New Year Greetings

I would like to wish all who call by here, as friends, regular visitors or passers by, happiness, peace, good health and prosperity in 2009. I'll share one of my favourite blessings from Iona:

God bless our good dreaming.
Lift us out of our dull and lifeless moments
so that we may tumble with fools,
skip with children,
walk on water
and fly with angels.

Happy New Year!
Maureen

Coughs, sneezes and comfort TV

I didn't stray very far from the sofa today. Curled up with my box of tissues, hot lemon and honey drinks, a book or two and the remote control for the television, I was determined to enjoy my enforced inactivity.

I watched an old interview of Paul Newman on Inside The Actors' Studio. What an interesting, intelligent man he was and how well he handled those supposedly deep and revealing questions put to all the interviewees by James Lipton. Q. "What is your favourite curse word?" A. "I wouldn't want to favour one above the rest."

Later, I watched the 2004 dramatisation of Nina Bawden's book Carrie's War and then I recorded Swallows and Amazons to watch another day. If you are going to indulge in a day of viewing then it is good to scroll through all the Sky channels and you might stumble across a gem like a recording of Pink Floyd's The Division Bell concert on Sky Arts. The MM and I watched it this evening. We were there at Earls Court in October 1994 when the concert was recorded.

As I said in an earlier post, this is not Pink Floyd...........but this is........

I hope you enjoy it without the accompaniment of coughs and sneezes!

My quilting year

The Christmas visitors have gone and, being home alone, I decided to watch some television. Every programme seems to be a round-up of the year's something or other (the sort of thing they used to do on New Year's Eve but, like most things now, it starts weeks ahead of the year's end), so I thought I might do a little rounding-up of my own year's activities, starting with my efforts at quilt-making.Early in the year, with the first grandchild on the way, I had to try my hand at making cot quilts and a play mat.
These are the ones that I made for Amelia.
Then my niece had a baby girl and I made her a butterfly mat.

At the same time as making these little quilts, I was involved in my most ambitious project to date: a king-sized quilt for my daughter and her husband. I spent the whole year making nine-patch squares from fabrics with a variety of themes, some literary, some nostalgic and some because I liked the colours. Then I had to find plain fabrics to complete the colour strips. I pieced it all by hand and started the quilting in November.

Tanith and Peter were delighted when they opened it on Christmas Day.

This is my first attempt at real quilting and I'm pleased with the design in the plain squares. I wonder what my needlecraft teacher would think of it? She suggested, quite kindly but in an exasperated sort of way, that I should concentrate on academic subjects when I was about 13 years old. I dare say she would point out all the flaws and blemishes but at least she isn't here to make me unpick it all and start again!

The beach on a cold and frosty morning

We walked off our Christmas pudding on the beach this morning. While we (husband, son, friend Keith and I) strolled....
....shivered....

.... and cast long shadows ....

....the Junior Rugby team ran and .....

... planned their next match strategies.
You might recognise the beach from the Pink Floyd album A Momentary Lapse of Reason, although the beds were removed long ago.


This is not Pink FloydBut this is:

When hope is all they have

I have had a wonderful Christmas Day with the house filled with love and laughter, good food and wine, lots of gifts and, above all, the family. Millie and her parents have gone back to their holiday cottage on Exmoor, Great-grandma has been taken home, the house is tidy and quiet once again. Husband and son have settled to watch Wallace and Gromit so I am here thinking about Christmas.

Last night, I went to Midnight Mass at the nearby Royal Marine base, just as news came in that one of their men had been killed in Afghanistan, the second young man from the base in just a few days. At least two families will have had a very hard day today. My thoughts were with them and all our troops and their families as we celebrated the birth of the child of hope.

Conversation at Christmas dinner always turns to stories of past years and Mother-in-law usually holds centre-stage with her stories of life in Zimbabwe. It is impossible for her to grasp what is happening there now; the country she lived in was the most prosperous in Africa and now the people are dying of disease and starvation. For once, we were glad that she has very little consciousness of the present, her long-term memory is still fairly sound and all of those memories are happy ones.

When I came to my desk just now, I found my email alert for the latest edition of the Bulawayo Morning Digest, containing a Christmas message from Mags Kriel. It tells of yet another instance of the suffering of the people of Zimbabwe but it contains the spirit of hope, courage and determination that we associate with Maggie:

WHEELBARROW WONDERLAND.

Living in Zimbabwe my entire life I have an inordinate fondness for the humble
wheelbarrow.

This is undoubtedly the most useful implement in life in the Third World.

