Hi, I'm sorry for the long silence... I've tried to post on here, but the cut and paste function wasn't - well, functioning, and every time I've been on to put some poetry on here, I've ended up too frustrated to be creative!
Anyway, sorry for the radio silence. Today I'm here to signpost you to another blog I've started, which I hope to keep up to date for at least the next twelve months. You can find it here: (ah, you just can't cut and paste, it seems!)
http://fab49-speranza.blogspot.com/
I hope you enjoy it, and I'll be back here soon, I promise!
Friday, 28 August 2009
Wednesday, 3 June 2009
Election Day
Tomorrow is Polling Day in the European Elections. It's the first time in my adult life that I have seriously considered not voting.
Not because I'm shocked by all the mud and muck emanating from Parliament - I haven't been terribly surprised by it, to be honest. That in itself wouldn't stop me voting.
It's just, as someone put it on the radio tonight, "Always the same, whoever you vote for."
I've long been fascinated by the way in which the British can pledge allegiance to one party for years on end, and then suddenly, seemingly, the whole population changes its mind and the other party gets in. It's always particularly riled me, as a LibDem, that this pretence of democracy is simply a well-disguised two-horse race.
We have a LibDem MP, which makes voting seem slightly less futile than it did when I lived in a staunchly Conservative area. But still, recent events have fuelled my disillusionment to such an extent that I have seriously been considering not voting. I think I would have, because it goes against my grain not to. I have never considered myself a feminist, yet it seems churlish not to use a vote that women's blood was spilled to obtain. So I vote.
This evening as I arrived home, a woman was leafletting our street. She pleaded with me to go and vote: "Don't let the BNP in!!"
I had already identified this as the reason I must vote - and she removed any last traces of apathy from my mind. We cannot, in the name of "Showing them what we think" allow Nazis in through the back door. Make no mistake, we have learnt appallingly few lessons from history. I have lived in Continental Europe, and anti-Semitism, intolerance and racism are alive and well, just as they are here.
I can't risk letting the BNP or UKIP think they are doing any better than they deserve.
I'm voting tomorrow. Please join me...
Not because I'm shocked by all the mud and muck emanating from Parliament - I haven't been terribly surprised by it, to be honest. That in itself wouldn't stop me voting.
It's just, as someone put it on the radio tonight, "Always the same, whoever you vote for."
I've long been fascinated by the way in which the British can pledge allegiance to one party for years on end, and then suddenly, seemingly, the whole population changes its mind and the other party gets in. It's always particularly riled me, as a LibDem, that this pretence of democracy is simply a well-disguised two-horse race.
We have a LibDem MP, which makes voting seem slightly less futile than it did when I lived in a staunchly Conservative area. But still, recent events have fuelled my disillusionment to such an extent that I have seriously been considering not voting. I think I would have, because it goes against my grain not to. I have never considered myself a feminist, yet it seems churlish not to use a vote that women's blood was spilled to obtain. So I vote.
This evening as I arrived home, a woman was leafletting our street. She pleaded with me to go and vote: "Don't let the BNP in!!"
I had already identified this as the reason I must vote - and she removed any last traces of apathy from my mind. We cannot, in the name of "Showing them what we think" allow Nazis in through the back door. Make no mistake, we have learnt appallingly few lessons from history. I have lived in Continental Europe, and anti-Semitism, intolerance and racism are alive and well, just as they are here.
I can't risk letting the BNP or UKIP think they are doing any better than they deserve.
I'm voting tomorrow. Please join me...
Monday, 25 May 2009
Radio Silence...
Sorry... I've logged on here a few times intending to write something, but the truth is, I've just had too many thoughts in my head to choose from! What with bereavement, the Scandal of MPs' expenses, the ongoing insanity which is the Education System, etc etc... it's been hard to know where to start!
As for the bereavement, that's going well I think. I have a clearer picture of a Real Woman in my mind now, not just the Mum who didn't get on with me. I wrote a poem about her. Here it is:
My Mother.
My mother
Sits oblivious to her humanity
Gazes through my face with her pale blue eyes,
No longer annoyed by my presence:
Years of ill-concealed dislike replaced
By an unseeing, smiling old-lady mask.
My mother
Had the brain of an Oxford Don,
And a drunken dad who saw no need for school.
For the lack of a uniform, she lost her chance
To attend the grammar school of her dreams.
