Tag Archives: faith

the hand in mine

Who’d be a Royal?  

With his father still in treatment for cancer, his wife only recently cleared – all in the teeth of his children who, although screened from it, will hear a great deal more than their parents would wish– the Prince of Wales was asked what he believed in ?   There must have been a moment when he thought “ oh, spare me” but he is the forthcoming leader of the established (Christian) church and he must answer.  And so he did.

I beat him to it.  I was stopped by a young man, perfectly clean and decent, with a stack of hand outs, in Kings Road, Chelsea with   “You look like a very spiritual person.” This is when I should have run.  “ What do you believe in ?”

Choice: walk away: tell him to excuse you: evade as in “Well mostly CofE …”: or answer.   I answered.   “I believe in the Face of God.”   He asked “Where do you find that ?”   So I told him the story of the robins who nested in my little garden, laid eggs, fledged young, took them away to evade the cats (always other people’s – not mine) and brought them back on an unforgettable lap of honour where I said “I saw the smallest most beautifully coloured feathers.   Face of God. And when in doubt – leopards.”

So then he did his pitch including of course nice people and vegetarian food, pressed the leaflet into my hands  by which time I had channeled a remnant of my mother’s formidable charm saying (glance at watch) “You must excuse me”,  gently moving away, leaflet disposed of in due course.

I wasn’t offended, or insulted, but I recall  vividly  a young man to whom I was talking on a bus several years ago who said  “There is no difference now between the public and the private.”  And I said at the time “That’s the beginning of the end.”  

I was taught that privacy was important – almost a right – subject to abuse, surely, and highly relative.  But animals sometimes seek privacy and we’re only animals. 

I remember a favourite actor saying that as soon as you begin to be known  people start asking how you vote, what you believe in and who you sleep with ?   The Pof W poor devil – as other Royals – has always been known – I am not sure whether than makes the burden of public life easier or not.

The endless invigilation of my life repels me.  I learned over many years the price of fame

or notoriety or royalty – and you can have it.     Stories about the high price often exacted in the first  two out of three of those alternatives is too high for me. I sought an understanding and acceptance of what I had – in my life and in my belief system.

I haven’t been a Christian in more than expectation, nice stories and confusion.   I could never get my head round the Trilogy.  

by Andrey Rublev

It sounded suspiciously close to religious schitzophrenia.   But I could see – even if I could not understand – the wonder round me.   How you healed when you had had an injury.   Plant life, bird life, animal life – wonderful documentaries, the behaviour of animals.    I admired science but it was based on proof, not acceptance.   I sought what I could accept.

The endless miracles of natural life are enough to make me rejoice often.  Yes, I can see man’s inhumanity to man – but that’s mankind, often a conceited, blind and silly creature.  And if this is the highest brain form – what price cruelty to children and animals, obsession with  being right –  which comes through different religious forms ? 

My God – yes, I call him God –  is there – there when lights transform the sky, there when young are born and old die, there is every act of kindess and grace, there in every act of cruelty  and stupidity, there in difference and infinite variety, there when I understand that life is highly imperfect  but it’s all I have and I celebrate every single bit that I can of it – up to and including “God get me through this madness with Moorfields” and make me a  better person. 

The rest as the old Irish nuns say I offer up.  

early this year

This year, celebration of the midwinter feast of Yule

shrewdly hooked to the birth of the Christ (Christian administrators were very good at making use of what was there already to advance their cause, given how important they thought it was) has been wonderful.

One of my oldest and dearest friends arrived first, tiny in a black trousers suit, splendid jewellery, her arms full of flowers, homemade soup, cheese, fresh bread, “do try this” in lots of small cartons – and it’s her way.  She’d do it if it were May.  And you feel like a small child given run of a delicatessen Santa’s grotto.

The elves arrive every week – masquerading as rubbish collectors,

in that killer orange and because I have socially invested in them ie I go out , I say  thank you to whoever is handy – I don’t care if they don’t get it, they will eventually understand – and two of them did.  Before I could speak, they waved and grinned  – “’Morning, miss !”   In London.  In 2025.  And the moral of this story is – somebody has to make the first move.  I will.

My son came up with something for my granddaughter.  Thank heaven because I was stuck.  And then volunteered a Christmas list of what he really wanted – graphic novels named and spelled out, or Manuka vodka.   Giving him something is usually like offering him physical harm.

I went to get the second bus – and at the back of a short queue was a tall whitehaired man with a walking stick in the most enviable double breasted black cashmere greatcoat,

worn just enough to his shape, and I said into his face with a grin “Sir, you look wonderful!”    He looked at me for a moment, then smiled and said “Thank you.  I am 91!”   So I said I was 81 “and I have impeccable taste!”  

He made the next conversational move and we went on effortlessly.  He was a Dutch engineer, he was going to their embassy.  He talked about working all over the Middle and Far East, about Jews living in every country, he talked about half the Palestinians being Christian.  His partner was Palestinian.  He has a religiously inclined daughter and an utterly disbelieving son.  “I  am  with  him” he said. 