I mean look at its uses, apart from the obvious garden work, the humble wheelbarrow in
Africa is used to move food, water, crops, fertilizer, one's earthly goods and chattels ...

Such a common sight, the sight of hundreds of people frantically pushing wheel barrows
up and down the roads of Matabeleland North and South where food aid is so desperately
needed. Empty barrows on the way to the growth points where food aid is distributed by
Christian Care, World Vision, FAO, WHO and the many amazing people who bring hope to
the starving.

The wheel barrow posture on the way to collect food, is desperate, hopeful, desperate,
hopeful, will I need my party card ? Will they give me maize, will they recognize me as a
member of the opposition party ?

And yet once the precious grain has been collected, the mood changes to elated,
euphoric, ebullient and excited.

But that same wheel barrow is also a people carrier, a receptacle to actually move human
beings !!

It was on the Beitbridge to Bulawayo road that I saw the most heart rending sight..... a
woman, heavily pregnant, but obviously desperately ill, being ferried by means of a
wheelbarrow, across the border to South Africa, for medical attention.

She was not a large woman, quite a small frame, she had her hand over her face so we
could not see her age, but the young man who was pushing the barrow, was sweating
profusely and in great distress both mentally and physically.

What was her plight ? Cholera perhaps ? In labour possibly ? Her thin legs were drawn up
awkwardly beneath her to avoid their being dragged on the rough bare ground. Her
clothing was drab and splashed with mud, a filthy cloth was clutched at her face and pain
racked her emaciated shoulders with every revolution of the barrows wheels.

It was nearly Christmas in Beitbridge, Zimbabwe December 2008. The rest of the world
had lights, carols, beautiful windows festooned with holly mistletoe and tinsel, Beitbridge
2008 was heaving with dysentery, cholera and squalid filth.

Mrs Wheelbarrow, name unknown , possibly just another statistic in the WHO records,
babe in tum, was being ferried to an unknown destination just as Mary was ferried on her
donkey so many years ago.

It is unusual to see a pregnant woman in Zimbabwe these days, babies do not come as
easily as they did in days gone by for some reason known only to Mother Nature.

Was a new life beginning in a wheel barrow on the dusty Beitbridge Road ? Or was a
precious life ending, due to lack of medical care, lack of any facilities at all, no drugs, no
rehydration tablets even the simplest of life giving facilities, let alone the necessary sterile
settings one gets afforded for a birth in the First World, the epidurals, the anesthetics, the
blood transfusions etc.

My mind wandered off to a similar situation over 2000 years ago, but that time it was a
slim patient donkey bearing The Pregnant Woman, not a rusty dusty wheelbarrow with a
squeaky wheel.

When we eventually got home, I decided to try it out , the wheelbarrow I mean, HEEHOO
refused point blank but I prevailed upon one loyal fellow called Sebastian who loyally and
manfully indulged my idiosyncrasies by pushing me around the garden in our trusty rusty
wheelbarrow.

Now there are two types of wheelbarrows, there is the flattish open one and the more
narrow and deep variety which is possibly used to move cement or soil. We fortunately
have the former because there is no way my ample derriere would fit into the latter !!

It was a nightmare, even with a blanket placed strategically to cushion the nuts and rivets
and rusty bits. What does one do with one's legs for example, they dangle painfully in all
directions. Within minutes the blood flow has stopped and pins and needles make their
way rapidly up to the knees.

Elbows and arms are another obstacle and the head rattles and bashes against the lip of
the barrow so badly that ones neck feels like it is being mashed by a thousand whips.

Any yet there is hope ... there must be hope for all of Mankind.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices;
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices!
O night divine, the night when Christ was born.

God Bless you all this Christmas, may Peace and Love and Happiness overwhelm you
totally, and may there soon be an end to suffering and hopelessness and despair in
Zimbabwe

I've had a wonderful Christmas Day and I don't feel at all guilty about my enjoyment. I don't intend this to be a melancholy post, I'm just voicing my hope for next year: that many more people will be able to celebrate in peace and security.

Happy Christmas

I wish everyone a happy and peaceful Christmas.

Maureen

The little donkey

When my daughter was four years old, she came out of her Nursery school proudly proclaiming that she was to be "the little brown donkey" in the Christmas play. Her teacher asked if I could produce a simple costume of tights, hat and jumper within the next few days. "No problem," I cheerfully replied.