Her father wouldn't pay -
But my sister and I did.
My mother
Shifts slightly in her chair,
Glances at the table;
Wonders what the cup is doing there,
Dips her finger, chimp-like, in her tea
And sucks it for a while, with childlike glee.
Years ago,I would watch in silent fascination,
Afraid to interrupt her concentration
As the bastions of the Azed crossword
Fell to the armies of her intellect.
Her self-taught knowledge casually outstripped
The offerings of my brothers' Oxbridge friends.
She quoted Shakespeare, Auden, Dickens and the rest;
Read D.H. Lawrence, but was not impressed.
Proud as the fiercest lioness of her sons,
But as daughters, we were the Resented Ones.
My mother
Babbles nonsense fluently,
No longer knows her name,
Breaks briefly into English
To tell me that she had a daughter once,
Then farts, and laughs uproariously.
My brothers think we had the better deal.
Indifference looked easier to bear
Than loving, probing questions,
Expectations, disapproval and despair.
At least, they say, you got to choose your school.
How did my mother cope with irony so cruel?
My mother
Sits in her room all day
Smearing the walls with excrement.
Is it Art? Or some Bobby Sands-like protest
At her incarceration in this twilight world?
She seems quite happy.
But she doesn't eat.
No visitor to our house
Ever escaped her legendary hospitality.
Fresh-baked bread, cheese-on-a-plate,
Scrambled egg, scones as soft as clouds.
She fattened up her friends,
Mercilessly feeding them
Irresistible delicacies, washed down with
Gallons of tea.
My mother
Lies in her bed all day
LIke some curled figure from the ruins of Pompeii.
One son waits by the phone in America
And three of us sit here and watch
The frail old body which gave us all life -
My sister, my brother, myself.
She was never still...
She was a giant hummingbird,
Endlessly searching for the nectar of friendship.
Even in these last years
Her singing filled the home with sunshine,
So they told me.
I had forgotten her singing...
My mother
Lies in a coffin in church,
Two hundred people singing their hearts out,
Laughing quietly at the memory of
This woman they knew.
This irrepressible, generous, humorous, over-the-top woman
They remembered
And I hardly knew.
She's carried out to a song by Doris Day.
Then somebody tells me,
"She lives on in you!"
As for the bereavement, that's going well I think. I have a clearer picture of a Real Woman in my mind now, not just the Mum who didn't get on with me. I wrote a poem about her. Here it is:
My Mother.
My mother
Sits oblivious to her humanity
Gazes through my face with her pale blue eyes,
No longer annoyed by my presence:
Years of ill-concealed dislike replaced
By an unseeing, smiling old-lady mask.
My mother
Had the brain of an Oxford Don,
And a drunken dad who saw no need for school.
For the lack of a uniform, she lost her chance
To attend the grammar school of her dreams.
Her father wouldn't pay -
But my sister and I did.
My mother
Shifts slightly in her chair,
Glances at the table;
Wonders what the cup is doing there,
Dips her finger, chimp-like, in her tea
And sucks it for a while, with childlike glee.
Years ago,I would watch in silent fascination,
Afraid to interrupt her concentration
As the bastions of the Azed crossword
Fell to the armies of her intellect.
Her self-taught knowledge casually outstripped
The offerings of my brothers' Oxbridge friends.
She quoted Shakespeare, Auden, Dickens and the rest;
Read D.H. Lawrence, but was not impressed.
Proud as the fiercest lioness of her sons,
But as daughters, we were the Resented Ones.
My mother
Babbles nonsense fluently,
No longer knows her name,
Breaks briefly into English
To tell me that she had a daughter once,
Then farts, and laughs uproariously.
My brothers think we had the better deal.
Indifference looked easier to bear
Than loving, probing questions,
Expectations, disapproval and despair.
At least, they say, you got to choose your school.
How did my mother cope with irony so cruel?
My mother
Sits in her room all day
Smearing the walls with excrement.
Is it Art? Or some Bobby Sands-like protest
At her incarceration in this twilight world?
She seems quite happy.
But she doesn't eat.
No visitor to our house
Ever escaped her legendary hospitality.
Fresh-baked bread, cheese-on-a-plate,
Scrambled egg, scones as soft as clouds.
She fattened up her friends,
Mercilessly feeding them
Irresistible delicacies, washed down with
Gallons of tea.
