tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56421180299176368502024-03-14T18:49:01.381+00:00Musings from Gelli FachHilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-89018473250727481992017-01-27T11:57:00.000+00:002017-01-27T11:57:08.276+00:00To my granddaughters who visited the Holocaust Museum... Poem by Wendell Berry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMSYJ3KW0YdRItI1OsQWXBhj1vEhKTRQ6ulMe3xv45CYEYAiHpXC_dh3irAFFznPdndyMMq1jSOcKK7VFNkQscQS-7ET-q_uwzcetLoxor_9c5dfSZNV6bkTxsCMehRxNqN0vTfc9t53s/s1600/united-states-holocaust-memorial-museum.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMSYJ3KW0YdRItI1OsQWXBhj1vEhKTRQ6ulMe3xv45CYEYAiHpXC_dh3irAFFznPdndyMMq1jSOcKK7VFNkQscQS-7ET-q_uwzcetLoxor_9c5dfSZNV6bkTxsCMehRxNqN0vTfc9t53s/s400/united-states-holocaust-memorial-museum.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">To my granddaughters who visited the Holocaust</span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Museum on the day of the burial of Yitzhak Rabin<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">Now you know the worst</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">we humans have to know</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">about ourselves, and I am sorry,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">for I know that you will be afraid.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">To those of our bodies given</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">without pity to be burned, I know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">there is no answer</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">but loving one another,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">even our enemies, and this is hard.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">But remember:</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">when a man of war becomes a man of peace,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">he gives a light, divine</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">though it is also human.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">When a man of peace is killed</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">by a man of war, he gives a light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">You do not have to walk in darkness.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">If you will have the courage for love,</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">you may walk in light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">the light of those who have suffered</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">for peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">your light.</span></div>
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<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;">~ Wendell Berry ~</span></div>
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<span lang="DE" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><span lang="DE" style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
As the Holocaust Memorial Day Trust says: "HMD is a time when we
seek to learn the lessons of the past and to recognise that genocide does not
just take place on its own, it’s a steady process which can begin if
discrimination, racism and hatred are not checked and prevented. We’re
fortunate here in the UK; we are not at risk of genocide. However,
discrimination has not ended, nor has the use of the language of hatred or
exclusion. There is still much to do to create a safer future and HMD is an
opportunity to start this process." - See more at: <a href="http://hmd.org.uk/page/why-mark-27-january-holocaust-memorial-day#sthash.70HyElCZ.dpuf"><span style="color: blue;">http://hmd.org.uk/page/why-mark-27-january-holocaust-memorial-day#sthash.70HyElCZ.dpuf</span></a></span><span style="font-family: "perpetua" , "serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-21654117798358240712016-03-15T18:12:00.000+00:002016-03-15T18:12:57.818+00:00The Mystery of Brigit: A Video Poem<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<iframe width="320" height="266" class="YOUTUBE-iframe-video" data-thumbnail-src="https://i.ytimg.com/vi/gYKTUjWS_3A/0.jpg" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gYKTUjWS_3A?feature=player_embedded" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe></div>
<br />Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-10174647161148338612016-01-16T08:17:00.000+00:002017-01-25T17:11:49.828+00:00St Bridget's Church, St Brides, Pembrokeshire, Wales<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanDhYbfQu-IzzR9D1TbrqUcsbpSbRLfzZNpBTKxfbDuf5TpxYpGhXjY1gltPQs0xOQlXFqHYK_LVylGNmZjb7_rPdtTlHRWQfWEhc1KRv2CG0fZHNn4vZU3GdvJtyCq2iHLOKjZMhYFw6/s1600/Church+sign.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhanDhYbfQu-IzzR9D1TbrqUcsbpSbRLfzZNpBTKxfbDuf5TpxYpGhXjY1gltPQs0xOQlXFqHYK_LVylGNmZjb7_rPdtTlHRWQfWEhc1KRv2CG0fZHNn4vZU3GdvJtyCq2iHLOKjZMhYFw6/s400/Church+sign.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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In the summer I went down to St Brides in Pembrokeshire to visit Brigit's church. Here, very belatedly, are some of the photos I took. If you're ever in Wales, it's well worth a visit. Unlike the last of her churches I went to at Carrog in North Wales, in this one I felt she was much in evidence. The sign at the front was certainly welcoming and the way the building was positioned, by the sea (in St Bride's Bay) reminded me of my (fairly) local church dedicated to her at Llansantffraid Llanon. This church is bigger though and there are many more reminders of her here.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozx3bhtBr_XLSNFIPnKfxXfJenD79kVP0ESCtiL0Vex5GJA_jOmbGjUgg9Mr2P7x3HnnOGxT9BEoBesD7XZi6Drtghk0-W16dqrtm0XpzQNukHZfkIPxcpn1HrjszgXkOn_1dUmk3yXz8/s1600/Graveyard+and+sea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhozx3bhtBr_XLSNFIPnKfxXfJenD79kVP0ESCtiL0Vex5GJA_jOmbGjUgg9Mr2P7x3HnnOGxT9BEoBesD7XZi6Drtghk0-W16dqrtm0XpzQNukHZfkIPxcpn1HrjszgXkOn_1dUmk3yXz8/s320/Graveyard+and+sea.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyHUEC1M_jrM3ZvwqvbWPehPgG0JGkWvLwybMxc2YmzKywr6ak7na5hYFXo8nfUFNFog687IOQsrhgGZTBARyz5if1jbe-cIaAzVOunSDDXx2JUUp8m9m_C6hRdVYSe0wxVmGkQ4NZpnC/s1600/church+door+and+seat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyHUEC1M_jrM3ZvwqvbWPehPgG0JGkWvLwybMxc2YmzKywr6ak7na5hYFXo8nfUFNFog687IOQsrhgGZTBARyz5if1jbe-cIaAzVOunSDDXx2JUUp8m9m_C6hRdVYSe0wxVmGkQ4NZpnC/s320/church+door+and+seat.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span id="goog_422016612"></span><span id="goog_422016613"></span>The entrance is at the back of the building and there is a grill that depicts a Celtic cross, a chalice and flames or emanations.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXw_FDAEypD1Li7RgoZyh9CGuA5Wtgc4jJxeO4CM_dL_wJIdaMrm1H3Bz7Zx9Qf0X_HvoNFdmt1Xl6vq5p13tl8IPc0SpwqIVhayEXKH7RJbd6NmP1Rbf6TmlzXaTse795gFgfodcM4nF/s1600/Grill+for+church+door.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaXw_FDAEypD1Li7RgoZyh9CGuA5Wtgc4jJxeO4CM_dL_wJIdaMrm1H3Bz7Zx9Qf0X_HvoNFdmt1Xl6vq5p13tl8IPc0SpwqIVhayEXKH7RJbd6NmP1Rbf6TmlzXaTse795gFgfodcM4nF/s320/Grill+for+church+door.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Inside the church I was amused to see a broom and a dustpan and brush under the west-facing windows, reminding me of the homely aspect of Brigit; the Brigit who mentioned her kitchen in her prayer:<br />
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My kitchen! A kitchen of fair God.</div>
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A kitchen which my King has blessed.</div>
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A kitchen with somewhat within.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tSIyQkY8MrrRram8I6OyGL9PD5isPHN60SBp7YmVGwRQojqwo9NFy1swMqpKsQXurGJVL3JyD1UYb4lCv9pCoxUpWMRg7q8lqhJrM8lOyYcNvjqYBmRUpn-fgQLSaefeT8RKkj-Hx-ls/s1600/Dustpan+st+brides.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tSIyQkY8MrrRram8I6OyGL9PD5isPHN60SBp7YmVGwRQojqwo9NFy1swMqpKsQXurGJVL3JyD1UYb4lCv9pCoxUpWMRg7q8lqhJrM8lOyYcNvjqYBmRUpn-fgQLSaefeT8RKkj-Hx-ls/s320/Dustpan+st+brides.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The right hand window shows Brigit with a crozier and a cup or chalice. For some reason I was unable to photograph her face, even though I went back when the sun went in and it became overcast and started to rain. This hasn't happened to me before in her other churches and this is the best I could do. The other window is of Mary (if I remember correctly).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2RQq4oO7ufmsz0qBZITBdTI2mDLKXKa6PKOUxFQeLx_bvn9KBLbPL0b9l3yeNJojpzLQ5ObsEWzbDUxvBCqlfLGkltNeD7iwpzg6dllrhKnvT6rJwcEaTtJxb9teXBituYonQvPjO3cC/s1600/Brigit+windwo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC2RQq4oO7ufmsz0qBZITBdTI2mDLKXKa6PKOUxFQeLx_bvn9KBLbPL0b9l3yeNJojpzLQ5ObsEWzbDUxvBCqlfLGkltNeD7iwpzg6dllrhKnvT6rJwcEaTtJxb9teXBituYonQvPjO3cC/s320/Brigit+windwo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I came across the biggest Brigit's cross I have ever seen, high on the wall on the right before the chancel.<br />
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Further in, on the left, was a collage of a flame.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZTEB1_id7CZdlzMFV131nGhkZEaaAVssOmRoeg26jq0yI1RfgiTDHvfr3Ueg-bzGCtC31w8gZFWnE_yJjAsxqdBfvF9__WX1vRMxKkA8iA93jFwl1eCkWSJvC8Ia2xVMTk_3Dt1FY6sS/s1600/Flame+embroidered.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinZTEB1_id7CZdlzMFV131nGhkZEaaAVssOmRoeg26jq0yI1RfgiTDHvfr3Ueg-bzGCtC31w8gZFWnE_yJjAsxqdBfvF9__WX1vRMxKkA8iA93jFwl1eCkWSJvC8Ia2xVMTk_3Dt1FY6sS/s320/Flame+embroidered.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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On the right of it, was a small and delicate statue of Brigit, barefoot, in a simple cream robe, holding a thumbstick staff rather than a crozier. Unfortunately the statue is a little chipped and needs a touch more paint in places but it is still lovely to see a more modern representation of her.</div>
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In the left transept is a stand for votive candles with a poster on one side which says that lighting a candle is a prayer, a parable and a symbol<br />
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of love and hope, </div>
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of light and warmth, </div>
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our world needs them all</div>
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Another poster asks the pilgrim passing by 'to light a candle of hope for peace in our land and throughout the world. Pray for St Bridget's Ireland, peace in a world of conflicts, peace in your own heart'.<br />
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-38104756040164982552015-12-05T17:33:00.000+00:002015-12-05T17:33:42.311+00:00Prayer, the Abbess of Kildare and Turning Back the Streams of War<br />
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<span class="style56" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="style60"><span class="style60"><span style="background-color: white; color: #013158; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><a href="https://draft.blogger.com/null" name="Cill_na_Craoibhe_Olóige/The_Olive_Branch" style="color: #0000cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Cill na Craoibhe Olóige/The Olive Branch</a> is a group within </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #006868;"></span></span><span class="style60" style="background-color: white; color: #013158; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"><a href="http://www.ordbrighideach.org/" style="background-color: white; color: #0000cc; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Ord Brighideach </a>which has a particular focus as part of its flame-keeping vigil</span><span class="style60" style="background-color: white; color: #013158; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> to pray for peace, justice, and healing for those affected by war and conflict. </span></span></span><span class="style56" style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif; text-align: justify;"><span class="style60">The 8th century Bretha Crólige (a collection of legal material relating to medical provision) gives a list of 12 women excluded from the rule of nursing in Irish law (instead they are compensated by a fee being paid to their kin). One category is 'a woman who turns back the streams of war' and a gloss on this states 'such as the abbess of Kildare or the female </span></span><span class="style47" style="background-color: white; font-style: italic; text-align: justify;"><span class="style18" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-weight: bold;">aí bell teoir</span><span class="style56" style="font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif;"> </span></span><span class="style56" style="background-color: white; font-family: "times new roman" , "times" , serif; text-align: justify;"><span class="style60">[lit. 'flame of the theoretical life' thus: contemplative, recluse, hermit], one who turns back the manifold sins of war through her prayers.' Whether or not this practice started in Brigit's time it was presumably one of the functions of the Abbess of Kildare during the years when the sacred flame was tended there.</span></span></div>
