A Birth or a Death?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did T.S. Eliot guess, when he penned those now famous lines that he would be striking a note that resounded down through the years and remains poignant and memorable a century later?

'All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different'.

The Coming of the Magi still has the power to charm us each time we hear it read in a seasonal repetition of the Nine Lessons and Carols. It leaves us pondering the depths of age old questions. Is there maybe less of a chasm between these two realities: birth and death than one might think?

Time after time, a soul departs from this earthly life into what, if we are honest, none of us really know - what or how or where or, least possible to contemplate of all, into nowhere. Simultaneously, as if to fill the gap, somewhere another new life is born. An old friend, recently bereaved, wrote us a touching letter, saying that he was strangely comforted, after the sad death of his wife, to hear of the birth of our first grandson, born to the 'little girl' who had been bridesmaid at their wedding, as if somehow nature was compensating for its losses and providing a measure of joy in the scales of life that at least equalled the sorrow on the opposite side of the equation.

Eliot recorded the joy of a new birth, the birth of a King, a Saviour, a Redeemer of the human race, but at the same time the death of an epoch, of an old way of life and the anguish of a journey under impossible conditions. He set down the dissatisfaction that ensued after experiencing a wonder, with the Magi returning home to the old dispensation which had now lost forever the power to satisfy. Was it a birth or a death?

My grandparents, Ida Lucy and Albert, lay side by side, buried in a little churchyard in the village where they lived for most of their lives. The grass grows around their graves, the moss covers their headstone and they rest, together in death as they were in life. It's a peaceful place. My parents, both cremated, have no such lasting memorial and I am forced to wonder whether the old ways were best.

 

Today I am sitting gazing at another churchyard. Behind it the old parish church of Dolgellau stands square-towered and solid, built of local grey stone with the golden, autumnal trees as a backdrop. It nestles in the hollow of the hills, close to the banks of the river Mawddach. It is a place of considerable charm, despite its crop of grey tombstones, a quiet and safe resting place for a host of former inhabitants of this small, friendly Welsh town. A place of death, but also, for its visitors today, a place of warmth, vibrancy and restoration. There is time in this grey churchyard to rest, to contemplate and to be recharged: it is a place of life. The lines, it seems, have been partly erased between those ultimate questions of death and life and the quiet spirit that lives on in this churchyard is both a death and a rebirth.

Have you seen the little piggies?

What is it with pigs? Have you noticed how they worm their way into everything? "Have you seen the little piggies?" wrote John Lennon (a reputed reference to the law and order brigade - the policeman or 'pig'). Less controversially, we hear of pig-sick and pig-headed! What does this say about the little porkers? Do we malign them? What have they done to deserve all this negativity?

If pigs had wings... pigs might fly! Always said with an air of suspicion. Poor piggies. Probably they would enjoy having wings, floating over the pigsty, zooming over the clover fields and soaring into the blue, dreaming their little piggy dreams and landing headfirst in the mud for a quick wallow. Why not?

One may not be able to fashion a silken purse from a pig's ear, one may not be able to buy a pig in a poke or even a sou'wester, but a pig may roll in the mud after a morning's flying and pamper himself... like a pig in clover, as they say. And at the end of the day, one may buy a fat pig and jiggety jig all the way home again. 'This little piggie went to market, this little piggie stayed at home, this little piggie ate roast beef...' What nonsense we all talk about pigs!

Finally, unless anyone else can think of other piggy references, we may finish by gazing in wonder as red-hot molten iron is poured into moulds and ask ourselves why - why pigs? Did they really resemble pigs? Or piglets? Why pig iron? Or are we just pig-ignorant? No doubt someone will put me straight...

Second Childhood?

 

 

 

We crept sheepishly past the ticket office,  trailing fronds of coloured leaves at our sides, hoping the nice lady who had greeted us on our way into the grounds of Powis Castle and wished us 'happy wandering' would fail to notice the spoils we carried with us on our way out. The rucksack overflowed with leaves of all shapes and sizes, twigs, tantalising pieces of bark, mossed over in soft green and sporting growths of lichens in pale sea-green, reminding me of a beautifully fashioned piece of coral reef. Do you remember those primary school collages: coloured leaves stuck with PVC glue to limp pieces of coloured sugar paper, bright and vibrant for a day, then curling up at the edges and all the precious leaves dried and crumbling on the paper?

 

We strolled nonchalantly back to the car, relieved to have passed the guard without being asked to put it all back and accused of denuding the forest floor to the detriment of other garden visitors' enjoyment. Glancing around us, we expected to be encouraged in our theft by seeing children  spilling out of the gardens carrying armfuls of leaves like us, competing with each other to pick up the brightest and best. Families there were, in abundance, obviously enjoying to the full this last of the autumn days before the cold of winter set in for good, but no leaf-waving children. Don't they do it anymore?

 

We had plans for grown-up pursuits of artistry at home in our dual purpose guest room/hobbies room, using our collection of nature's best but what about those children? Had they never had the joy of sticking and glueing, choosing colours and shapes to delight their own innate sense of creativity at this time of year? Was there no time any more for such innocent pleasures? Maybe David Hockney will spark them into action again with his inspired use of I-pad painting apps. Perhaps today's generation will find it preferable to record their own experiences of the season's exploits on screen and text it to their friends. Whatever the chosen medium, the creativity remains dormant in each of us and will hopefully burst out in response to nature's prodding. I hope so. 