My mother
Lies in her bed all day
LIke some curled figure from the ruins of Pompeii.
One son waits by the phone in America
And three of us sit here and watch
The frail old body which gave us all life -
My sister, my brother, myself.
She was never still...
She was a giant hummingbird,
Endlessly searching for the nectar of friendship.
Even in these last years
Her singing filled the home with sunshine,
So they told me.
I had forgotten her singing...
My mother
Lies in a coffin in church,
Two hundred people singing their hearts out,
Laughing quietly at the memory of
This woman they knew.
This irrepressible, generous, humorous, over-the-top woman
They remembered
And I hardly knew.
She's carried out to a song by Doris Day.
Then somebody tells me,
"She lives on in you!"
Friday, 17 April 2009
After the show...
This is a poem for a friend and a pal who might just be reading this if they can still focus...
You're back from the concert,
I hope you enjoyed it -
Flowers in your pockets and beer on your breath.
Just wait for the morning - you cannot avoid it!
Hungover as hell, and feeling like death...
:) Hope you had a good time, don't forget Imelda May! xx
You're back from the concert,
I hope you enjoyed it -
Flowers in your pockets and beer on your breath.
Just wait for the morning - you cannot avoid it!
Hungover as hell, and feeling like death...
:) Hope you had a good time, don't forget Imelda May! xx
Death, where is thy sting?
It's been a few weeks since I last wrote on here. We had to wait for family to arrive from abroad before we could have Mum's funeral, which took place on Tuesday 14th April. My family has a tradition of 'good' funerals which I suppose must sound very strange to some, but in Yorkshire we have a long tradition of celebrating after a death - with tears, laughter and lots of booze-fuelled anecdotes about the deceased. I remember my Gran was actually laid out in her coffin at home, and as a teenager I approached somewhat fearfully, not quite knowing what to expect.
In fact what I saw reassured me greatly. Gran wasn't 'there' - she'd gone. Somehow, my Gran had left her body, which was literally just a shell (with some rather awful lace trim round her face, I seem to remember, which made me laugh irreverently as she'd - well, never have been seen dead in it...).
Mum was a shell long before she died. The woman who had to leave school at 14 due solely to her father being too mean to pay for the Grammar School uniform (or so the story goes), who loved Dickens and Shakespeare with a passion and knew them better than most English graduates, the woman who usually scored over 300 at Scrabble, who welcomed waifs and strays to her home, who wouldn't let visitors leave until they'd had cheese-on-a-plate or scrambled egg, and who pronounced DH Lawrence 'trite' and the Brontes 'not that good'... this intellectual woman with very little formal schooling had reached the point where her only communication was to say, 'BLAH-BLAH-BLAH!' and blow raspberries. From the outside, at least, there was little of Irene left. Inside, who knows? I cannot say with any certainty what was taking place inside her head, but she seemed happy and content. Before she lost the power of speech, she talked of seeing her mother every day - and after a while I began to think she probably did.
When my father died, I had a long and complicated experience of angels surrounding him and telling me day by day how near to death he was. As Mum travelled that same road, I was puzzled at first that I could see no angels, until it dawned on me that their presence was worked out through the loving care she received from the staff in the home.
On the day Mum died, my daughter and I were driving down to Derby. We were laughing and chatting and suddenly, unbidden, I 'saw' Mum's room and said to my daughter, "Oh! I've just seen the angels arriving in Gran's room!"
She was dead three hours later.
I have no explanation for this. Oh, I can find ways to explain it, all of them rational; but after my Dad's death, and going by the scientific premise that the simplest explanation is the best, I have to say that I still believe in angels...
I couldn't be sad that Mum had died. For me she died years ago, when her eyes glazed and she began to soil herself, forgot how to read, couldn't open cards, or find her food on the plate. And yet until very recently, she would suddenly sing to anyone who was listening, "Once I had a secret love..." in a sweet, almost unearthly voice. It was fitting that my nephew had that song played as her coffin was carried from church - it brought a smile to all our faces. We never knew if she was trying to confess to some affair or if it was simply a favourite, but it was Irene personified.
At the funeral I felt very responsible for how the day was going (it went very well, in fact), because I'd booked the venue for the 'do' afterwards, and decided how much food to order. And there were other things to think about, too... There was a family member in great distress, and many, many others who had known my mother at church and who gravitated towards me because I had also attended all those years ago, and they'd known me as a teenager and been present when I married the curate. I was checking the food was okay, that people had drinks... I was too busy to mourn, or that's how it felt. Very Martha rather than Mary, I suppose.