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Today as I close my flame-keeping vigil for Ord Brighideach International, I recite the prayer I wrote in 2011. Now, more than ever, we need to keep peace in our hearts, our minds and our intent.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />Brigit,<br />We ask for the light of your flame<br />To enable us to see clearly,<br />To illuminate the darkness,<br />To show us the shadows<br />Cast by our own light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />May the flame of your inspiration<br />Help us to express and comfort,<br />To understand and explain -<br />Encourage us and guide our actions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />We ask for the gift of your healing<br />To soften our pain,<br />And mend the wounds<br />We have inflicted on one another -<br />Bless us and make us whole.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />May the fire of your forge<br />Enable us to shape our future<br />With courage and determination,<br />Using the flame of justice,<br />Tempered by compassion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "perpetua" , serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br />Brigit,<br />We ask for your protection<br />Against all that would harm us.<br />May the beacon of your flame<br />Show us a path to peace<br />That all may follow.<br /><br />Rob fír/May it be true.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-64926717217093325142015-09-11T10:30:00.000+01:002015-09-11T11:47:26.432+01:00Flame-Keeping for Brigit: Sophia and Brigit<br>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">My flame-keeping shift for Ord Brighideach fell
during my stay at Gladstone’s Library this time. I wasn’t able to keep a candle
alight for 24 hours while I was there, but there is an inner flame as well as
an outer flame that needs tending and that I paid attention to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">I wore my Brigit’s cross pin throughout the period and
visited the chapel/meditatation space evening, morning, afternoon and evening
to sit quietly in contemplation and recite poems and prayer. There is something
special about having a place set apart for spiritual work. Although I feel I
can talk to Brigit anywhere, such a place seems free of any outside
interference, more concentrated and focussed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">I also spent time outside, since it was a day
without rain, though not as warm as one would hope for in August. At the back
of the building is a garden with a statue of Sophia, Greek for Wisdom, viewed
as a goddess by the Gnostics and others.<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">Carved by sculptor Tom Waugh, Sophia has graced the
gardens since 2010. Around her are four stone benches carved in Welsh and English with the words
Cariad/Love, Heddwch/Peace, Gwirionedd/Truth, and Cyfiawnder/Justice. Words
which are eminently fitting for contemplatation during flame-keeping. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">In fact, Sophia has much in common with Brigit: remember
that in Cormac’s Glossary she is described as ‘Brigit the female sage or woman
of wisdom’. </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 115%;">The Book of Wisdom (judged apocryphal but of spiritual value by the Protestant church) says this about
Sophia:</span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Wisdom is more mobile than any
motion;<br>
because of Her pureness She pervades and penetrates all things.<br>
She is a breath of the power of God,<br>
a pure emanation of the Glory of the All-Mighty…<br><br>
She is a reflection of Eternal Light<br>
and image of His Goodness.<br>
Though She is but one, She can do all things,<br>
and while remaining in Herself, She renews all things;<br>
She is more beautiful than the sun<br>
and excels every constellation of the stars…<br><br>
She reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other,<br>
She orders all things well.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space">Chapter 7, vv 24 - 8:1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">In Proverbs she is described as ‘standing
in the top of high places, by the way in the places of the paths’ and says:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Hear; for I will speak of excellent
things; and the opening of my lips shall be right things.<br>
For my mouth shall speak truth; and wickedness is an abomination to my lips.<br>
All the words of my mouth are in righteousness; there is nothing froward* or
perverse in them.<br>
They are all plain to him who that understandeth, and right to them that find
knowledge.<br>
Receive my instruction and not silver; and knowledge rather than choice gold.<br>
For wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are
not to be compared with it.<br>
I wisdom dwell with prudence and find out knowledge of witty* inventions…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><br>
Council is mine, and sound wisdom: I am understanding; I have strength.<br>
By me kings reign, and princes decree justice.<br>
By me princes rule, and nobles, even all the judges of the earth.<br>
I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me…<br>
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I was set up from everlasting, from the beginning, or ever the earth was…<br>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">Blessed is the man that heareth me,
watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors.<br>
For whoso findeth me findeth life...<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space">Chapter 8, vv 2; 6-12; 14-17; 23; 34-35<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;">There are parallels here with Brigit
the goddess of sovereignty and Brig the jurist. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><o:p> </o:p></span></span><span style="line-height: 16.8pt;">Behind the statue of Sophia, the path
leads to a woodland area, one of my favourite places to stroll and another good place to sit and contemplate Wisdom as the dappled light falls around you... </span><br>
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<span style="line-height: 16.8pt;"><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">"For whoso findeth me, findeth life"... Musing on this I thought of the words of Jesus "I am the way, the truth and the life" - these words could apply equally to Wisdom (for her mouth speaks truth). Perhaps he saw himself as wisdom. Or perhaps, as in Gaelic Christianity, if Brigit, the Woman of Wisdom, was his foster-mother, Wisdom is what she passed on to him and what he came to embody.</span></span><br>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">"She is a reflection of Eternal Light</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">and image of His Goodness.</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">Though She is but one, She can do all things,</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">and while remaining in Herself, She renews all things;</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">She is more beautiful than the sun</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">and excels every constellation of the stars…</span><br>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">She reaches mightily from one end of the earth to the other,</span><br>
<span style="line-height: 22.4px;">She orders all things well."</span><br>
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<span style="line-height: 22.4px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">* witty - clever, wise *froward - wilfully contrary</span></span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-47277803148229609652015-08-10T12:11:00.000+01:002015-08-11T10:48:37.229+01:00Cernunnos at Lughnasad<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Cernnunos at Lughnasad<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Although I haven’t seen any precedent for it, I celebrate Cernunnos
at Lughnasad. This arose as a purely intuitive act but I realise that it makes sense
in many ways. First of all, for me personally, since Lughnasad completes the growth cycle of the interaction of the Land with the People begun at Imbolc when Brigit presides over the initiation of the growing season, it places Brigit and Cernunnos at opposite sides of the circle of the year, a symmetry I find pleasing as these are the two divinities I engage with. Secondly it makes sense in terms of what I have come to believe about Cernunnos. As I’ve written before
(see the sidebar where they usually appear as some of the most popular posts),
I consider that Cernnunos is a very ancient god dating back to the time when
our ancestors were hunter gatherers. Lugh, who shares some attributes with him,
I believe comes from the time of the rise of agriculture. The festival of Lughnasad celebrates Lugh, the hero of the harvest,
who, in the different stories told about him, wrests it from the hostile forces
of nature (the Fomorians or the Cailleach) through various means - battle,
skill, strength or trickery. <br /><br />
The work of the hunter gatherers, however, would have been on-going throughout
the year, rather than tied to the growing season and the final harvest. Cernunnos
being not only a Lord of Nature but also a mediator god, allows humans to
access the abundance of nature and keeps the destructive forces at bay. In
exchange he would expect offerings and worship. The model here then is not that
of a battle between human beings and nature but one of exchange, reciprocity
and mutual respect. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The Hunting Blessing and Carmichael’s commentary in the Carmina
Gadelica give some idea of the ritual aspect of hunting, the anointing of the
hunter and the calling on divine beings, along with the restraint necessary to ensure the stock of animals and birds was not
depleted thus achieving a balance with nature:<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">A YOUNG man was
consecrated before he went out to hunt. Oil was put on his head, a bow was
placed in his hand, and he was required to stand with bare feet on the bare
grassless ground. The dedication of the young hunter was akin to those of the
'maor,' the judge, the chief, and the king, on installation. Many conditions
were imposed on the young man, which he was required to observe throughout
life. He was<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>not to take life
wantonly. He was not to kill a bird sitting, nor a beast lying down, and he was
not to kill the mother of a brood, nor the mother of a suckling. Nor was he to
kill an unfledged bird nor a suckling beast, unless it might be the young of a
bird, or of a beast, of prey. It was at all times permissible and laudable to
destroy certain clearly defined birds and beasts of prey and evil reptiles,
with their young.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> Hunting
Blessing<br /><o:p></o:p></span></i></b><br />
<b><i><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></i></b>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">FROM my loins begotten wert thou, my son,<br />
May I guide thee the way that is right,<br />
In the holy name of the apostles eleven<br />
In name of the Son of God torn of thee.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In name of James, and Peter, and Paul,<br />
John the baptist, and John the apostle above,<br />
Luke the physician, and Stephen the martyr,<br />
Muriel the fair, and Mary mother of the Lamb.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In name of Patrick holy of the deeds,<br />
And Carmac of the rights and tombs,<br />
Columba beloved, and Adamnan of laws,<br />
Fite calm, and Bride of the milk and kine.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In name of Michael chief of hosts,<br />
In name of Ariel youth of lovely hues,<br />
In name of Uriel of the golden locks,<br />
And Gabriel seer of the Virgin of grace.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The time thou shalt have closed thine eye,<br />
Thou shalt not bend thy knee nor move,<br />
Thou shalt not wound the duck that is swimming,<br />
Never shalt thou harry her of her young.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"> The
white swan of the sweet gurgle,<br />
The speckled dun of the brown tuft,<br />
Thou shalt not cut a feather from their backs,<br />
Till the doom-day, on the crest of the wave.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">On
the wing be they always</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">
Ere thou place missile to thine ear,<br />
And the fair Mary will give thee of her love,<br />
And the lovely Bride
will give thee of her trine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"> Thou
shalt not eat fallen fish nor fallen flesh,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">
Nor one bird that thy hand shall not bring down,<br />
Be thou thankful for the one,<br />
Though nine should be swimming.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><br /> </span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">The
fairy swan of Bride of flocks,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;">
The fairy duck of Mary of
peace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">How far we have come from this kind of honouring and
restraint in our own dealings with nature! As I’ve said before, I believe that we
modern humans have Lugh’s strength, skills and ingenuity in abundance and
are aggressively continuing to subdue nature and ensure plenty (for some) in a
way that doesn’t have anything to do with honour, respect or reciprocity and
which is leading to a great extinction of species, depletion of the earth’s
resources and will likely to lead to our own downfall.</span></span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There is a danger of course of romanticising the past (Carmichael himself may have embellished some of the material he collected) and
