The lost art of waiting

Tomorrow I'm going to visit my dear friend D of 60 going on 16. I live in North Devon, which is connected to the Rest of the World by the notorious North Devon Link Road. D lives just across the border, in the Rest of the World so, dear reader, I will be taking my life in my hands for the sake of friendship, just as D does when she comes to visit me.

The Link Road was built in the late 1980s to divert the ever-increasing holiday traffic from the villages along the old A398 route to the coast. The planners did not take into account the fact that a faster road would attract even more traffic and they built a wide single carriage road instead of a decent dual carriageway. In consequence, instead of a pleasurable drive through some stunning farm and moorland scenery, one risks life and limb amid the boy racers and impatient business men and women who aim to get from Barnstaple to Tiverton in record time.

I used to drive this route several times a week and frequently had to pull onto the hard shoulder to avoid a head-on collision with someone doing a reckless overtake in the other direction. Road blocks, diversions and piles of floral tributes are frequent reminders of lives lost and families devastated by moments of careless impatience. One traffic policeman told me that the maximum time that can be gained by driving faster than the 60mph speed limit on that road is 10 minutes. J Alfred Prufrock  measured out his life with coffee spoons, that seems to me a less trivial epitaph than 'I traded 50 years of my life to save 10 minutes.'

This sombre and rambling preamble is leading to an explanation for my recent absence from the blogging scene! My internet connection was intermittent during the recent stormy weather but that, I hope, is now passing. What has really kept me away from the keyboard is this book:

The Meaning is in the Waiting

The Spirit of Advent

by Paula Gooder

It is one of the books that I took to Spain and I used it for my daily reflection. In it, Paula Gooder sets out to "stimulate you to think a little more about waiting: why we do it, what it feels like to be someone who waits, what happens when we don't wait and why God might want us to get better at it." She doesn't offer answers but opens up questions and suggests new ways of looking at things.

I was so inspired by the book that I used it as the basis for an Advent preparation day that I was organising for my parish. While the religious context is obvious, everyone who attended on Saturday agreed that the ideas were relevant to all areas of life and that our impatient society would benefit from rediscovering the art of waiting. (If anyone would like a copy of the study notes that I prepared, I would be happy to send them as a Word document email attachment or to mail them.)

The title, The meaning is in the waiting, is taken from the poem Kneeling by the poet-priest R. S. Thomas. When the group I led began to think about major events in their lives, they were able to see how true this was: the preparation and anticipation of a wedding, a birth or a visit can hold more meaning for us than the actual event, which can seem like an anti-climax, lost in a frenzy of activity. This can be especially true of Christmas Day when getting the house ready, shopping and cooking can leave us too exhausted to appreciate the day itself. The whole of December can be lost in frantic, bustling preparation or it can be a time of active, productive waiting.

Advent is a paradox: we wait for an event that has already happened. I fear that we are losing our sense of awe and wonder and our ability to accept and appreciate mystery. I can live very happily with paradox, I don't want the whole of life to be rationalised but I do appreciate the way that Paula Gooder presents us with a way of seeing the  waiting that connects the past, the end times and the present. This is one of those rare books that I have encountered in my life that leaves me feeling that I may not understand something but I somehow know it.

She uses another piece of poetry, from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Aurora Leigh:

Earth's crammed with heaven,

and every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes -

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

She has convinced me that I want to spend Advent without my shoes, appreciating the opportunity to wait in hope and thoughtful anticipation so that, come Christmas, those blackberries or, more likely cranberries, will taste the sweeter.

Here is a gift I had from the longest-serving friend of my youth. It is a rare image of the pregnant Mary, from a 14th century wall painting; a true picture of waiting in joyful hope:

I will be using this, alongside the Advent wreath, to aid my Advent reflections.

The postman rang twice

Since arriving home, I have had two special mail deliveries. The first was a replacement for the faulty potato ricer that I grumbled about earlier. Thank you, Jacqueline of Oxo Good Grips, for your courteous handling of the problem. I look forward to trying out the new potato ricer later today.