Anyway tonight I found myself alone for the first time since then, and it hit - I felt bereft (which of course I am). I got in the car, drove to Matlock, sat in the park and wrote this:
In fact what I saw reassured me greatly. Gran wasn't 'there' - she'd gone. Somehow, my Gran had left her body, which was literally just a shell (with some rather awful lace trim round her face, I seem to remember, which made me laugh irreverently as she'd - well, never have been seen dead in it...).
Mum was a shell long before she died. The woman who had to leave school at 14 due solely to her father being too mean to pay for the Grammar School uniform (or so the story goes), who loved Dickens and Shakespeare with a passion and knew them better than most English graduates, the woman who usually scored over 300 at Scrabble, who welcomed waifs and strays to her home, who wouldn't let visitors leave until they'd had cheese-on-a-plate or scrambled egg, and who pronounced DH Lawrence 'trite' and the Brontes 'not that good'... this intellectual woman with very little formal schooling had reached the point where her only communication was to say, 'BLAH-BLAH-BLAH!' and blow raspberries. From the outside, at least, there was little of Irene left. Inside, who knows? I cannot say with any certainty what was taking place inside her head, but she seemed happy and content. Before she lost the power of speech, she talked of seeing her mother every day - and after a while I began to think she probably did.
When my father died, I had a long and complicated experience of angels surrounding him and telling me day by day how near to death he was. As Mum travelled that same road, I was puzzled at first that I could see no angels, until it dawned on me that their presence was worked out through the loving care she received from the staff in the home.
On the day Mum died, my daughter and I were driving down to Derby. We were laughing and chatting and suddenly, unbidden, I 'saw' Mum's room and said to my daughter, "Oh! I've just seen the angels arriving in Gran's room!"
She was dead three hours later.
I have no explanation for this. Oh, I can find ways to explain it, all of them rational; but after my Dad's death, and going by the scientific premise that the simplest explanation is the best, I have to say that I still believe in angels...
I couldn't be sad that Mum had died. For me she died years ago, when her eyes glazed and she began to soil herself, forgot how to read, couldn't open cards, or find her food on the plate. And yet until very recently, she would suddenly sing to anyone who was listening, "Once I had a secret love..." in a sweet, almost unearthly voice. It was fitting that my nephew had that song played as her coffin was carried from church - it brought a smile to all our faces. We never knew if she was trying to confess to some affair or if it was simply a favourite, but it was Irene personified.
At the funeral I felt very responsible for how the day was going (it went very well, in fact), because I'd booked the venue for the 'do' afterwards, and decided how much food to order. And there were other things to think about, too... There was a family member in great distress, and many, many others who had known my mother at church and who gravitated towards me because I had also attended all those years ago, and they'd known me as a teenager and been present when I married the curate. I was checking the food was okay, that people had drinks... I was too busy to mourn, or that's how it felt. Very Martha rather than Mary, I suppose.
Anyway tonight I found myself alone for the first time since then, and it hit - I felt bereft (which of course I am). I got in the car, drove to Matlock, sat in the park and wrote this:
Matlock Park
The chilled, perfumed air of a Spring evening
Gently caresses my face,
Speaks peace to my troubled heart,
Promises Summer will come.
Trees are modestly robed in vibrant green,
Their tender shoots a tangle against
A pure blue, pale-as-eggshell sky.
The jubilant cries of skateboarders
Cannot overwhelm the song of birds, who have
Rehearsed for centuries in this very place.
They sing triumphantly of life and love...
I close my eyes;
I'm overwhelmed with Grace.
Tuesday, 31 March 2009
Now where did I leave that corpse..?
A few hours after my last post, I heard that my Mother had died. We've been waiting a long time for this, so long that we had drifted into that state where you idly wonder if your relative really is the person who has cracked eternal life.
I've realised that I don't think I ever really grieved losing her to the dementia - what point do you pick to do that? Which day is the right day to begin to mourn the loss of a person's interior workings? - so now I think I'm grieving that first, and the funeral will perhaps trigger more feelings around death itself.
You know how when someone dies you say, "Oh, she would loved that! /She'd have been thrilled!" etc... well, with Mum I keep thinking, "No she wouldn't, she couldn't even talk!" and then I have to go back a stage and think, "But the person she used to be would have..."