taking for granted the many benefits of the present but I see no harm in being
inspired by elements of the past to create a vision that pays tribute to both
Cernunnos and Lugh; which acknowledges our strength, skills and ingenuity but combines
them with honour and respect for the true source of all our abundance and the
maintenance of a balance between us and nature - since there is nothing we have that
does not come directly or indirectly from Earth and Sky. The way we are moving at
present is a far cry from this vision but I consider it necessary to maintain it
and try to bring it into reality even in small ways. Divergent thinking - as
diversity in general - becomes useful, if not vital, when circumstances and
situations change; a strategy for survival. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So imperfectly, but doing the best I can, I am trying to
take care of the land I have in a way that is respectful, that does not destroy
or resort to overkill, that gives something back to the earth and allows a
share of the harvest to some of the creatures that inhabit this little patch
too. An honouring of Cernunnos keeps me mindful of this.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">At this festival when I am celebrating the beginning of the harvest, I
make an offering to him of a few wild strawberries as a portion of
the Wild, a few of the first runner beans as a portion of the food I have
cultivated and, as a portion of the wider harvest, blueberry scones made with blueberries from the garden and wholemeal organic flour, with blackcurrant jam made by my
daughter-in-law with blackcurrants from her garden. Flowers too of course,
mainly roses, with marjoram, mint and vervain, the enchanter’s herb.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">I wear a mask during the
rites. It’s something instinctive - I’d never wear a mask for Brigit - but
somehow in doing so I become self and not-self and feel as though I can relate
to Cernunnos better in an in-between state. The mask is green with a suggestion
of foliage so I take on an aspect of the Wild that we come from. An aspect of
the Other which is also Ourselves</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-37518604364258698692015-07-07T16:07:00.002+01:002015-08-05T12:45:25.134+01:00Yoga for Disabled People<div style="text-align: center;">
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It was International Yoga Day about 2 weeks ago - so as usual I am writing a related post belatedly! But better late than never. I wanted to talk here about yoga for disabled people since I have been discovering the benefits of it. If you are not disabled yourself, please pass this on to anyone you think might benefit (including people bound to a office chair for most of the day!). Of course, this comes with the proviso that not all exercises are suitable for all people so please consult your yoga practitioner or health-care expert. For instance, I suspect that the twists and half-twists aren't good for my spine which is curved and now has arthritis so I am not doing these until I have consulted my osteopath later this month. I tend to go ahead with what feels right to me and ask her if I'm not sure but diving in isn't the right course for all kinds of disability or indeed everyone.<br />
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Some time ago I found a book in a charity shop called Yoga for the Disabled by Howard Kent. The book is out of print but there are a few second-hand copies available on-line. Reading the first few chapters I was inspired by what the author was saying. Basically, as it says in the Upanishads, "Breath is life and life is breath". So, as Howard Kent states: "If we are to seek to combat our difficulties, whether they be mental or physical - and, in fact, all difficulties are ultimately a combination of these factors - we must begin with the breath". Natural respiration provides the whole basis of the body's energy. "It balances oxygen and carbon dioxide, it ensures the effective combustion of oxygen with the food we eat to make the energy forms of proteins and other essential substances. It also controls the varied electrical impulses which are basic to the whole of our life and these monitor the functioning of all aspects of the body." If we are alive we breathe, even if we are disabled, and so by focusing on 'right' breathing, we can enhance our health.<br />
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This made sense to me - and I also had the intuition that the fire I was lacking, which I talked about <a href="http://musingsfromgellifach.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/contemplating-fire-and-water-in-chapel.html">HERE</a>, might be encouraged and fed by focusing on my breathing.<br />
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Nevertheless, although inspired and 'getting' the message I found myself putting off the practice. The exercises he advocates are mainly done on the floor (some are suitable for people in wheelchairs however) and I have difficulty getting up and down from the floor. Then again there is the question of where there is a suitable bit of floor, big enough and not too draughty or dusty. I let these things put me off starting... until just after Imbolc or Brigit's Day this year when I began to feel a renewal after a year of being unwell and having to reorientate myself not so much from my direction in life as the way I was moving along it. I suddenly began to feel the urge to spend more time in practice rather than in my mind, and physical practice through yoga felt like an important part of this. For my birthday a few days later, a good friend sent me a book called Chair Yoga: Seated Exercises for Health and Wellbeing by Edeltraud Rohnfeld<b> </b>(there is also a DVD I've just discovered). She'd ordered it unseen and wasn't sure how useful it would be but it is excellent and I was able to take to it easily.<br />
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So for 5 months I have been doing the exercises in it each morning, along with elements of my spiritual practice. I have occasionally missed a morning or two when very tired or rushing out without having left enough time but it has become a habit now. At first I was eager to do it each morning, then after a few weeks I found it was becoming a bit of a chore. Examining why I realised it was because I was finding some of the exercises rather hard work. I have a belief in hard work - which isn't very good for me - but decided that if they were stopping me from doing any yoga perhaps I should cut down on the number of times I did those particular ones rather than not do any. So that is what I did and it has worked well. Some mornings I even do more of those particular ones.<br />
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There are exercises for all parts of the body including the finger and toes and eyes... if you can move any part of your body there will be an exercise for it - and if you can't, you can breathe. Focus on what you can rather than what you can't.<br />
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I had a sense that it would be good not to leave out my paralysed leg. There are one or two muscles in it that I can twitch slightly - though often not enough to be visible to the naked eye. So I have twitched those and made any tiny movements I can. I'm not sure if the twitches and movements are becoming any stronger, I think they are, though marginally so, but I am more in touch with my leg and find myself 'twitching' sometimes when sitting at my desk - like now. Any improvement in muscle tone will be beneficial in terms of blood circulation which will then benefit my general circulation. At any rate, from my state after Christmas when I could hardly stand because of pain in my un-paralysed foot, I'm now pain-free except when I really overdo it and get a reminder from my foot: "Think of me! I've been doing most of the work for 63 years, give me a rest and a massage." So I do. "Think with your body" the Buddha says.<br />
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Perhaps the most delightful change is that doing the yoga along with the time set aside for prayers and liturgy, affirmations and orientation for the day is bringing my awareness of self into that of body/mind/spirit instead of being mainly in my head and ignoring my body as too problematic. One of the things that contributes to this is that in everyday life my movements on crutches are difficult and ungainly whereas my yoga movements are full of grace, calm and a quiet intention. They feel more like an expression of my inner self.<br />
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This YouTube video gives you a taste of it:<br />
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Finally, to quote the Buddha again: Set your heart in one place and nothing is impossible to you.<br />
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<u>Recommended Books</u><br />
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Yoga For The Disabled: A Practical Self-Help Guide to a Happier Life by Howard Kent, Sunrise Publications, 1996<br />
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Chair Yoga: Seated Exercises for Health and Wellbeing by Edeltraud Rohnfeld, Singing Dragon, 2012<br />
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There are quite a few videos on YouTube - search for Yoga for Disabled People. In particular I'd recommend Matthew Sanford who appears in the video at the head of this post. Search under his name or for his website: <a href="http://mindbodysolutions.org/">mindbodysolutions.org</a><br />
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-91234450969044022762015-06-13T14:56:00.000+01:002015-06-13T15:00:40.876+01:00The Gardener and The Goddess - now available here<br />
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Poet and writer, Jane Whittle, explored Britain alone on foot for many years before settling on the coast of West Wales, where she began to make a garden from a patch of un-tamed mountainside 'in a place where rainbows land'. The poems in this book arose from that mysterious space between dream and reality experienced in the landscape, first by solitary long distance walking and then by sinking a root in one unspoiled place. They are accompanied by the author's own illustrations.<br />
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The poems are divided into two halves. The first half are in the voice of The Gardener, the woman who has stopped her physical journeying and has settled, finding 'new strength/to stay at home'. We are taken on the Gardener's inner journey through the seasons, from spring when 'New arrivals/crowd their neighbours/budding intermezzos drown in brazen greens' to winter, when 'The earth is hard on new flowers/broken by gales and frost'. Through her we meet the Goddess in different guises as she allows the Gardener to see the magic of the garden emerge and to experience her at the source of much that is around us - in a faltering stream, in the colours of the rainbow, in a leaf uncurling, in the cycle of elderberries from flower to wine.<br />
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In the second half we are privileged to hear the voice of the Goddess herself, first as Eurynome from early Greek myth who created the earth with the help of the serpent Ophion but banished him when he tried to take all the credit, then as she reveals herself in water, in wind, in a poem but above all in the earth. 'Lay yourself down/ and become land' she says, 'Listen - you will hear me'. 'As I turn and re-turn/, I return you to life.../ Remember my story.'<br />
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Jane Whittle's language throughout is skillful, simple with the simplicity of archetype, conveying in a few well-chosen words a depth of meaning that offers us new insights and delights.<br />
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Copies of The Gardener and The Goddess published by Brigit's Forge ( ISBN 978-0-9574106-1-9) are available to buy from this website (see sidebar) whether or not you have a PayPal account.</div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-56643281793004341242015-03-20T14:08:00.003+00:002015-03-20T15:02:55.545+00:00Brigit - Provider of the Seed-Spreader<br />
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I recently found a reference to Santes Ffraid (St Brigit) which I hadn't heard of before. It's by the 16th century Welsh poet William Cynwal in his poem O <i>Blaid Y Gwragedd - </i>In Defence of Women<i>. </i>The poem was written in response to a satire by another poet against girls and women '<i>am ddryced eu' marweddiad/ yn nechreuad yr oesoedd</i>' - 'for the ill of their behaving/in the beginning of ages'. Eve, of course.<br />
<br />
He begins by recounting the story of Jesus and the woman who was caught in adultery and about to be stoned:<br />
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<i>Wrthynt Iesu a ddyfod<br />'Hwn ohonoch sy heb bechod,<br />coded garreg, rhoed ddyrnod;<br />ei llabyddio sydd amod'.<br />Ac euog oedd yr holl wlad<br />a Duw y Tad yn gwybod.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
to them Jesus said, 'Let<br />
him of you who is without sin<br />
raise a stone and fist<br />
to kill by covenant.'<br />
The whole land was guilty rather<br />
and God the Father knew it.<br />
<br />
He goes on to say that Mary came from Eve as recompense for her sin and arrogance and that the Trinity gave five virtues to maids and not to men:<br />
<br />
<i>wedi hynny fe ddyfod<br />ac iawn i bawb gydnabod<br />y llanwai hil y wraig </i><span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>wâr</i></span><i><br />nef a daear hynod.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