He told me about a museum in Taiwan which has great Chinese treasure, collected by Chiang Kai-Shek, including a crystal ball – really a ball and really crystal. 

like this

“I can’t imagine how long it took to make” he said “but I go back to it, my wife and I go back to it – and within a few minutes of seeing it, I am emotional, very moved.” 

We had spoken briefly of the importance of using formal language to make bridges, not walls and when he got up to go he said “This was lovely, madam” and I said “Indeed sir.”

Then coming down the bus stairs, came a couple who smiled at me as if they saw me a week ago.  We all got out and I asked my inevitable question – and they are Iranian.  They moved here five months ago.  She is a pharmacist, he an architect who has become a painter.  They have a young son.    And I told them (being aware how fractionalized politics is) that I saw a man with the Israeli flag and another I didn’t recognize which turned out to be from Iran.  The man said “But we have Jews in Iran, we like Israel.  We are waiting for our regime to fall…”  I have read that phrase but have never heard it said.  I looked at him.  “Oh yes” said his wife.  “we came for our son, sure, better school, better opportunities and so on.  But we came for water, for electricity, for air .. we are sitting in an 8,000 year old culture and watching it be denied and destroyed by people who are not from there … Their Iran is not ours”

I wrote recently about the impact of seeing it with your own eyes, hearing it with your own ears (see annalog/ as others see us) and I did.

Christmas came early for me this year.

logbreeding

Sometimes  you hit a log. 

Smartasses will say “ Better than the log hitting you” but it feels similar.   In my brief association with “proper journalism” (don’t ask) a brusque but likeable editor growled about my copy “There is a  piece in here if we could just get to the hook…” He found it second para  down, we moved it.

Please notice – all men!

Can’t find a hook.  

Go back to the alphabet (there is a new book on  the origins of the letters ) and the first letter is A.  A for Andrew.  I deeply do not want to  write about Prince Andrew, everybody else has, seriously and snippily.  Look. 

He’s an unpleasant waster, wife similar.  Daughters  ? Daughters.   I am deeply aware of the horrors of child abuse in whatever form, the hurt, the harm but I would rather not discuss it through the prism of  Jeffrey Epstein  and his dubious suicide.  

Andrew is an ageing B for  brat, the late Queen’s favourite and a lot of good it did him.   Am I the only person more concerned about any harm he may have done when dealing with the  no-flies- on-them Chinese in quasi diplomatic mode ?   Or is some sexual variant  always preferable  popular discussion to political  insecurity ?  

And putting aside affection and respect, leaving an insoluble mess to your offspring is not a kindness.   Whoever you are, tidy it up, tie it down.  Poor old King, cancer AND Andrew.

B is for  book(s), my revenge on scandalously unsatisfactory mess that terrestrial television is. 

  A respected industry friend said “I believe in the BBC” to which I  retorted “I’d like to.”  “ It’s our BBC” they sloganize ?   I wish. In my favourite TV column endless sensible complaints about the music overlaying everything.  Who listens ?  Not a soul.   We’re sick of repeats, yes we know it’s about money – what isn’t ?  Not helped by enormous expense in paying legal fees to settle very public messes – only incurred on this management watch.  Je reste ma valise,  a phrase which was the finest moment of the non-French speaking husband of a Francophone friend..

C is for the corporate model which means everything is about money

– not service, not human kindness.- eroded in its turn by  everything  having to fit in with the plan. Not P is for personal just the plan.  So when you do hit  C is for consideration, you almost don’t believe it.

D is for darling  which I am begin to understand is a word associated  less with the theatre of my youth and more with age itself.   My mother used it to me, it was a family endearment.  (I suppose D is for dated – fine.)  

We are not  going to get through all 26 letters including X for mystery  in one  go  so let me forward to R for readers and responders. After the very considerable  technological mess  I have been  through, nothing could have been more generous than the Response of

F for friends.  Without them, including one man who doesn’t know me from a hole in the ground, the lid of the Raeburn head would have exploded. 

 And then there was  Y for YOU.  People who read and responded, keeping one of  my sorely tried feet on the ground.   I can still make sentences, they haven’t all gone off to watch Traitors or Strictly.

They do have  minds and thoughts and sensibilities and  – they  know what they like when they read it.  T is Thank you – big  thank you.  Also old fashioned, don’t care, valuable phrase.  One of the tall young Asian men  cultivated by the friendly neighbourhood  pharmacist recognizes me, thawed by assiduous politeness on both sides, and yesterday made a joke.  Feet under the table, bless you.  Welcome.  

F is for flight of ideas

Heavily medicalized description – mine is more benign

(look it up) which is a wonderful image. Most of what I do is that or starts there.  Only sometimes  the ideas hide.  What you write is wooden.  It doesn’t cook.  There isn’t a link, only  the writer has to see the link  though  it’s wish fulfilment when other readers get it.

I used to think that I would never amount to a hill of beans  because I hadn’t suffered  enough.  I thought I was finished at  19, I hadn’t as my  pa pointed out, even started.   Did I have a way to go – not a clue beyond  doing my best and reading a lot. Hooray for logs.