Brown was definitely not a fashionable colour in the winter of 1983. I scoured the shops of Portsmouth, I rang around all my friends and relations but no brown jumpers, hats or tights were to be found. I contemplated asking the teacher if she could change her script to "a little grey donkey" but instead I bought grey tights and a jumper and dyed them. (To be perfectly honest, I had several failures until I found the right combination of wool and dye, so this was a time-consuming as well as expensive enterprise.) Then I contacted the local Brownie pack and persuaded them to let me have one of their hats. I made a tail and some ears and heaved a sigh of relief that I hadn't let Tanith down. All parents know that feeling at school events! I did think it was rather ungracious of the teacher to look so surprised when she opened the bag, though.

My husband's ship came into port on the morning of the performance and we dashed to Nursery to take our places among the other proud parents. The play began and our little brown donkey came out on cue and performed perfectly as the teacher read a lovely poem:The Donkey

I saw a donkey
One day old,
His head was too big
For his neck to hold:
His legs were shaky
And long and loose
They rocked and staggered
And weren't much use.
He tried to gambol
And frisk a bit,
But he wasn't quite sure
Of the trick of it.
His queer little coat
Was soft and grey
And curled at his neck
In a lovely way.
His face was wistful
And left no doubt
That he felt life needed
Some thinking about.
So he blundered round
In venturesome quest,
And then lay flat
On the ground to rest.
He looked so little
And weak and slim,
I prayed the world
Might be good to him.
Anonymous

First present

The first of our family members have arrived, among them our darling Amelia. She wanted us to have this lovely photograph straight away. Can you blame her?

She is now 9 months old, full of energy, full of fun and, unfortunately, full of a cold. Despite that, she is going to ensure that we all have a magical Christmas holiday.

Christmas at Lark Rise

Flora Thomson describes Christmas Day in Lark Rise to Candleford:

"Christmas Day passed very quietly. The men had a holiday from work and the children from school and the churchgoers attended special Christmas services. Mothers who had young children would buy them an orange each and a handful of nuts; but, except at the end house and the inn, there was no hanging up of stockings, and those who had no kind elder sister or aunt in service to send them parcels got no Christmas presents.

Still, they did manage to make a little festival of it. Every year the farmer killed an ox for the purpose and gave each of his men a joint of beef, which duly appeared on the Christmas dinner-table together with plum pudding – not Christmas pudding, but suet duff with a good sprinkling of raisins. Ivy and other evergreens (it was not a holly country) were hung from the ceiling and over the pictures; a bottle of home-made wine was uncorked, a good fire was made up, and, with doors and windows closed against the keen, wintry weather, they all settled down by their own firesides for a kind of super-Sunday. There was little visiting of neighbours and there were no family reunions, for the girls in service could not be spared at that season, and the few boys who had gone out in the world were mostly serving abroad in the Army."

Anyone who watched last night's episode of Lark Rise to Candleford on BBC television might wonder why there is no mention of the ghostly Cinderella Dee and the wassailing Twister. My guess is that Bill Gallagher never actually got around to reading the books.

I really don't mind Victorian costume dramas filled with artificial snow and sentimentality at Christmastime. My husband had to leave the room because he found it turned his stomach but I thought it was one of the best comedies of the year. I just wish the BBC had come up with an original name and not stolen the title of one of my favourite books. Perhaps Frolic Rise to Clichéford?

The homeless weekend

As the last weekend before Christmas approaches, I am planning to stay as far away from the shops as possible. Here is what G.K. Chesterton thought of the pre- Christmas chaos in his day; things don't seem to have improved, despite the advent of on-line shopping:

The Christmas season is domestic; and for that reason most people now prepare for it by struggling in tramcars, standing in queues, rushing away in trains, crowding despairingly into teashops, and wondering when or whether they will ever get home. I do not know whether some of them disappear forever in the toy department or simply lie down and die in the tea-rooms; but by the look of them, it is quite likely. Just before the great festival of home the whole population seems to have become homeless.

The Thing: Why I am a Catholic

Home

Home is Marilynne Robinson's third novel and, like the previous one, is set in the fictional Iowa town of Gilead. In fact it is the same story as Gilead but told from a different perspective: that of the Boughton family and black-sheep Jack's place in it. This is neither a sequel nor prequel to Gilead but rather a companion piece. it is as if Jane Austen had written Emma and then written the same story through the eyes of Mr Knightley.

Marilynne Robinson's use of a third person narrator in Home, allows us to closely observe the thoughts and feelings of the three members of the Boughton family who are caught up in the brief action of the book. Close observation is Marilynne Robinson's forte and reading her work is like looking at the many facets of a diamond with the aid of an expert jeweller.