With that in mind it's proper<br />
that we should all<br />
acknowledge<br />
gentle woman's progeny<br />
as filling sky and earth.<br />
<br />
He outlines the five virtues and then names woman after woman who have contributed something of value to humankind. According to the poem:<br />
<br />
<i>Pan oedd y byd wrth ddechrau,<br />heb na gerddi na llysiau,<br />Seres, gwraig o'r rhyw gorau<br />a ddyfeisiodd bob hadau<br />i drwsio bwyd yn ddiwael<br />ac i gael aroglau.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
And when the world began<br />
with no herbs or gardens,<br />
Ceres, the best sort of wife,<br />
invented every seed<br />
to garnish the fine food<br />
and give it a good flavour.<br />
<br />
But the accomplishments of the women are not always what you might expect: Nicostrata, of the tribe of Seth and Adam <i>o'i hathrylith yn fwya' / ac o rad Duw gorucha' - </i>out of her greatest learning/ and God's highest grace - produced the origin of the first Latin letters and a girl called Isis <i>'a hon oedd ddoeth i'w bywyd/ a chraff ymhob celfyddyd/ a mawr ei chyfarwyddyd - </i>a wise one in her living/ and sharp in every art/ and a great story-teller - devised in pictures the characters of Egypt. Palathas invented the means to spin and weave wool when everyone was naked.<br />
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Brigit merits her place because:<br />
<br />
<i>Pan oedd </i><em>wŷr </em><i> fry'n troi cwysau</i><br />
<i>ar ol erydr a thidau,</i><br />
<i>heb orffwys na chwarae<br />yn poeni ei traed a'u breichiau,</i><br />
<i>dyfeisiodd San Ffraid leian<br />chwelydr harddlan eu moddau.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
When men of old turned furrows<br />
behind the plough and chain,<br />
without rest or play<br />
torturing their feet and arms,<br />
Saint Brigid the sweet sister<br />
made seed-spreaders for them.<br />
<br />
The virtues of women and girls are the traditional ones - they are noble, pure, proper, courteous, gentle of speech, fair, sensible and prudent - but they are also learned, wise - and they invent things needed to make the lot of humankind easier.<br />
<br />
I rather like the description:<br />
<br />
<i>Gwraig sy lon a bonheddig,</i><br />
<i>fal gwenynen o'r goedwig</i><br />
<i>hi a wna lawer o' chydig</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
A woman is merry and noble<br />
and, like a bee of the woods,<br />
she will make much from little.<br />
<br />
The poem ends:<br />
<br />
<i>O daw gofyn a gwiriaw</i><br />
<i>yn uchel ac yn ddistaw</i><br />
<i>pwy a wn</i><i style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px;">âi yr araith hylaw</i><br />
<i style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px;">ar draethodl a'i myfyriaw,</i><br />
<i style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px;">Wiliam Cynwal, ac nis gwad</i><br />
<i style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px;">pan fyddo'r wlad yn gwrandaw.</i><br />
<i style="font-family: Perpetua, serif; font-size: 18.6666660308838px;"><br /></i>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">If it is asked and verified</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">aloud or secretly</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">who made this fit oration</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">and rhymed this meditation,<br />William Cynwal won't deny it</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">though you cry it through the land.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Good for him I say. And I'm delighted to have this glimpse of another tradition about Brigit in her capacity of compassionate provider.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(All quotations and translations from The Burning Tree by Gwyn Williams, Faber and Faber Ltd, London, no date.)</span><br />
<br />Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-68160196568756417172015-03-10T17:56:00.000+00:002015-04-26T18:41:12.977+01:00International Women’s Day: Poems about Rape<br>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In the latest edition of <b><a href="https://mslexia.co.uk/">Mslexia</a></b>, the magazine for women writers, Sarah Hesketh writes that deeply intimate poetry collections are a form of feminist activism. She mentions the poetry blog<a href="https://peonymoon.wordpress.com/2013/11/01/against-rape/"> series of poems </a><i><a href="https://peonymoon.wordpress.com/2013/11/01/against-rape/">Against Rape</a> </i>on the Peony Moon blog and, reading the poems, I remembered that I’d planned to write a post last year for International Women’s Day on poems about rape. Here it is, a year and a day late.</span></span><br>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As Moniza Alvi, writing in in her Foreword to the anthology <b><a href="http://samples.sainsburysebooks.co.uk/9781136615856_sample_819752.pdf">Feminism, Literature and Rape Narratives</a></b> points out, although rape is increasingly in the public eye, it still bears the stigma of taboo – “of that about which we dare not speak or write”. She goes on to say:</span></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“Rape is an unsafe subject for poetry, while war is a wholly accepted category, and yet rape is constantly reported as a facet of war. Primarily, rape is considered a women’s issue, though this is, of course, hardly the case, and perhaps this is partly why it is considered a literary taboo, particularly when conveyed from a female viewpoint.”</span><br>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The poems in Alvi’s book <b><a href="http://books.google.co.uk/books/about/Europa.html?id=CMEgAQAAIAAJ">Europa</a></b> contain many poems about rape as well as other trauma. She believes that any subject can be suitable for poetry and because poetry has potential for “the piercing and memorable” it seemed important to her that it is used to influence this particular instance of trauma.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Yet there are concerns. If, as Alvi posits, one aspect of poetry is to give delight, should rape poetry be a different kind of poetry? Her answer is to use myth to explore rape and trauma, “giving a kind of delight through the imaginative qualities of the story”. I find myself uncomfortable with the word ‘delight’ in this context even though I know what she is getting at. I think it might be more suitable to say that myth and metaphor are able to make the poem ‘aesthetically pleasing’. I am aware that some of those who hear accounts of rape enjoy them salaciously, delight in them, as in Adrienne Rich’s poem <i><a href="http://hoydenabouttown.com/2012/04/01/sunday-poet-adrienne-rich/">Rape</a></i> where the speaker has gone to report her rape to a cop who has grown up with her brothers:<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">…And so, when the time comes, you have to turn to him,<br>the maniac’s sperm still greasing your thighs,<br>your mind whirling like crazy. You have to confess<br>to him, you are guilty of the crime<br>of having been forced.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And you see his blue eyes, the blue eyes of all the family<br>whom you used to know, grow narrow and glisten,<br>his hand types out the details<br>and he wants them all<br>but the hysteria in your voice pleases him best…</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span>Using myth and image to create distance is a useful device for discouraging such voyeurism and trying “to bring a kind of beauty or artistry to a discordant subject”. Alvi’s poems are beautiful, clear and sparse, sparkling with suggestion, and no less hard-hitting for addressing the subject from a distance. Particularly notable is the poem Mermaid, based not on the Hans Anderson story but on the painting by Tabitha Vever entitled When We Talk about Rape which is the cover image for the Europa collection. Here's an exerpt:<br>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Swiftly <br> he slit<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">down the muscular length<br>exposing the bone in its red canal.<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">She played dead on the rock<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> dead by the blue lagoon<br> dead to the ends of her divided tail.<br><br><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He fell on her, sunk himself deep<br>into the apex.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then he fled<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> on his human legs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Human love</span></i><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> cried the sea,<br>the sea in her head. </span></span><span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
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Some poems, however, are more blunt and explicit, as in Marge Piercy’s <a href="http://www.sascwr.org/files/www/resources_pdfs/poetry/Rape_Poem.pdf">Rape Poem</a>:<br>
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There is no difference between being raped<br>
And being pushed down a flight of cement steps<br>
Except that the wounds also bleed inside.<br>
<br>
There is no difference between being raped<br>
And being run over by a truck<br>
Except that afterward men ask if you enjoyed it.<br>
<br>
There is no difference between being raped<br>
And being bit on the ankle by a rattlesnake<br>
Except that people ask if your skirt was short<br>
And why you were out anyhow.<br>
<br>
There is no difference between being raped<br>
And going head first through a windshield<br>
Except that afterward you are afraid not of cars,<br>
But half the human race…<br>
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Alvi thinks it possible for rape poetry to rise above the confessional and quotes Pascale Petit: “When I read out my poems that have very personal and sometimes shocking content, I still concentrate on them as art rather than statements or “confessions”. That’s what I’m interested in, the transformative aspect, the image-making, chant or song of them. Afterwards, when people ask questions or react to the subject matter, I remember that they were rather revealing”.<br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My own poem about rape is packaged in the form of an intimate “confession”; the speaker confiding in the audience. I have crafted it - based on an actual rape - to convey its insidious nature, how its tentacles may reach into language itself even when the survivor thinks she is free of it. I have also given the rapist some individual attention, making him more than the stock shadowy sadistic figure. Not all rapists are the same. I hoped by this to provoke a discussion: What makes a man rape? What is he thinking and feeling? It’s time the focus was turned on men rather than just on the victims of rape. Society teaches ‘Don’t get raped’, not ‘Don’t rape’. If women's behaviour is scrutinised, why not men's? We need an honest and searching debate to look at the problem.</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A rare poem by a man concerned about rape is this by Farhan Akhtar, a Bollywood film director and actor, who set up a social campaign in India, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/TheRealMard">Men Against Rape and Discrimination or MARD</a>. The poem, with its insistent rap structure, is surely ripe for performance:</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">What is this country that I live in?<br>With no equality<br>And the quality of life<br>Differs from husband to wife<br>Boy to girl, brother to sister<br>Hey Mister, are you the same?<br>Contributing to the national shame<br>Replacing your mothers<br>With the bent ideology of another's<br>perception that women have a particular role in society<br>Fills my heart with anxiety<br>Where is all of this going?<br>What will emerge from these seeds that we're sowing?<br>It makes my head spin<br>But I'm not giving in<br>Will keep asking the question<br>What is this country that I live in?<br><br>What is this country that I live in?<br>That takes away her right to love<br>Brutalises her with an iron glove<br>Rapes her without fear<br>of there being justice for her tear<br>We've demeaned our goddesses<br>Gone back on all our promises<br>Become a gender distorted nation<br>Given our conscience a permanent vacation<br>what do I tell my daughter?<br>That she's growing up to be lamb for the slaughter<br>we've got to make a change<br>Reboot, reformat, rearrange,<br>and never give in<br>no matter how much our head may spin<br>Just keep asking the question<br>What is this country that I live in?</span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">However I am beginning to have some qualms about reading my own poem in public, important though I think it is not to hide these poems away as if they are not a suitable subject and as much as I like the idea of intimate poems being a kind of feminist activism. As Sean O’ Brian has said, “The poem is an event happening in the act of reading” and Moniza Alvi asserts “It is important that the poem itself becomes an experience, rather than being merely a vehicle for something” - for the audience then the poem may become an experience of rape.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I have read my poem at a number of events but the last time I read it I noticed out of the corner of my eye and the corner of my mind that as I introduced it a woman in the audience looked uncomfortable, shifted in her seat and then looked down at the floor, a pained expression on her face. Thinking about it afterwards I realised that she was trapped in the situation, that the poem might have triggered memories she’d rather forget and that she couldn’t simply get up and leave without announcing something she would probably rather not say. My poem starts with the memory of a rape being triggered by an article so I felt I should have thought more about the possibility of this happening through a spoken poem. Even reading poems about rape on the page or screen may be triggers, as the Peony Moon blog warns its readers.</span><br>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But at least on page or screen the reader has a choice to look away and being silenced is not an option if things are ever to change. I remember what W.H.Auden said, in his poem in memory of W. B. Yeats:</span><br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives<br>In the valley of its making where executives<br>Would never want to tamper, flows on south<br>From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,<br>Raw towns that we believe and die in; <b>it survives,<br>A way of happening, a mouth. </b></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">(My emphasis)</span></span></div>