I had a bad relationship with my Mother for many years, and have had counselling to deal with lots of issues as I wanted to clear things up before she died and left me with even more of them! And I made my peace with it all - with her - finally. Quite a while ago, in fact. There are still pockets of damage in me which spring from those injured parts of my psyche, but everyone has those. I no longer blamed her for any of it, I'd forgiven her for it, I'd acknowledged my part in it all (okay, some of it appears to have been merely Being Born, but as I grew up I took my part in the drama) AND I'd acknowledged that perhaps she shouldn't have treated me as she did at times.
She was a damaged person herself, and it has been lovely to hear so many loving memories of her from people who knew her when she was about the age I am now. Others remember her as loving, nurturing, supportive, exhuberant, intellectual, fun, joyful and bringing colour and love to her world.
I'm glad that I've got far enough in my own brain-clearing exercise to be able to be thankful for those lovely memories that other people have, to let go of my own not-so-good ones, and to think of her as someone who brought a lot of love, joy and fun to the world.
And the fact that her body went AWOL for a few hours only adds to the fun. (In fact, it was there all the time, we just didn't know where!) She was always looking for things, losing keys, exclaiming, "Dash! Where've I put..[X, Y, Z] ?"
She'd have loved it. The woman people remember. She'd have loved it.
RIP Mum, I love you. x
I've realised that I don't think I ever really grieved losing her to the dementia - what point do you pick to do that? Which day is the right day to begin to mourn the loss of a person's interior workings? - so now I think I'm grieving that first, and the funeral will perhaps trigger more feelings around death itself.
You know how when someone dies you say, "Oh, she would loved that! /She'd have been thrilled!" etc... well, with Mum I keep thinking, "No she wouldn't, she couldn't even talk!" and then I have to go back a stage and think, "But the person she used to be would have..."
I had a bad relationship with my Mother for many years, and have had counselling to deal with lots of issues as I wanted to clear things up before she died and left me with even more of them! And I made my peace with it all - with her - finally. Quite a while ago, in fact. There are still pockets of damage in me which spring from those injured parts of my psyche, but everyone has those. I no longer blamed her for any of it, I'd forgiven her for it, I'd acknowledged my part in it all (okay, some of it appears to have been merely Being Born, but as I grew up I took my part in the drama) AND I'd acknowledged that perhaps she shouldn't have treated me as she did at times.
She was a damaged person herself, and it has been lovely to hear so many loving memories of her from people who knew her when she was about the age I am now. Others remember her as loving, nurturing, supportive, exhuberant, intellectual, fun, joyful and bringing colour and love to her world.
I'm glad that I've got far enough in my own brain-clearing exercise to be able to be thankful for those lovely memories that other people have, to let go of my own not-so-good ones, and to think of her as someone who brought a lot of love, joy and fun to the world.
And the fact that her body went AWOL for a few hours only adds to the fun. (In fact, it was there all the time, we just didn't know where!) She was always looking for things, losing keys, exclaiming, "Dash! Where've I put..[X, Y, Z] ?"
She'd have loved it. The woman people remember. She'd have loved it.
RIP Mum, I love you. x
Saturday, 28 March 2009
Man Flu...
Sorry about the radio silence - I've had Man Flu. It's much more serious in women, of course, as it's crossed the species. Nevertheless, I've struggled into work and got through the week.
It did set me thinking, though, about how flippant the sexes are about each others' different Ways of Being. I should warn you that I'm quite Politically Incorrect at times. I actually don't see anything wrong in one gender tending to be more nurturing and - well, motherly - whilst the other is more hunter-gathery. I don't see anything wrong in someone of either gender enjoying expressing the traits ascribed to the other gender - I know some great male 'mothers', and some ass-kicking hunter-gatheresses.
And to be perfectly honest, I don't see anything wrong in men saying they feel really, really crap and asking for a bit of TLC from time to time. If that's what it takes for them to be able to be vulnerable, why not?
I think it's true that women tend to get on with life despite how they're feeling - historically, babies needed feeding and men couldn't do it - simple, huh? But goodness, how many men unflinchingly shoulder responsibilities without making a big deal of it? The irony being that we'll never know, cos they don't make a big deal of it.