The basic facts of Jack Boughton's story are already known to anyone who has first read Gilead; the reader, therefore, knows more than do Jack's father, the frail Reverend Boughton, and Glory, the youngest member of the family who has returned home to care for her father. We readers are, therefore, not concerned about the unfolding of a plot because we already know the secrets and can concentrate on the characters: their relationships, their reasons for keeping secrets, their misunderstandings and reactions to revelations.

The prose is exquisite, as we would expect from the woman who is described as "one of the greatest living novelists" by Bryan Appleyard. I finished both of her books (I have Housekeeping to look forward to as my Christmas treat to myself) with the feeling that I had experienced rather than read them:

She learned the word "waft" sitting in her mother's chair, breathing on a feather. Jack had come into the room, and the stir of air had floated it out of her hand. In those days the boys called her Glory B or Glory Bee or Glory Hallelujah or Runt or Pigtails. Sometimes instead of Grace and Glory they had called their little sisters Justification and Sanctification, which came near irritating their father. But in general her brothers had ignored her, Jack not so completely as the others. He had stood in the doorway that evening and watched the feather circle against the ceiling in the air he brought in with him, and then he had reached up and caught it lightly in his hand and given it back to her. "It just wafted away," he said. She might have been seven, so he would have been twelve. He was himself already then, solitary when he could be, gentle when the mood was upon him, a worry to them all as often as he was out of sight.

This passage illustrates Marilynne Robinson's ability to convey a world of detail in a minimum of words. In years to come, when her books are required reading for students of literature, long essays will be written about short paragraghs such as this.

I would love to discuss many aspects of Home with other readers. It would make a wonderful choice for a book group. The meaning of "home", judgement, forgiveness, belonging and exclusion are just a few of the themes begging to be discussed in depth. My admiration for her writing does not prevent me from disagreeing quite strongly with Marilynne Robinson's points of view on some issues. But I won't go into that here. If you haven't yet read it, I suggest that you put it high on your wish list. Then perhaps might we have an on-line book group discussion in the New Year.

Bagpuss for healthy brains

There have been lots of posts paying tribute to Oliver Postgate who died a few days ago. We have all been exchanging memories of The Clangers, Noggin the Nog, Ivor the Engine and, of course, Bagpuss. It appears, though, that we would have been reading about these national treasures this weekend anyway. According to this article in the Sunday Telegraph, the slow pace of those old stories was ideally suited to the intellectual development of young children.

I know that for every report of a piece of scientific research there is a contradiction waiting to be published, but these results do look pretty convincing. Maybe Teletubbies and In the Night Garden should carry this health warning:

Television affects, among other things, the development of sustained attention, something that is crucial for learning. A report from the American Academy of Pediatrics' journal found that children who watch television between the ages of one and three had a significantly increased risk of developing ADHD-type attention problems by the age of seven.

Moreover, TV viewing between the ages of five and 11 has been linked with short attention span, poor concentration, and being easily distracted later in adolescence.

Of course the solution could be simpler - Bring Back Bagpuss!

To make you smile

....and to distract you from the housework.....

Something understood

December 10th was the fortieth anniversary of the untimely death of Thomas Merton. This photograph of Merton with the Dalai Lama accompanies an article in the Catholic Register and there are many more tributes to be found via your search engine.

The BBC Radio 4 programme Something Understood on Sunday 14 December will feature the Archbishop of Canterbury talking about Merton: The Archbishop of Canterbury Dr Rowan Williams talks to Mike Wooldridge about the influential Trappist monk and activist Thomas Merton, who died 40 years ago. He discusses his fascination with this complex and passionate man, who combined a lifelong devotion to the Catholic Church with an increasing openness to the needs of the modern world and to the wisdom of the East.

The programme will be broadcast at 06:05 and again at 23:30 and you will be able to find it on the Listen Again page later in the week.

A time for turnings

I spent last Saturday at a monastery (that is one of the words that is now regarded as irrelevant for our children), a quiet day of reflection away from the busyness of Christmas preparations.

I find sitting in a garden or taking a country walk more conducive to reflection than being indoors, so it was wonderful that we had a rare dry and sunny day and I was able to spend a lot of time in the grounds.