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Scathed<br>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">When I was raped… I discarded certain assumptions I had held about how the world worked and about how safe I was. Alice Sebold (from <i>Lucky</i>)</span><br>
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Caught by an article in the Guardian<br>
I thought I’d write a poem about a rape<br>
from many years before.<br>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I meant to tell how he’d driven to the Common,<br>forced my head back when I tried to scream<br>till I thought my neck would break<br>and my decision then to just give in<br>and hope he didn’t kill me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And how he dragged me to the ground<br>broke into me and yelled at me to ‘move’ –<br>as if he thought there could be any rhythm<br>between his act and me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">How afterwards he fell apart,<br>became a shrunken thing,<br>leaning over the roof of his car<br>like a wilting plant,<br>crying and begging for forgiveness.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And I then standing still intact</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">because somehow in the decision to surrender<br>I had kept possession of myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But that night – of the day I planned the poem –<br>I had one of those dreams I sometimes get<br>where there’s menace and someone in the room.<br>I fight – I always fight – and grab his face<br>and twist and smash and wake<br>to hear soft footfalls stalk the bedroom floor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So though I kept possession of myself<br>something was born of that encounter<br>that slipped unseen into my future,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br>insinuates itself between me and safety,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">contaminates innocent words like<br>'neck' and 'car' and 'common' and' move'<br>and not so innocent words like<br>scream and scream and scream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-88075985297157386972015-02-11T17:11:00.001+00:002015-02-11T17:11:17.814+00:00Bride is welcome! Bride is come!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Brigit's Day has come and gone and never before have I been so aware of the change as I am this year. Last year was a dismal one and the winter particularly so. But over the weekend a subtle change occurred and I've been feeling the shoots of my usual enthusiasm and creativity return.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This year, for the first time, one of our number was unable to come on the evening of her day, so after taking the shawl out to hang on a tree for Brigit to bless, I dressed the Bride doll myself, made up her bed, decorated with snowdrops, shells and quartz and softened with the wool I'd gathered from the Park at Hawarden, went to the door and standing on the threshold, holding the door jams, I sang an invocation to invite her in. The song I used is one by Nickomo and Rasullah - it's very gentle and evocative. I sometimes play it on my whistle as I can't sing in tune, but this year I sang and it didn't sound too bad! You can find details of the songbook with the music and the CD, both called the <a href="http://nickomoandrasullah.com/celtic-blessings/index.htm#land">Song of the Land</a>, on Nickomo and Rasullah's website. (Their Brigit's Blessing is lovely as well.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">It was quite special to have this time alone meditating on Brigit and as I was choosing ribbons and sewing them in place to make a gown for the rush doll I felt in touch with previous generations of people who had made a figure to represent the return of spring, not only in Ireland, but I suspect in other countries in the distant past. I was also aware of the festival as one of the return of the light, of the sun, the very first spark of spring rather than spring itself. It chimes for me with the perception of Brigit as a goddess of the dawn, of the beginning of light, of enlightenment.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next day, Brigit's Day, I made lunch and my two friends came to celebrate with me. After we'd eaten we recited Ruth Bidgood's <i>Hymn to Sant Ffraid</i> (Brigit's name in Welsh) for 3 voices, as we have done for the last few years. This year I was the first voice and I felt the words at the beginning resonate with me:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"February,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">month of Sant Ffraid.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Earth has long lain white, rigid,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">locked into lifelessness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ice on river, no lively running:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ice on field, no soft furrow:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ice on byre, no boon for beasts:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ice on hills, no high pasture:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">ice on heart, no hope leaping."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And later, a moving on, a freeing as I said the words:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"February,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">month of the quickening,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">month of Brigid the Threefold,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">muse, healer, goddess of fire.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Ice clutches copse and cataract;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">earth faints with cold, craves to be free.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In grey of grim dusk,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">in black of bleak night,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">a cry dies, a life is given.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Blood blots the Bridestone,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">flame springs, fire supplicates -</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Bride, goddess, bring now</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the breaking, the slaking,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">the flowing, the growing!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Several pages later, in unison, we invoked Ffraid:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"We call you now to walk on the riverbank,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">to break the ice, to free the river.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">We greet you now</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">from your churches and your wells,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">from the cold sea-coast and the colder hills,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">with the immemorial cry,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">'Ffraid is come! Ffraid is welcome!'"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After this we set to work weaving crosses. The rushes came from a different place this year and were thicker and stronger so they didn't bend so easily but we persevered. While we worked we shared some poems and talked about our lives.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I feel as if I am moving into a new phase where I crave more simplicity, more of an uncluttered life. I've always been reluctant to remove side shoots from plants or some of the apples that form a cluster and prevent just one or two reaching a good size. All things want to live, the life of plants spills out into these growths, who am I to stop them? But last summer I began to see, or to feel in my bones, how this may stunt growth and weaken the plant. If I want good-sized fruit that ripens well, it's necessary to limit unchecked growth. I could see the analogy with my own life - how 'spreading oneself too thin' may result in a weakening, especially when one's energy is limited, as mine is. I was beginning to crave the cutting down of ideas and projects so that I could focus on the few important things that I would like to bear a rich fruit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">So this is my agenda for the year ahead. I hope to be successful in this. I'm beginning to declutter, it feels more urgent as I may move at some point to be nearer my siblings or my son and family since my mobility is deteriorating. In which case I need to start clearing out the many drawers and cupboards in this house, getting rid of the dross and giving away things which aren't useful or beautiful, things which, in a subtle way, I feel are weighing me down. I hope to emerge lighter, more focused, more fruitful, more fit to engage with whatever lies ahead.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I certainly feel a renewal of my spirit. But last year has not been wasted, for one thing it has shown me that I haven't achieved that Still Centre which enables one to keep one's balance, one's equilibrium, through the vicissitudes of life, though I have moved some way towards it. This gives me the prod I need to spend more time in practice - with meditation and ritual work centred on Brigit, with yoga exercises to make up for my lack of walking, with carefully chosen creative work and with Being-in-Nature. My Buddhist calendar for February supports me in this resolve, saying:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>'It is better to practice a little than talk a lot.'</i> Muso Kokushi. Or write a lot perhaps?! (But I hope to write my blogs a little more regularly, though shorter posts perhaps.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-85105855646278557052014-11-28T13:45:00.000+00:002014-11-28T17:42:26.293+00:00Robert Graves and William Ewart Gladstone’s Grandson, William G. C.
Gladstone.<br>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyeKi4YH5o32DSJ3fTjIi-9UIViIPZ6xMcKJl1EKxVmbsm4nUNYjqmQmwVBmuZkde2XnqGWwp-XjcUO36cFgNlBuZZDdjx_k5goXwfW83lY3PI2ylRKtaFbl656F13eWrd3FKq3zX6HZcm/s1600/Young+squire+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyeKi4YH5o32DSJ3fTjIi-9UIViIPZ6xMcKJl1EKxVmbsm4nUNYjqmQmwVBmuZkde2XnqGWwp-XjcUO36cFgNlBuZZDdjx_k5goXwfW83lY3PI2ylRKtaFbl656F13eWrd3FKq3zX6HZcm/s1600/Young+squire+cropped.jpg"></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">William Glynne Charles Gladstone (Will) 1885-1915, the son of William Henry Gladstone, eldest son of Willam Ewart Gladstone the eminent Victorian statesman.</span></span></div>
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As mentioned below, during
a recent stay at <a href="http://www.gladlib.org/">Gladstone’s Library</a> in
Hawarden, Flintshire, I went to view a WW1 exhibition in St Deiniol’s church which is next to the
Library. I was interested to see that there was a board on the Royal Welch Fusiliers.
As well as learning more about Robert Graves’s regiment, which recruited primarily from
North Wales, I was delighted to find that R G had known Gladstone’s
grandson, also a Royal Welch Fusilier, and had attended his funeral in Hawarden in 1915. After looking round the exhibition, I went back to the Library to
find a copy of Goodbye to All That and locate the passage where he is mentioned:<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div>
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From Goodbye to All That:<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Of the officers sent out before me, several had already
been killed or wounded. The killed included a Liberal M.P., Second-Lieutenant
W. G. Gladstone, whom we called ‘Glad Eyes’. He was in his early thirties, a
grandson of old Gladstone, whom he resembled in feature, and Lord-Lieutenant of
his county. While war hung in the balance he declared himself against it,
whereupon his Hawarden tenantry, much ashamed, threatened to duck him in the
pond. Realising that, once war was declared, further protest would be useless,
he joined the regiment as a second-lieutenant. His political convictions
remained unaltered, but, being a man of great integrity, he refused to take the
non-combative employment as a staff-colonel offered him in the War Office. Soon
after joining the First Battalion in France he was killed by a sniper while
unnecessarily exposing himself. General French sent his body home for a
military funeral at Hawarden; I attended it.”