The second delivery was a lovely box and how I love boxes!

Inside, some beautifully wrapped.....

???

These handsome Russian soldiers and charming little babushka dolls.

Thank you, Rattling On, they will grace my Christmas tree and I am sure a certain little granddaughter will be delighted.

Scorchio to drenchio

We left the blue skies and heat of Spain and two hours later we were in

wet and windy England.

 

Thank you for all the good wishes. We had a much-needed break in south-east Spain, where we found absolute peace and quiet with sunshine as a bonus. We stayed at a friend's holiday apartment which is in a complex of 2000 apartments in Murcia. I am sure it is very busy in the summertime but we only saw 10 other people during the whole of our visit.

Since getting home, the internet connection has been very erratic, probably something to do with the fierce storms. So I will just post a few photos of our holiday and catch up with your blogs when the wind drops and normal service is resumed.

We had the use of two apartments, owned by our friend. We lived in the one on the ground floor, with this on our doorstep:

and we used the roof garden of the other apartment to look out on the semi-desert area that is being developed as a golf course:

  Murcia is one of the least developed areas of Spain, almost unknown to tourists. It would be wrong of me to judge from a short  off-season visit, but this golf resort development appears to have been hit by the recession or to be too isolated to attract investment. Perhaps it will all come to life next summer and the bar, restaurant and shops will be full of holiday makers. The vast emptiness and tranquillity suited me very well:

the central market place with its magnificent central pool and empty shops

the bar/restaurant was open but we were not tempted to dine in splendid isolation among yet more empty buildings.

  

Fortunately,  the supermarket had a good supply of local vegetables and we lived, much as we do here in the summer, on salads and vegetable stews.

There are places of great historic interest in the region, in particular Cartagena, where we could have spent many days visiting the museums and archaeological sites but this was a few days for R&R, so we limited ourselves to the lovely harbour area:

where we saw a boat that definitely had our name on it!

We also spent a few hours in the city, which is also called Murcia. We visited the cathedral, which has a grand frontage but is very simple and prayerful inside, unlike the almost overpowering splendour of the cathedrals in other parts of Spain:

Not a touristy holiday, then but I managed to read 5 books and to complete 2 more scarves, so I feel rested and very pleased with my achievement - more of which anon.

Hasta luego!

The MM and I are off for a few days of sunshine and relaxation. Back soon with photos, if I can remember where I have left the camera and without pictures if I can't.

Rumpeta, rumpeta

The very best children's books are those that everyone enjoys, from baby to great grandma. Phrases from them are absorbed and become part of a family's shared experience, triggering laughter that cannot be explained to anyone outside the magic circle of that particular memory.

One of our family favourites is The Elephant and the Bad Baby by Elfrida Vipont, with wonderful illustrations by Raymond Briggs. My children loved it when they were small and we all still pick up on anyone in a restaurant, shop or on TV who fails to ask politely for anything by chorusing, "But you haven't once said please! You haven't ONCE said please!" Now it is granddaughter Millie's turn to love the book. She doesn't understand about manners yet but she loves rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta all down the road, joining in with gusto as I turn the pages.

I know that Millie will go on to find more and more to interest and amuse her in the illustrations and that sooner or later she will think the Baby is naughty and then begin to wonder about the morality of the Elephant. (I have a feeling that this book might be responsible for the increase in interest in philosophy among young people, since 1967.)

A few years ago, I was asked to speak at a conference of clergy and catechists. There were about 120 of them, from all over the south west of England. They had come, I'm sure, to enjoy a peaceful weekend in sunny North Devon, only to find the worst freak storm in years.

I was used to speaking to groups of teachers and medical practitioners in my professional life but to speak about the gospel to a bishop and crowd of Catholic priests was a real challenge. Who would want to preach to preachers? The gospel reading I had to speak about was John 4:3-30, the story of the woman at the well. After tearing up all attempts at writing something spiritual or intellectual (and most of my hair!) I decided to speak from a place that would be entirely unknown to my listeners - my experience as a mother. And I used my battered old copy of The Elephant and the Bad Baby as my visual aid.