I'm tired of people pretending that the two sexes are able to function identically without it having any impact on society. I'm sad about all the damaged children I see because of our 'I come first' culture. I even sometimes suspect that the Feminist movement has destroyed any chance of a cohesive society, God forgive me - and I don't say that lightly. I am happy and proud to vote, to earn my living, to pay my way... but deep down I wonder what price we're paying for women's relatively new-found ability to be pseudo-men.
This is dangerous ground, I know. I know about the oppression of women down the centuries. I understand the concept of 'the problem that has no name' (see Betty Friedan: The Feminine Mystique). I am aware of the abuse of millions of women who until very recently suffered in silence, and in fact many still do.
And yet - as a woman - I still can't shake this hunch that when I look at society, see how women are abused in new and different ways, deal with children whose lives were shattered from the start, and above all marvel at the utter lack of self-respect which allows young women to collapse, drunk and knickerless in the street in front of cameras... I can't shake this hunch that we've lost out.
So - sue me..?
It did set me thinking, though, about how flippant the sexes are about each others' different Ways of Being. I should warn you that I'm quite Politically Incorrect at times. I actually don't see anything wrong in one gender tending to be more nurturing and - well, motherly - whilst the other is more hunter-gathery. I don't see anything wrong in someone of either gender enjoying expressing the traits ascribed to the other gender - I know some great male 'mothers', and some ass-kicking hunter-gatheresses.
And to be perfectly honest, I don't see anything wrong in men saying they feel really, really crap and asking for a bit of TLC from time to time. If that's what it takes for them to be able to be vulnerable, why not?
I think it's true that women tend to get on with life despite how they're feeling - historically, babies needed feeding and men couldn't do it - simple, huh? But goodness, how many men unflinchingly shoulder responsibilities without making a big deal of it? The irony being that we'll never know, cos they don't make a big deal of it.
I'm tired of people pretending that the two sexes are able to function identically without it having any impact on society. I'm sad about all the damaged children I see because of our 'I come first' culture. I even sometimes suspect that the Feminist movement has destroyed any chance of a cohesive society, God forgive me - and I don't say that lightly. I am happy and proud to vote, to earn my living, to pay my way... but deep down I wonder what price we're paying for women's relatively new-found ability to be pseudo-men.
This is dangerous ground, I know. I know about the oppression of women down the centuries. I understand the concept of 'the problem that has no name' (see Betty Friedan: The Feminine Mystique). I am aware of the abuse of millions of women who until very recently suffered in silence, and in fact many still do.
And yet - as a woman - I still can't shake this hunch that when I look at society, see how women are abused in new and different ways, deal with children whose lives were shattered from the start, and above all marvel at the utter lack of self-respect which allows young women to collapse, drunk and knickerless in the street in front of cameras... I can't shake this hunch that we've lost out.
So - sue me..?
Saturday, 14 March 2009
Proud to be British!
Wow, I never thought I'd have that as a blog title. Don't get me wrong; I love the UK in lots of ways, but it so happens that my job exposes me to a lot of the sad and violent stories which never make the headlines.
However - if you remember, I am harbouring hopes that the Credit Crunch will make us rethink our values - probably not without a lot of heartache, increased crime and a total change in the retail landscape. It's going to be really, really tough on people.
BUT! Already there is a small light gleaming in the darkness.
Yesterday was Red Nose Day - a day when we switch the focus off ourselves and onto those who really are in need. The mix of very funny television (hundreds of famous people give their time free and drop any pretence of dignity) and absolutely harrowing footage (eg the African parents watching their babies die of malaria) always ensures massive donations to charity throught the night and for the next few weeks.
For me, the people who endured perhaps the most humiliation for charity this year were the stars of Dragons' Den, who sent themselves up mercilessly and did it brilliantly. Apart from the guts it took to stand opposite skilled impersonators showing off all your worst traits, they also showed a huge sense of fun as they played Victorian parodies of themselves. How any of them kept their faces straight, I have no idea. I bet there'll be an outtakes DVD!
Apparently bookies were giving very low odds on this year's total being anywhere near last year's (I suppose even bookies have to make a living). BUT!!! They were wrong. I think lots of people could have told them that because, despite all the dreadful statistics about literacy, teenage pregnancy, drug and alcohol abuse and obesity, etc etc etc, one thing remains gloriously, wonderfully, magnificently, against-all-the-odds true about the British.