(GTAT, Penguin Books, 1985, p 66)<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was told by the head of the Tourism Committee of St
Deiniol’s Church, who had organised the exhibition, that William Glynne
Gladstone was particularly tall so that when he was standing in the trench his head was
above the parapet. The sergeant told him to duck down but he said “I can’t do
that. The men will think I’m in a funk”. Consequently he was shot. She also
told me that, although it was usual for officers to be buried with their men, a
special dispensation from the king allowed him to be brought home to be buried
in the churchyard at Hawarden. Here are some photos from the exhibition:</div>
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The body of W. G. C.
Gladstone in the Temple of Peace, Hawarden Castle<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lieutenant Gladstone’s body, drawn by estate people, leaving Hawarden Castle through the park his grandfather loved so well</div>
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<o:p>The funeral procession through Hawarden village</o:p></div>
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Brothers-in-Arms pay
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The last scene in the
peaceful old churchyard. All the villagers were there to mourn the young
soldier squire.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I had hoped to be able to identify Robert in the photos but
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Unfortunately the name of the member of the Tourism
Committee of the church who provided these photographs and the information is
obscured by poppies in the photograph I took of the complete board, but I am
grateful to him or her for their research.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-4419604090550379272014-11-18T18:37:00.001+00:002014-11-28T14:22:01.386+00:00Gladstone's Library - Day 7 (belatedly)<br />
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My last morning at the Library was a beautiful one and the jay appeared again as though marking the beginning and end of my stay. Although jays are not uncommon birds, it's only the second I've ever (knowingly) seen.<br />
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After breakfast I went to the church, St Deiniol's, which is next door to the Library to look at the WW1 exhibition. I wasn't sure what to expect but found it fascinating with boards on the subject of such things as Women's Work and Women's Poetry, Venereal Disease and Brothels, Wounds, Posters. The exhibition had been put on by the Tourism Committee of the church and the call had been put out to the local community to submit any relevant information and photos they had. I was particularly interested to read about the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the local regiment to which Robert Graves had belonged, and the 'young earl', Gladstone's grandson who had served in the regiment and been killed; Graves had attended the funeral and mentions it in Goodbye To All That.<br />
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After viewing the exhibition and taking photos of it (I'll post some interesting snippets another time), I went back to the Library for lunch. I was thinking that I must get a copy of GTAT, my own having vanished somewhere long ago, so that I could copy out the reference to William Glynne Charles Gladstone. Then I suddenly realised that I was in a library which would surely have a copy so I went along there, the librarian found it for me, brought it to my desk and after some searching I found the relevant passage. Job done!<br />
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The journey back to Aberystwyth is always lovely, bordered by trees, hills and mountains. That day the sun was colluding with the trees in making it a golden one and I enjoyed driving along with Van Morrison singing ('on the road with my soul'). I stopped briefly at Bala Lake, aka Llyn Tegid, where Ceridwen of the cauldron was said to live. The sun shone brightly on the water. <br />
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This reminded me of the glass sculpture in the chapel at the Library. I'd asked who had made it and heard that it was by a Liverpool artist called Linda Crabbe. She had been told that Gladstone had originally called the Library 'Monad', meaning Oneness, One, the original number. It reflected his belief that, as long as people studied solidly and seriously, the truth would be served and the sculpture she made is her interpretation of this Oneness, of the coming together of shards. This is very different from the way the piece had spoken to me and I reflected yet again that sculpture, primarily non-representational sculpture, is rather similar to poetry in its suggestibility and openness to various interpretations. The truth - the coming together of many disparate fragments. (And yes, the arms of the cross are copper.)<br />
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Leaving Bala, the sun was bright and low in the sky making the journey both difficult and uplifting as I headed back towards Aberystwyth and the setting sun.<br />
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Autumn afternoon<br />
travelling West<br />
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-77033858144230720052014-11-14T18:33:00.002+00:002014-11-28T13:22:50.587+00:00Insight in the Library - Gladstone's Day 6<div>
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Yesterday I set aside the morning to work out how to resize my video so that it would fit onto the page properly. I could see where I had to change the dimensions in the HTML but did't know how I would keep the correct ratio - being rubbish at maths. However, having googled and discovered that I would get the right height by multiplying the width by 0.8235 (who knew!) I had the bright idea of looking at YouTube dimensions for videos then took a calculated guess and hey presto! it worked first time. I felt inordinately pleased by this and quite energised. Having the morning free I set off for the Library with no goal in mind, knowing that something would catch my attention.<br />
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That something was a journal called Interreligious Insight, (volume 12, No 1, June 2014). There were several interesting articles in it and some things that I noted down to muse upon. One article mentions Karen Armstrong's use of myth and logos as useful vocabulary for talking about different approaches to our understanding of life and the world we find ourselves in: <br />
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Myths, Armstrong says, are not concerned with practical matters but with meaning; the need to find significance in our lives else we despair. Myth is rooted in the unconscious mind; myths are ancient forms of psychology. Logos is the rational, pragmatic and scientific thought that enables people to function well in the world... Logos must relate exactly to facts and correspond to external realities. (Karen Armstrong, The Battle for God, 2000) <br />
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I find these useful designations for the dual tools that are necessary for us to function effectively in the world as well as engage with meaning and significance, each mode of being or of thought complementing the other rather than being mutually exclusive as some would have it. In fact I believe that both are vital and need to interact and cross-fertilise each other in order to maintain psychic health for the group as well as the individual.<br />
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I was also interested in a mention of a book I hadn't come across before, The Mystery of Being by Gabriel Marcel. In it he says that mysteries such as the existence of God or of life and death are not problems to be solved because we cannot objectify them, we cannot isolate them from ourselves. They are inseparable from us and "encroach on our own data". How then do we approach mysteries? By participation! We participate in mysteries.<br />
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It seems to me that there is resonance between problem-solving and Logos and the participation in mysteries and Mythos. My need to fit my video into the required space was something outside me, a problem to be solved. The mystery of the elements as symbolic of my personal make- up and functioning, which I was contemplating earlier, is something to experience and participate in, by following intuition and imagination and promptings from the unconscious mind. Both are, for me, a necessary part of living and being effective in the world.</div>
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Today, after another session reading the Times Literary Supplement in a comfortable armchair in the library by the window, I bought a sandwich and then went to sit on the steps going down to a wooded and tangled area of the grounds. Sitting there, the sun warm on my back, the gentle movements of leaves in the breeze and the half-seen presence of various birds and insects in the wood, I am aware that I am totally happy.</div>
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<br /><br />Later it's time for tea. Gladstone extolled the virtues of tea, saying: "If you are cold, tea will warm you, if you are too heated it will cool you; if you are depressed it will cheer you, if you are excited it will calm you." I concur :-)<br /><br />Here's a picture of him in the hall, taking tea with (one presumes) his lady wife. <br /><br /> </div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-24820975295356750542014-11-13T18:33:00.000+00:002014-11-28T14:09:41.480+00:00Contemplating Fire and Water in the Chapel - Gladstone's Day 5<div>
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This is the chapel in Gladstone's Library. It's a very pleasing space which has a nurturing feel. Although it hasn't come out in this photo, the lights cast a golden glow. On a previous visit which coincided with it being the time of my flame-keeping vigil for Brigit, I checked with the chaplain that it was permitted to use the space and light candles in spite of not being a Christian and was told that it was. Although the Library has a strong Christian past and still has a Christian focus, it is an open-minded Christianity which is interested in interfaith dialogue. The Library holds to liberal values which it defines as<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">: "a commitment to freedom and social justice, tolerance and respect of difference, open-mindedness coupled with intellectual curiosity, generosity of spirit and a willingness to learn from others". </span></div>
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The art work you can see here has always reminded me of a sun wheel and I went to look at it in greater detail.</div>
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It is made of glass, the cross appearing to be of metal, possibly copper. With the light sparkling off it, it reminded me of the light on water, an essential symbol of my work with and understanding of Brigit - "the waters of the sun" as I refer to it in my poem to her. Added to this, the arms of the cross seemed to me, as I sat and contemplated it, to be reminiscent of fire. Water and Fire - the two elements that are usually associated with Brigit. And the metal or metal-like nature of the arms also set off associations with her as goddess of smithcraft which in my life refers to the skill of bringing creativity into physical manifestation.</div>
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Seeing these elements before me in such a potent context I began to muse on the nature and interactions of water and fire. How both, like all the elements, like most things, have both a benign and a malign nature for us as humans. Water is life-giving, cleansing, beautiful, it flows, it changes shape inspiring ideas of motion, of change, of creativity. But it may also overwhelm land and resources and take away life, cutting us off from the element air we also need to survive. </div>
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Fire too gives us the blessing of warmth, a companion, a nurturer, representing vitality, the spark of life, of creativity. But it is also a devastating destroyer and may kill and maim. </div>
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Each may also banish the other: fire can turn water to steam, can disperse it, leading to dryness, to aridity. Water can quench fire leaving nothing but darkness and debris. Some of the focus this brings to me involves recognising how to keep these elements in balance so that their destructive aspects only come into play when beneficial (as destruction sometimes is), while for most of the time they enhance each other as sunlight on water, symbolising inspiration in Irish tradition, or as fire under water for cooking or to make drinks (especially, in my case, tea!) symbolising the nourishment vital to life and strength.</div>
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Thinking of my own expression of these elements I realise again that I lack fire; I suffer from cold intolerance and a debilitating lack of vitality. Water is my element - I love to be in it. In water I can move easily, with no fear of falling; I adapt, I lack boundaries, I flow. My astrological element is Aquarius with Pisces rising, an air sign and a water sign: the polar opposite of Aquarius is Leo, a fire sign; I think of it as the side of me that is in shadow. Perhaps I need to use my airiness to feed the fire and the smith in me, representing strength and manifestation. </div>
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How? It involves going deeper into the mystery! </div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The Library’s Warden, Peter Francis, states, "we are committed to maintaining Gladstone’s legacy of engagement with social, moral, and spiritual questions, by helping people reflect more deeply on the questions that concern them..." This is one of the values and delights for me of being here in Gladstone's Library.</span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-79386175328319133122014-11-12T18:05:00.001+00:002014-11-17T19:18:50.077+00:00Gladstone's Day 4<div>
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The iPad failed to connect to the Internet this afternoon - which I took to be a sign that I should go and do something else. It's back now but it will soon be time for supper so I'll keep it brief.<br />
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Above is a picture of the small crooked branches of the walnut tree. I was taken with the contrast in both the patterns and the shades of green between it and the conifers that form a hedge between this (almost) hidden garden and the cemetery of St Deiniol's church. And here's the bark:<br />
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I've had a quiet day today working on a slideshow for my poem Take The Sea Road, going to The Fox and Grapes in the village for lunch - Cajun wedges with salsa and sour cream and half a pint of Doom Bar ale. It's a lovely old-fashioned pub with wooden beams.</div>