Luminosity

I love these writing exercises! Sit me down, surrounded by familiar writing companions, give me a word and start me off. One, two, three, go! Write for ten minutes, spontaneously, carelessly, with abandon and see what happens... 'Luminosity!'

 

Already the word is drawing me in. Fascinated by colour, light, things that glow, I am in my element. I will follow this word, this thought and see where it leads me.

Luminous. It conjures up ideas of pulsating light. It is larger than life, conspicuous and illuminated, standing out from the shadows and very high profile.

This is not where I like to be. I am a shy, reserved person who does not like to be in the limelight (limelight? is this a special kind of greenish glow?). I prefer to sit a little at the edge, listening to what is said, watching what is occurring and only venturing a comment now and then when I have something to say. I do not like to be luminous. However, please do not misunderstand... I am not invisible. I like you to listen when I speak to you. I just like to glow a little - quietly.

But I love luminous people. I love their fire, their spark, their inspiration. So please feel free to glow noisily in my presence. Be exuberant, be passionate, be luminous! The world is a dark place and luminosity can rescue us from the shadows. For me it also carries the idea of transparency - of something that is clear, honest, true and open to view. I like that. I need more transparency in my life - maybe more luminosity. My natural reserve can be an obstacle in this respect.

And so I write. I live sometimes in the shadows. Verbally I can only glow a little, but in the medium of the written word sometimes I dare a little luminosity.

It's raining, it's pouring...

It's raining! Why am I surprised? They told us that there would be rain - lots of it. This is Wales! We are in prime position for all those warm, wet westerlies which traverse the Atlantic and land up right here on the Welsh coast. Living a few miles inland it would be even worse, as those moisture-laden winds rise to ascend our Welsh mountains and drop their load on the hills. So not as bad as it could be! But bad enough.

 

I knew in my head it would rain a lot. I'm not stupid. It wasn't that I didn't believe them. After all, I've never lived in Wales before - how would I know? It's just that I am coming to the conclusion that I don't have a very good knack for visualisation. The summer was gorgeous when it finally arrived (better late than never) - hot and sunny day after day. But if it isn't in front of my eyes I can't see it. In summer I can never imagine, however often it happens, that in winter I will ever feel cold enough to wear my fur coat or cumbersome boots. In winter the reverse happens and I look in horror at all those strappy tops, thin, sleeveless dresses and sandals and think I must have been crazy to buy them. The climate has changed for sure and it will never ever again be warm enough to wear them. Wrong!

 

We drove to Aberystwyth the other day to look for walking boots. Knowing (in our heads at least) that the weather here is not that great in winter (and maybe at other times too?), we determined to be well prepared for outdoor pursuits and get ourselves geared up with sturdy boots, waterproof trousers, etc.  After all, we love the outdoors and don't want to get stuck indoors all winter simply because we don't have the right equipment to stride out along muddy footpaths. We trudged round the shops. The financial aspect was off-putting. Getting prepared is prohibitively expensive. Questioning the staff of various outdoor shops proved even more off-putting. When did 'waterproof' really mean waterproof? For how long would it be waterproof? Under what conditions would this magic word apply? We slunk out of a number of shops, discouraged. For this reason and for the simple fact that neither of us have first hand experience of muddy footpaths in Wales we failed to buy anything. Surely the tracks we had walked along all summer would be OK really? Surely the heavy duty boots we saw other walkers equipped with were not strictly necessary - just a fad probably. Anyway, after paying all that money for brand new boots how could you bear to get them dirty? (We both admitted after the event to having had that thought!) We were only talking about footpaths. We weren't intending any mountain climbing, wading through streams or slithering down scree slopes. No, just a few simple strolls in the beautiful countryside.

 

Yesterday the rain stopped. We had other plans for the day but abandoned them immediately and grabbed the chance. We put on our trainers and went for a walk. November. Autumn leaves. Glorious colourful landscapes and leafy lanes. And mud. Paths that were level, gritty and well made up in summer turned out to be covered in layers of leaf mould, twigs brought down by the recent gales, puddles across the width of the paths and a layer of rich, thick mud! Now why didn't we visualise that beforehand? Maybe there is a part of my brain missing. Maybe my brain only lives in the present moment and cannot adapt itself to thoughts of the future. Maybe the meditation experts would applaud me - after all, these days, living in the moment is much advocated and I seem to be well adapted to the task. However, much as this technique for living is a godsend for relaxing the mind and calming the most frenetic temperament in weekly pilates classes, it doesn't seem to equip us well for the cut and thrust of everyday life. Taking the odd peek at the future and what it is likely to hold and imagining ourselves into the situation so that we can make plans and avoid disasters seems to be a good idea now and then.

 

Never mind, the round trip to Aberystwyth is a mere 80 miles from our village. Perhaps we should make another trip now we are more clued up to the realities round here! After all, in Wales it can be very wet...

Storm Surprise

Tapped the barometer without thinking,

A habitual act, expecting nothing.

Pressure dropped like a stone.
 

Unannounced, it came, at 2 a.m.,

Hurling itself against the bedroom window,

Startling us with its ferocity,
 

Leering through the misted glass,

Baring its sharp yellow teeth

In the early hours of the morning,

 

A lion unleashed, untamed, it roared

Down our valley, heading for the sea,

Terrorising its prey.

Mighty waves lashing the shoreline,

It swept onwards and outwards,

Lost in the dark night.

 

Nature, exposing its terrifying splendour ,

Captures us in its wake, mere mortals,

Surprised by a storm.