We are generous-spirited. A South African colleague of mine was recently moved to tears by the response from people in the office when her car broke down. We just did what people do, rang garages, ferried her round, got a motor-mechanic son in to look, made her tea and reassured her... and she was overwhelmed with 'the KINDNESS of you Brits!"
Let's not lose sight of that. No need to be big-headed; lots of people in lots of countries are generous. But we do have a flair for combining sheer bloody idiocy and a sense of fun with the compassion needed to put others first and try to make their lives better. When we let that flair loose, there is no limit to what we can achieve.
I read this morning that: '...the show was a huge success and by the time it ended at 2.10am on Saturday, the fundraising total stood at a massive £57.8 million - easily supassing the previous record of £40.5 million raised on the night.'
The eventual total will be much higher. Probably much higher than the previous record of £67 million.
Fellow Brits, I salute you!!
However - if you remember, I am harbouring hopes that the Credit Crunch will make us rethink our values - probably not without a lot of heartache, increased crime and a total change in the retail landscape. It's going to be really, really tough on people.
BUT! Already there is a small light gleaming in the darkness.
Yesterday was Red Nose Day - a day when we switch the focus off ourselves and onto those who really are in need. The mix of very funny television (hundreds of famous people give their time free and drop any pretence of dignity) and absolutely harrowing footage (eg the African parents watching their babies die of malaria) always ensures massive donations to charity throught the night and for the next few weeks.
For me, the people who endured perhaps the most humiliation for charity this year were the stars of Dragons' Den, who sent themselves up mercilessly and did it brilliantly. Apart from the guts it took to stand opposite skilled impersonators showing off all your worst traits, they also showed a huge sense of fun as they played Victorian parodies of themselves. How any of them kept their faces straight, I have no idea. I bet there'll be an outtakes DVD!
Apparently bookies were giving very low odds on this year's total being anywhere near last year's (I suppose even bookies have to make a living). BUT!!! They were wrong. I think lots of people could have told them that because, despite all the dreadful statistics about literacy, teenage pregnancy, drug and alcohol abuse and obesity, etc etc etc, one thing remains gloriously, wonderfully, magnificently, against-all-the-odds true about the British.
We are generous-spirited. A South African colleague of mine was recently moved to tears by the response from people in the office when her car broke down. We just did what people do, rang garages, ferried her round, got a motor-mechanic son in to look, made her tea and reassured her... and she was overwhelmed with 'the KINDNESS of you Brits!"
Let's not lose sight of that. No need to be big-headed; lots of people in lots of countries are generous. But we do have a flair for combining sheer bloody idiocy and a sense of fun with the compassion needed to put others first and try to make their lives better. When we let that flair loose, there is no limit to what we can achieve.
I read this morning that: '...the show was a huge success and by the time it ended at 2.10am on Saturday, the fundraising total stood at a massive £57.8 million - easily supassing the previous record of £40.5 million raised on the night.'
The eventual total will be much higher. Probably much higher than the previous record of £67 million.
Fellow Brits, I salute you!!
Monday, 2 March 2009
A Very Short Poem...
My daughter and I were helping her Dad to clear out some cupboards yesterday, and I found this poem, which I wrote many years ago. I still remember glimpsing those angels.
Am I mad? Possibly. But it's a lovely image anyway...
Am I mad? Possibly. But it's a lovely image anyway...
Were they really there?
Certainly I saw them,
arms linked in jocular society -
staggering down our road in the snow,
intoxicated with the love of God.
Faces alight with boozy cheerfulness;
taller than our house, they towered
over cars and trees and street-lamps,
holding one another lest they fall
in drunken delight
at the feet of him who made them.
Angels on holiday!
Thursday, 26 February 2009
Strait-jacket for the soul
I have had a break from blogging - quite deliberately. I was off work last week, and took some time to sit and think, write poetry, sip coffee in cafes... all those things we do when we have Spare Time.
When I was younger, I was aware of the vast amount of thoughts going through my head (at such speed, too!) and it used to drive me to the brink of insanity. Why couldn't I stop thinking? Would I ever be able to stop the ideas from coursing through my brain for long enough to relax?
I managed it, in the end. I learnt to Be Still and Know, to enjoy silence, to watch the flame of a candle and lose myself in the ever-changing shapes, to sit by the sea and become one with its rhythms... I even stopped and smelt every rose I passed as I walked along.