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I had a rather unexpected conversation at breakfast with the resident chaplain (who is on sabbatical from his parish in Indiana) about Robert Graves and War among other things. He introduced me to a quote from the American writer William Faulkner: "The past is never dead. It's not even past." </div>
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Also the concept of 'moral injury' and a First World War poet I hadn't come across before, <a href="http://www.robertgraves.org/issues/38/1296_article_40.pdf">Geoffrey Studdart Kennedy.</a> He was a chaplain and while his poems don't perhaps have the literary merit of some of the more famous first WW1 poets, they have an interesting perspective. </div>
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That's all for now!</div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-68957576265339036182014-11-11T18:17:00.001+00:002014-11-17T19:19:50.164+00:00By the Pool at Gelli Fach - a video poem Gladstone's Day 3<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="385" src="http://www.ccv.adobe.com/v1/player/9GFLb9XVaPk/embed" width="480"></iframe>
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Here is the video as promised.<br />
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I slept well for the first time here last night and perversely have felt tired and droopy all day. Spent all morning sitting on my bed working on the video, trying to get it to upload and finding out why it wouldn't... Also solved some other problems I was having so I'm hoping it will embed here now. Fingers crossed!<br />
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It has rained most of the day and few of the visitors to the garden have been in evidence except for four blackbirds who flitted back and forth among the trees as if they were playing tag or weaving invisible threads from branch to branch.<br />
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I spent some time meditating this afternoon... More about that tomorrow.<br />
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Until then!Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-28221325331518943832014-11-10T20:48:00.002+00:002014-11-17T19:20:51.320+00:00Gladstone's Library - Day 2<br />
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My room looks onto a small hidden garden. Most notable are the trees, especially the walnut. There are many visitors to the garden, some of whom I've come to recognise from previous visits: three pigeons who forage together like a family, a squirrel and a blackbird. But today a new visitor alighted on a branch of the walnut tree - a jay! He foraged under the tree until the squirrel appeared, then he flew up into its branches and watched while the squirrel took his place, scouring the ground.</div>
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The walnut tree is very distinctive with its patterned, grooved bark and the ends of its branches like many crooked hands. I'll post some more photos of it another day since I seem to be restricted to about 3 per post.</div>
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I spent some time working on a slideshow to accompany my reading one of my poems. I'll post that tomorrow when it's finished. Until then!</div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-4299360687477572572014-11-09T19:46:00.000+00:002014-11-17T19:21:55.752+00:00Gladstone Diary - a week at Gladstone's Library<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm staying at <a href="http://gladstoneslibrary.org/">Gladstone's Library</a> for a week on a personal retreat for the 3 'R's - Reading, Writing and Resting, plus some Contemplation, Conversation and a little gentle Exercise. It's the first time for about 15 years that I've been away for so long and it feels luxurious and exciting. I thought I'd try to write a post a day...<br />
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After breakfast, it being such a beautiful morning in spite of the forecast, I decided to go for a jaunt. I noticed a crowd standing around the gate at the front lawn and going to investigate found out it was an outdoor service for Remembrance Sunday, around the War Memorial.<br />
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(This needs editing but I don't have the software yet. I'm not even sure if it will play properly - blogging on the iPad seems a bit limited.)</div>
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I can't stand for very long so after a while I turned back and sat underneath Gladstone's statue. It was a poignant moment listening to the Last Post unfolding mournfully across the clear November sky, Gladstone surveying the proceedings with his usual hawkish stare.</div>
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Later I went to the Park to sit awhile among the autumn trees.<br />
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I think the sheep must have been rubbing themselves against the bench because white tufts of their wool lay on the grass like foam. I gathered some and found it unusually fine and soft. I'll use it to line Brigit's Bed on the eve of her day, 31st January.<br />
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After all that I settled in for a quiet afternoon reading and listening to the serialisation on Radio 4 of T. H. White's Once and Future King. I fell asleep half way through...</div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-1096537070176393612014-08-02T12:35:00.000+01:002014-08-02T12:35:42.994+01:00Lúnasa - small fruits celebration and recipes.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Summer fruits have been plentiful this year. True, the strawberries were much sparser than last year, partly because cranesbill and primroses had crowded out the strawberry patch, partly because some of the plants are rather old and partly because I wasn't up to watering them in the early part of the summer... but still there were enough to have with yogurt every day for a couple of weeks and when they had almost finished there were lots of raspberries and more blackcurrants than ever before.</div>
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<span class="st">I wasn't sure what to do with so many raspberries and sadly I left some of them in the fridge for too long and they went mouldy. Deciding I must cook the rest before they went the same way - or freeze them - I looked through an old Mrs Beeton's cookbook and came up with this recipe for Raspberry Pudding which is absolutely delicious and easy to make. I ate some and then froze several portions to eat over the coming days. They froze well and were still just as good to eat (one left now!)</span></div>
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<span class="st">1lb raspberries<br />3 oz granulated sugar (I used less)<br />4 oz butter or margarine<br />4 oz of castor sugar (I used less)</span><br />
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<span class="st">6 oz plain flour<br />1 rounded teaspoon baking powder<br />2 - 4 tablespoonfuls of milk (approx.)</span></div>
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<span class="st">Grease a pie dish. Put the cleaned and washed raspberries, with the granulated sugar, in the bottom of the dish. </span><br />
<span class="st">Cream together in a mixing bowl the fat and sugar. Beat in the eggs gradually. Stir in the sifted flour an baking powder, adding milk to make a soft dropping constancy. Spread this mixture over the fruit. Bake in a moderate over (350 F or 180 C degrees) until the pudding is cooked and nicely browned.</span><br />
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<span class="st">Dredge with castor sugar before serving with cream or custard sauce.</span><br />
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<span class="st">I found there was rather a lot of the sponge mixture and so I kept some back and used it to make a few fairy cakes. I served the pudding with yogurt rather than cream or custard (I have to watch the calories) and it was wonderful. Definitely one I'll make again and very simple (I like simple).</span><br />
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<span class="st">The blackberries were more problematic although they don't go mouldy like raspberries. I find them too sour to have with yogurt and I'm reluctant to add too much sugar. In the end I decided to make a sort of purée. I put them in a pan with a little water, brought them to the boil and simmered them for a little while. Then I mashed them through a sieve and added a little sugar to take the edge of their sourness. Because I didn't know how long they would keep in the fridge, I poured some of the purée into ice-cube trays and froze it. The rest I put in a plastic bottle ('sterilised' with cider vinegar and then rinsed quickly) and put in the freezer so that I could make an apple and blackcurrant crumble when the family come later this month.</span></div>
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<span class="st">The ice cube solution has worked well. I've used some to make a drink - either cold with just cold water added or hot with boiling water. I found I needed to strain the mixture as there were a lot of seeds in it. You can add more sugar to taste. I've also added a cube to ice-cream and made blackcurrant swirl ice-cream - very good. The ice-cream makes the blackcurrants less acid and the blackcurrants make the ice-cream less over-sweet (I used Carte d'Or vanilla which I found too sweet on its own.)</span></div>
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<span class="st">We've had a heat-wave here. I found it too hot but enjoyed it anyway because it was just so... <em>different </em>and made me feel as if I were in Spain on holiday. Along with the unaccustomed food, such a tasty delight, it has been a special time. </span></div>
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<span class="st">So Lúnasa, a festival of thanks and celebration of the abundance. I light a candle, meditate on Cernunnos and the provision of the fruits from nature. I say my version of Grace, then eat a simple meal finishing with some raspberry pudding... and cream (just this once!)</span></div>
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<span class="st">This food comes from earth and sky,<br />from plant and animal,<br />from the work of many hands.<br /></span><span class="st">I remember that not all have enough to eat.</span></div>
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<span class="st"><br />I give thanks for the life that was given -<br />may I live a life that is worthy of it.</span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-63083362357129853102014-05-26T12:48:00.001+01:002014-05-26T12:48:45.807+01:00Re-emerging and 'The Goddess and The Gardener' book launch<br />
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I've been away from the blog for quite a few weeks now. It's been a very challenging start to the year, one way and another. As the sun rises in the sky and graces us with its presence for longer, I'm very slowly coming back to life.<br />
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Apart from my health, one of the challenges has been publishing another small poetry book under my Brigit's Forge imprint - this time not my own book but the first step in publishing other poets. For various reasons the process has been fraught with difficulties but at long last it's come to fruition. <i>The Goddess and The Gardener </i>by Jane Whittle is a sequence of poems written after she moved to Wales and began transforming a wild space into a garden, working with the energies of the land and
of nature and absorbing them to such an extent that she herself grows along with the landscape and the voice of the goddess begins to speak through her.<br />
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We had the book launch at the Penrallt Bookshop in Machynlleth and I'm pleased to say it was a great success. Many books were sold so it was a good night for us and for Penrallt Books while the audience appear to have genuinely enjoyed it - the feedback passed on to us by Diane at the bookshop after the event was lovely to hear: 'enjoyable and enlivening', ' a wonderful evening of words', 'inspiring', 'a
special evening'. All I would want for Brigit's Forge!<br />
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The picture above shows the book on display, in very august company. As well as talking about how my very small press, Brigit's Forge, came about, I also read some poems from The Sea Road and tested some new ones which led to selling more copies of The Sea Road. I promptly spent some of the proceeds on the book you can see in the picture, The Art of Robert Frost by Tim Kendall, an action I haven't regretted as it's a fascinating introduction to his poetry which includes 65 of the poems with commentary showing how Frost's poetry and its themes developed.<br />
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I'll be making a page or another blog for Brigit's Forge Press in due course and will say a bit more about the book and offer it for sale. For now I'm taking things slowly and surely and just saying 'hello again'.<br />