I picked out the words of Jesus to the woman, "Give me a drink" and said how my family, listening to this story, would have cried in unison, "He never ONCE said please." I went through the Bad Baby book, linking the demands of the baby with the many demands that are made on priests and teachers, who frequently feel unappreciated. They loved it! I wasn't challenging their position in any way, I was being a Mum, recognising their tiredness and hurts and comforting them with a story. And, like all good mothers, I finished with a message of hope, if they were to take time over the weekend to listen, even amid the sound of those 12 foot waves crashing onto the rocks outside, they might just hear a "Please."

I bet Elfrida Vipont never expected her children's book to provide the basis of a homily! Or, as the Episcopal Vicar for Formation referred to it - a homilette. Well, he had to draw the distinction, I am a woman after all.

Life-changing innovations

This week's Book of the Week on BBC Radio 4 is the delightful and funny Dear Mr Bigelow by Frances Woodsford. The book is the collected letters that Frances wrote from England to the father of her American friend between 1949 and 1961. (If any of my family members happen to see this, the book is top of my birthday wishlist!)

This morning, there was an extract from the letter of 7 November 1959. Frances writes of a television programme she has just seen in which first American and then English housewives are were asked, "What do you think is the innovation which has made the greatest difference to your standard of living in the last ten years?"

She is astonished by the responses from the US:

1. Barbecue cooking
2. Polythene hairspray (perhaps I didn't hear that right!)
3. Power brakes

But she is almost overcome when she hears the English responses:

1. Artificial flowers with electric lights inside
2. Tinned cat food
3. Composition soles for shoes
4. Childbirth - today it is quite painless
5. Plastic mirrors for budgerigars 

I wonder what answers we would hear if that poll were to be taken today?

Frances Woodsford is now 95 years old but she is as witty and articulate as she was when she wrote the letters. You can listen to an interview with her here.

The tale of the pricey ricer

This is the sad story of my potato ricer.

It all began on 6 October, a day like any other until I checked my bank statement. There I discovered two small withdrawals that were not mine. My bank acted swiftly to block further activity on my debit card, refunded my account and sent me a new card, which duly arrived on 8 October.

In the meantime, on 7 October, I had a hospital appointment in Exeter (approx 130 mile round trip). It was raining so heavily that I abandoned my car and, not having a canoe, took the train. After three hours in the hospital and a wet walk back to the railway station, there was nothing for it but a little retail therapy. Book shops were out of the question in my dripping rainwear but just around the corner from the station is that emporium of kitchenalia, Lakeland.

What could they have that I had not already purchased from them via mail order or online? Listen closely and you might hear my family say "Nothing!"  There, however, just inside the door, I spotted the Oxo Good Grips Potato Ricer. Just the thing for making the nursery style meals I now have to produce for my aged mother-in-law. And yes, I did find a few more items that I don't really need but retail therapy has to be applied liberally to be effective.

Many shops now will not accept cheques, so I no longer carry a cheque book; my new bank card had not arrived and so I used that old-fashioned stuff: cash. And that proved to be the next stage in my sorry tale: out of practice in using this commodity, I failed to keep the till receipt!

I made some very fluffy mashed potatoes with the ricer yesterday. I put the ricer in the washing up bowl and I took out not one piece but three!

A frantic scrabble through bags, pockets and piles of paper failed to produce the receipt but I rang Lakeland's customer service and explained. The pleasant voice at the other end checked my account details and must have seen my long record of loyal consumerism. (My kids call my kitchen Lakeland.) But no - no receipt, no refund. I could take the broken ricer back to the store and get a replacement. Mmm, 130 miles, £30 in fuel? Perhaps not.

The morals of the tale:

1. Never do cash transactions.
2. Never buy Oxo products.
3. Never depend on goodwill from Lakeland.
4. Mash potatoes like you've always done.