touch and sight and sound have that unique and infant magic? Who knows?

An empty world!

I woke as the sun came up. I sit at the window looking out on beauty. Not a sound, not a thought, no motivation, no energy. Time to be still and to listen

Woman as God’s Potter

Amongst the women were several who thought they had known each other since childhood. Others had joined the group in recent years, the wives and partners of colleagues who had moved to Didsbury, Withington and south Manchester for work. Nearly all were professionals, teachers, a nurse, a doctor, two administrators and one who described herself as a simple housewife. What brought these women together was their faith in God, the goodness of the world, and themselves. Never loud or arrogant, each of them was in their different ways secure in their belief in a loving, merciful and forgiving God. This evening as every Thursday was their retreat, a personal reflection on their inner selves, a chance to review and confirm their place in the world. 

Maggie was large and confident, with a personality to match, Carol slight, thoughtful, and cautious; they were sisters apparently with little in common. Peg, a teacher with enormous energy and insight, and Patsy, quiet but businesslike, were working on their lump of clay. Their hands, not used to this activity, were red with the firm but damp material. Their knuckles ached as they kneaded the lump into a representation of themselves. The offertory of the Mass which was to follow would be their opportunity to share a picture of themselves with the group, to unveil their contribution to family, friends and those with whom they worked. Irene’s sculpture was clearly a house or home, Peg’s an intertwined rope. Maggie was working on a pregnant figure, Carol on an intricate design. Only Patsy was struggling, not with the clay, but with her vision of herself. Committed and selfless, she found it hard to see her qualities represented in a piece of clay. She tried shapes, animals and plants, but not one was her. The lesson from St Paul began and ended. The gospel of Matthew, the calling of the apostles, fishermen, farmers and tax collectors was no help. Still Patsy worked on her clay, more and more conscious of the others, mostly content with their sculptures. The prayers began. Bernie offered her brown leaf, asking the Lord’s help wherever the winds of life blew her. Carol prayed that her attention to detail would enable her to pick out those too proud to ask for help. Irene offered her house with the open door as a symbol of refuge for those in need. Peg’s rope had become a mosaic for the harmony of peoples and races. Maggie’s pregnancy had gone full-term and her clay figure was labouring with the inequalities of our society, issues of poverty and empowerment. All put their work and hopes and fears before their Lord. 

As for Patsy, increasingly confused by the clarity and openness of her friends, the tears ran gently down her cheeks wetting and softening the lump of clay. She offered it up and said her prayer, asking that whatever the Lord wanted of her, she would find the strength. Sister Muriel accepted the object, recognising in it and in the woman before her, a chameleon, someone with the skill of responding to every change of circumstance, of adapting to each and every challenge. 

Lord, whoever, whatever and wherever you are, forgive us our arrogance and selfishness; help us open our eyes, ears and hearts to the needs of our world. Amen

On VE day, a war-time memory

A story of the Second World War from 1983! My family and I had our first holiday in France in August 1983, Patsy and I and our five children, Catherine, Helen, Mark, Anna and Ben [then aged four]. We’d never been abroad, never towed a caravan, never camped … quite an adventure, and we allowed two days to get from Didsbury to Dover, calling in to Birmingham to say goodbye to my parents. It was as though we would never return! As we left them, my mum gave me two missals that she had since 1944. Her brother in law, Jack Snell, a sergeant in the South Wales Borderers, had liberated these missals from a French farmyard, brought them home when all but fatally wounded in France, and given them to Muth as she was Catholic, and he thought they might be of use to her. Muth always did feel guilty about having them; she knew they should be with their real owners, that Jack had recognised their attractiveness, but that they should not be with her. [For those who don’t know, missals are the books of readings and prayers that Catholics use at Mass. In this case the missals were printed in both Latin and French, were leather bound with gilt page edgings, and were mementos of the First Communions of Roger Luet of Torteval and of Denise Lebarbet.] 