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-54458326252986337012014-02-14T14:47:00.002+00:002014-02-14T14:47:29.231+00:00Shelter from the Storm on Valentine's Day<br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">We're being battered by storms with hurricane force winds here on the west coast of Wales - as has a lot of the UK. At times it's been almost scary and when the electricity went off I had a taste of what so many people in the country have been going through - but without the flooding thankfully. I was so relieved I had the wood stove and could at least have one warm room and cook and make cups of tea and hot-water bottles. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I went out during the height of the storm only once - to close the garage door which had blown open and move the car away from the trees. It made me think of how it would be to be out in such a storm with nowhere to hide and Bob Dylan's song <em>Shelter from the Storm</em> began to run through my mind. </span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Since it brings together storms and love (on one level), I thought it would be suitable for this stormy St Valentine's Day, so here it is:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Shelter From The Storm<br /> by Bob Dylan</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">'Twas in another lifetime, one of toil and blood<br /> When blackness was a virtue and the road was full of mud<br /> I came in from the wilderness, a creature void of form<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And if I pass this way again, you can rest assured<br /> I'll always do my best for her, on that I give my word<br /> In a world of steel-eyed death, and men who are fighting to be warm<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Not a word was spoke between us, there was little risk involved<br /> Everything up to that point had been left unresolved<br /> Try imagining a place where it's always safe and warm<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was burned out from exhaustion, buried in the hail<br /> Poisoned in the bushes an' blown out on the trail<br /> Hunted like a crocodile, ravaged in the corn<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Suddenly I turned around and she was standin' there<br /> With silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair<br /> She walked up to me so gracefully and took my crown of thorns<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Now there's a wall between us, somethin' there's been lost<br /> I took too much for granted, got my signals crossed<br /> Just to think that it all began on a long-forgotten morn<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, the deputy walks on hard nails and the preacher rides a mount<br /> But nothing really matters much, it's doom alone that counts<br /> And the one-eyed undertaker, he blows a futile horn<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I've heard newborn babies wailin' like a mournin' dove<br /> And old men with broken teeth stranded without love<br /> Do I understand your question, man, is it hopeless and forlorn?<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes<br /> I bargained for salvation an' they gave me a lethal dose<br /> I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, I'm livin' in a foreign country but I'm bound to cross the line<br /> Beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine<br /> If I could only turn back the clock to when God and her were born<br /> "Come in," she said, "I'll give you shelter from the storm"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Like many of Dylan's lyrics it reads as poetry and like the best poems it works on several levels at once - hinting at but ultimately not pinning down, meaning. Who is 'she'? His wife (he was going through a divorce when he wrote it)?; the archetypal feminine offering warmth and succour to the (wounded) male? The Virgin Mary? The Church? Nature? The goddess? The biblical references give the speaker mythic proportions; his suffering is reminiscent of Christ's, taking us beyond autobiography or contemporary narrative.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;">It is up to you, the reader, to decide - or you may decide to live with potency and inference. A poem is not a static object - it is an event, activated when read or recited; it is liminal, existing in the space between poet and reader or listener -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">"But a poem is reciprocal, it insists<br />on adult relations, to exist<br />it pre-exists in you or not at all.<br /><br />Severed from me you hold its future, make<br />it open up between us. You must take<br />a poem like a lover,<br /><br />God give you guts to see it: When it works<br />poetry is an orgasm. The O.K. word<br />is resonance."</span></span></div>
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(Exerpt from a poem by Peter Fison)</div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;"> </span></o:p></div>
Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-15898783791316337172014-02-01T12:51:00.000+00:002014-02-01T12:51:02.373+00:00Blessing the Rushes on Brigit's Eve<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Blessing the Rushes on Brigit's Eve</span></div>
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We ask for your blessing, Brigit,</div>
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on the Eve of your day,</div>
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Brigit the generous, Brigit the fair,</div>
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may your blessings be upon us.<br /></div>
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We ask for your blessing on these rushes,</div>
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Brigit beloved.</div>
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On tip and root,</div>
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on stalk and stem,</div>
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on brown and green,</div>
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on one and many.<br /></div>
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Moving rightways with the sun</div>
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may they weave and thread,</div>
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thread and weave,</div>
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all goodness, all prosperity</div>
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into this house, into our homes.</div>
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May these rushes weave all goodness</div>
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into our lives.<br /></div>
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We ask for the blessing of the Three</div>
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on these our rushes,</div>
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we ask for the blessing of Brigit</div>
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on these our rushes.<br /></div>
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The rushes picked for the last two of our Brigit's Eve festivals were rather thin, dry and mottled - a result of the lack of rain and icy conditions. This year, when we have had such a lot of rainfall they were a vibrant green, thick and juicy. Not easily picked though as the land, <i>Cae Pwll</i> or the Pond Field, was so waterlogged. I've been looking at the crosses I made last night and thinking how each are a microcosm of the world outside the hearth where we were gathered. They connect us with the land, with water and ice and soil and air, encapsulating not just this time of year, but also this particular time, its attributes and conditions. </div>
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Last year I experimented with making a Bride doll out of the rushes left-over and kept her as the image of Brigit to use to welcome in and lie in her bed by the fire. She is very simple - just rushes folded and the top part tied off to make a head; a few rushes on either side tied off to make arms and the rest splayed out to suggest a robe - or perhaps the rays of the sun. I like her much better than the small ceramic doll I'd used before. This Brigit doll is elemental, suggesting a human form and yet at the same time a strange and alien being, bringing the power of another form of life co-existing with ours. I don't think there are enough suitable rushes left to make one this year but I shall try later.</div>
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I'm allowing myself to rest all day today after a few days of rushing (!) around and a late night. Our celebration this year flowed well as we feasted, made our crosses each in our own way - one quiet and concentrating, two talking in a desultory way, sharing insights, news... frustration with the cross-making process. I find it strange how every year I seem to have forgotten how to make them. This year it took me several attempts to get the three-armed cross right when usually if I have the first three rushes interlocked it flows fairly well. I persevered and it worked out in the end. Ah, perseverance, that's something to remember for the year ahead.</div>
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We also drank tea and then recited Ruth Bidgood's <u>Hymn to St Ffraid</u> for three voices which is such a lovely thing to do - weaving our three very different voices into a recounting of the story and attributes of Brigit. Bringing her and a celebration of her into our minds, bodies and the candle-lit room. We each shared some of our writing and offered thoughts and blessings for a seriously-ill friend. </div>
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It was after midnight when I waved my guests off into the stormy night. Today I wake to the news that Aberystwyth did not suffer too badly from the wind and waves but there is more to come today and tomorrow. Outside my home, the wind is showing its power by making the trees dance a wild dance. Twice a sudden burst of bright, bright sunlight has exploded through my window before disappearing again, the grey clouds glowering darkly as if they had never parted to give me a glimpse of something so precious.</div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-79370918294144143692014-01-02T16:08:00.003+00:002014-01-02T16:08:46.766+00:00New Year Orientation: Starhawk's Five Sacred Things<br />
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It's the start of the New Year and with the change of date there seems to come an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and steer our lives in the way we'd like them to go. Alas, within a few weeks or even days our resolutions become dissipated and scattered - at least mine usually do. By February we often don't remember them at all, becoming caught up in the duties, chores, demands and general messiness of life.<br />
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But there's still value in the exercise of orientating ourselves on the course we wish to follow; a trace will remain and may even guide our actions unconsciously at times. At the start of this year I've been re-reading some excepts from The Fifth Sacred Thing, Starhawk's novel of a Utopian, ecologically-based society and its struggle to defend itself from a military state:<br />
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<b>Declaration of the Four Sacred Things</b><br />
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The earth is a living conscious being. In company with cultures of many different times and places, we name these things as sacred: air, fire, water and earth.<br />
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Whether we see them as the breath, energy, blood and body of the Mother, or as the blessed gifts of the Creator, or as symbols of the interconnected systems that sustain life, we know that nothing can live without them.<br />
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To call these things sacred is to say that they have a value beyond their usefulness for human ends, that they themselves become the standards by which our acts, our economies, our laws and our purposes must be judged. No-one has the right to appropriate them or profit from them at the expense of others. Any government that fails to protect them forfeits its legitimacy.<br />
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All people, all living things are part of the earth life and so are sacred. No one of us stands higher or lower than any other. Only justice can assure balance: only ecological balance can sustain freedom.<br />
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<b>The Fifth Sacred Thing</b><br />
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Only in freedom can that fifth sacred thing we call spirit flourish in its full diversity.<br />
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To honour the sacred is to create conditions in which nourishment, sustenance, habitat, knowledge, freedom and beauty can thrive.<br />
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To honour the sacred is to make love possible.<br />
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To this we dedicate our curiosity, our will, our courage, our silences and our voices.<br />
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To this we dedicate our lives.<br />
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<b>The Five Criteria of True Wealth</b><br />
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Usefulness, sustainability - meaning it must generate or save as much energy as it consumes... Beauty. Healing for the earth, or at least not being destructive. Nurturing for the spirit.<br />
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<i>from</i><b><i> </i> Starhawk: The Fifth Sacred Thing</b><br />
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In a world in which these things are not sacred - a world in which all living things are not seen as a sacred part of the earth life, a world where, as Robert Graves has said <span style="background-color: #fff9f9; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15.454545021057129px; line-height: 20.909090042114258px; text-align: justify;"> “serpent, lion and eagle belong to the circus-tent; ox, salmon and boar to the cannery; racehorse and greyhound to the betting ring; and the sacred grove to the saw-mill… ” I think it's valuable to point our compass in the direction of these values and ideals however much we fall short, however flawed we are and however much we are implicated in the destructive, driven-by-profit ethos of the 21st century. We need to remember there is another way against which we can measure what we do. Like the stars, we won't reach them in our lifetime but we can still rise a little way towards them more strongly than if we never saw them shining.</span></div>
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<br />Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5642118029917636850.post-15012295344198781202013-12-21T11:26:00.000+00:002013-12-22T09:28:51.569+00:00Winter Light<br />
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<b><i><span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Winter
Light</span></i></b><b><span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br />
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</span></b><span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
sun is low and slant,<br />
revealing the world from a different angle,<br />
what was in shadow is now made bright.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">But the
light is visiting less and less:<br />
the sleeping dark grows.<br />
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Now the glory of the trees is gone<br />
we see their essence,<br />
how the weather has shaped them - <br />
this one twisted, that one bent,<br />
turning away from the battering wind;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">here
one has grown rotten,<br />
those two are standing so near <br />
they lean together, supporting each other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">The
sun shines through the branches<br />
now leaves no longer obscure the view;<br />
hidden landscapes open before us:<br />
now we can see what is beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Soon
only a trickle of light leaks into the days <br />
which shuffle on towards the solstice,<br />
to the still point <br />
where we close our eyes<br />
and disappear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">a
short time</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">then
we wake again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Perpetua, serif;"><i><b>Hilaire Wood 2013</b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Perpetua","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt;">Solstice
Blessings! Wishing you all a very merry Christmas and may every good thing come
your way in 2014.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Hilairehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12698057844619063857noreply@blogger.com0