The theme of the day was Turnings and, because this was an Augustinian monastery, the two inspirational talks were based on some of the writings of St Augustine. I am not very comfortable with Augustinian spirituality (I don't think I ever met a woman who was) but I listened to the exhortation to spend the morning in thinking of what I would wish to turn from and the afternoon in thinking of what I should turn towards. No dramatic Augustinian confessions and conversion, however, just gentle steps along the paths, the quiet study of an unexpected rose and a time for wondering about the next turning.

TURNINGS

Beauty is amongst us,
turning our sorry heads
when we least expect it.
Hidden in the bare words,
but listened for. Listen.

The crops are in flower,
turning towards the sun,
following all the day.
For them the day's enough,
the time they have's enough.

As if a highwayman
held us up with pistols
to give us all he had
and rode away laughing,
his pouches still full.

On a ghostly stallion
the rider turns from war.
His army turns behind,
to learn what ploughs are for
that ghostly horses draw.

I am turning again
to watch the horizon.
Soon there will be a sail.
There is a boat coming,
always a boat coming.

The reasoning mind waits,
settling between what is
and what it believes in.
Finally accepting.
Now, make a beginning.
Robert Davidson

A magic story

I have been away from home all day and so have only now heard the news of Oliver Postgate's death. 60goingon16, Musings from a Muddy Island and Bread and Roses all carry tributes to this creator of childhood favourites. I loved the Clangers and Noggin the Nog but my favourite was always Bagpuss.

The advent wreath

I have been asked to explain the significance of the coloured candles in the Advent wreath. Most people have three purple candles and one pink or rose-coloured one. Some people also have a white candle in the centre of the wreath, this is lit on Christmas Day as a symbol of Christ as Light of the World.

The first purple candle is lit on the first Sunday of Advent. It represents hope. We light another purple candle on the second Sunday, this represents love. Then on the third Sunday we light the pink candle to represent joy. When I was young and we still used Latin for all our church services, the third Sunday of Advent was known as Gaudete Sunday, gaudete being Latin for rejoice. This was the day, near the midpoint of Advent, when the penitential aspect of Advent was relaxed, the purple vestments were put aside for the day and the priest wore rose-coloured ones instead. All of the prayers and readings of the day are about rejoicing. Here is a choir, dressed appropriately in rose-coloured gowns, singing Gaudete, gaudete:


On the fourth Sunday of Advent we light another purple candle, a reminder that we need to make a last effort to prepare for Christmas; this candle represents peace. It is usually at this point that I realise that Advent is fast disappearing and I have been distracted from my intention of spending some time in quiet reflection each day. That is one good reason to have an Advent wreath or calendar in the house as well as in church, if you are like me you will need lots of reminders that this is a time to think about hope, love, joy and peace as well as the presents and parties.

Thanks to Val for this link to the BBC's Advent calendar, with music, poetry and readings for every day of Advent.

The case of the disappearing pictures

I need the aid of a blog detective to find my missing pictures. I have been looking through my blog archives and find that quite a number of past posts have lost one or more of the photographs that were featured in them. Any clues?

Who knows where the time goes?

Another day filled with distractions but no time to write about them. This morning I started preparing bedrooms for the Christmas visitors, then I went into town to buy a few gifts. I had an appointment with my hairdresser, something I normally find very relaxing and enjoyable but today I was filled with dread, having read my son's description of his bout of nausea when having his hair cut. I bore this spoiling of my little treat in mind when choosing his Christmas present!

The rest of the day has disappeared in a flurry of small domestic chores and now I can't get my brain to construct a few simple sentences. Instead, I'll give us all a treat with some Nina Simone....

An award!

Thanks to Margaretha for choosing Random Distractions for this award.
Like em, I can't decide if it is a rose or a rooster but I appreciate the sentiment.

More Merton

Clarence, D's much-loved cat, died last night and she wrote a lovely post about him entitled Dancing to the rhythm of life. I would like to offer D another excerpt from The Book of Hours that I quoted from yesterday, this time from New seeds of contemplation.

The world and time are the dance of the Lord
in emptiness.
The silence of the spheres is the music of
a wedding feast.

The more we persist in misunderstanding the phenomena
of life,
the more we analyse them out into strange finalities
and complex purposes of our own,
the more we involve ourselves in sadness, absurdity and
despair.

But it does not matter much,
because no despair of ours can alter the
reality of things,
or stain the joy of the cosmic dance which is always
there.

Indeed we are in the midst of it,
and it is in the midst of us,
for it beats in our very blood, whether we
want it to or not.

Yet the fact remains that we are invited to forget
ourselves on purpose,
cast our awful solemnity to the winds and join in the
general dance

Happy dancing, D.