As a child, I remember being intrigued by these missals, regularly taking them down from the bookshelves and wondering what had become of Roger and Denise. And now the missals were on the back shelf of our Peugeot 504 on route to their French homeland! What a month! Parthenay with the girls’ pen friends, fishing in the Loire near the Chateau of L, La Rochelle and the Atlantic coast, a great holiday which came to an end with the missals still on the back shelf of the car! It was time to set off for Calais, our last day in France, and we were due at the ferry at midnight. The Office de Tourism in La Rochelle was very helpful. Torteval did not appear on their maps either, they had no hotels registered there, so the assistant looked up the telephone directories and was able to tell us that the village of Torteval Quesnay was in Normandy and had eight telephones, hardly a thriving Norman centre. We still had no map reference and Normandy is big! We drove for several hours and knew we were just a few kilometres from Bayeux. Ben was getting fractious so we stopped for lunch in a remote lay-bye. Ben and I walked the fifty meters to a field gate where we were to kick a football around while Patsy prepared lunch in the caravan. At the gate was a telegraph pole with a notice nailed to it ….. Torteval! Quelle chance! 

After lunch we left the caravan in the lay-bye and drove up the narrow road to the church that could be seen on the brow of the hill. Torteval had Mass only once a year on 15th August. It was like the village deserted. We knocked o the door of the house next to the church. It was answered by an old and frail woman who seemed reluctant to answer questions when I began our conversation with the words “pendant la guerre.” Maybe she was often interrupted by old soldiers and those revisiting their wartime haunts. Armed with instructions to the farm of Roger Luet, we drove about four miles, and up a long and straight farm track with the farmhouse in the distance. In the farmyard were teenage children playing. They stopped at the sight of a British registered car approaching. A large blue overalled woman came out into the sunshine. Our children got out of the car, all very excited, and immediately got back in and locked the doors as dogs standing four feet high emerged as well. This left me standing on my own holding the missals behind my back. The farmer emerged and looked quizzically at me. “Etes-vous Roger Luet, monsieur? “ I asked. He replied “Oui monsieur, mais pourquoi ? “ I produced the missal from behind my back. He cried, I cried, and then instead of taking it he ran into the stables at the side saying “un moment, un moment”, and returned within seconds with a white leather presentation case. He took the missal from me, put it in the case, snapped the clasps shut and said “C’est complet.” We went into the farmhouse and sat around the large kitchen table to exchange details of the story ….. how after the D-day landings the Germans fell back from the coast and established a defensive line that passed through the Luet family farm ….. how the family, together with hundreds of locals had deserted their homes for life in the woods for about six weeks before returning home to find it in ruins …… how Roger had kept the presentation case for 39 years despite the comments of his wife who wanted to throw it away when they moved farms ….. how he had always said, “One day! You never know!” …… how his father had died some six months earlier, and how he would visit his mother with his first communion present later that day. 

We returned home, delighted to have put right a little wrong, but now I feel that a little of our family history has been lost, those missals that were part of my home for 39 years. We never heard from the Luet family again; we just drink to their health each time we open up the bottle of Calvados that they gave us way back in 83! This story is dedicated to Jack Snell and his comrades, some of whom gave their lives for freedom and democracy some sixty years ago. May they rest in peace!

Hangover or clear head?

The rain fell steadily all last evening, not heavy but persistent and penetrating; relentless rain washing down the pavements, cars, homes and gardens of our town. I woke to clear and clean air this morning and to a fresh feel, a new beginning? It was as though an older and disappointing world had been wiped away, a cleansing, a baptism that washed away the sin and imperfections of our past. The sun has broken through the clouds, great shafts of early light picking out the features of our garden, the clematis turning in the breeze to warm their open flowers. 

We have our new start, a chance to look forward to a brighter and better world. They say that they have listened to the people and learned the lessons of Iraq. We have given them a bloody nose and slashed the majority to require an more inclusive and consultative approach. Soon we'll see whether there has been a change, whether politicians and people have restored some mutual trust. But what of the press, the media? Will they reflect on their cynicism, their determination to destroy. Did that rain wash them clean as well? Meanwhile, the peoples of towns and townships around the world will continue with their view of Britain and the British. Will this election change them, improve the life chances of those who live in Basra, Beijing or Sao Paolo? Democracy is fragile, especially in the rich and thoughtless West. What would they make of my concerns in Vila Prudente? Did it rain there last night?