More problems began when I started work. Motherhood, whilst frantic, I found provided endless opportunities for Being - not always just when I wanted, but every day there was a sense of treasuring what I had, of this being a never-repeatable phase of my life. The silences were rare, candles a little dangerous with toddlers around, but there was the joy of teaching people new to the planet the art of Doing Little and Enjoying Much. I was blessed with daughters who very early on appreciated the hush of a church, or the sun on the sea. Together we experienced the everyday wonders which enrich our lives.
But then I started work. It felt - feels at times - like a strait-jacket around my soul. I'm not complaining about having to earn a living - not at all. I feel privileged to be able to do so, especially in these turbulent times. I have to confess, though, that I have a particularly bad case of the 'Rather-be-elsewhere-blues' at times.
Most of the time I knuckle down and get on with earning my crust. But occasionally I allow myself the luxury of wondering how and why I ever got drawn into the rat race. It was never what I wanted. And yet I was inexorably sucked in, just like everybody else. I admire those who make a break for it, dash for the wall and scale it in one leap... in my heart I'd love to follow them, but then I lose my nerve...
How have we reached this place? A place where everyone buys into the same lie - that money is worth more than the right to take a day to lie in the grass watching clouds, or paddle in the sea and listen to the eternal rhythm of the tides? Why is it such a disaster that money has finally been shown up as the false god it has always been? Why are we so surprised that a system built on greed and keeping up appearances, where time with our children is valued less than time at our desk, is finally collapsing before our eyes?
Why do so many think it is perfectly okay to 'earn' bonuses of over half a million pounds, whilst others see their homes repossessed? To focus in, as someone who has struggled with the fact that my monthly deductions total more than my friend's gross income, how can we die of food whilst others die without it? For every morbidly fat person fitted with a gastric band, there is probably a whole village starving to death.
When did all this become acceptable? How did our values change?
And please God, will this recession turn us around at last and let us see once more the things which truly matter in life?
When I was younger, I was aware of the vast amount of thoughts going through my head (at such speed, too!) and it used to drive me to the brink of insanity. Why couldn't I stop thinking? Would I ever be able to stop the ideas from coursing through my brain for long enough to relax?
I managed it, in the end. I learnt to Be Still and Know, to enjoy silence, to watch the flame of a candle and lose myself in the ever-changing shapes, to sit by the sea and become one with its rhythms... I even stopped and smelt every rose I passed as I walked along.
More problems began when I started work. Motherhood, whilst frantic, I found provided endless opportunities for Being - not always just when I wanted, but every day there was a sense of treasuring what I had, of this being a never-repeatable phase of my life. The silences were rare, candles a little dangerous with toddlers around, but there was the joy of teaching people new to the planet the art of Doing Little and Enjoying Much. I was blessed with daughters who very early on appreciated the hush of a church, or the sun on the sea. Together we experienced the everyday wonders which enrich our lives.
But then I started work. It felt - feels at times - like a strait-jacket around my soul. I'm not complaining about having to earn a living - not at all. I feel privileged to be able to do so, especially in these turbulent times. I have to confess, though, that I have a particularly bad case of the 'Rather-be-elsewhere-blues' at times.
Most of the time I knuckle down and get on with earning my crust. But occasionally I allow myself the luxury of wondering how and why I ever got drawn into the rat race. It was never what I wanted. And yet I was inexorably sucked in, just like everybody else. I admire those who make a break for it, dash for the wall and scale it in one leap... in my heart I'd love to follow them, but then I lose my nerve...
How have we reached this place? A place where everyone buys into the same lie - that money is worth more than the right to take a day to lie in the grass watching clouds, or paddle in the sea and listen to the eternal rhythm of the tides? Why is it such a disaster that money has finally been shown up as the false god it has always been? Why are we so surprised that a system built on greed and keeping up appearances, where time with our children is valued less than time at our desk, is finally collapsing before our eyes?
Why do so many think it is perfectly okay to 'earn' bonuses of over half a million pounds, whilst others see their homes repossessed? To focus in, as someone who has struggled with the fact that my monthly deductions total more than my friend's gross income, how can we die of food whilst others die without it? For every morbidly fat person fitted with a gastric band, there is probably a whole village starving to death.
When did all this become acceptable? How did our values change?
And please God, will this recession turn us around at last and let us see once more the things which truly matter in life?
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