Defiance in the Dark ~ Gaudete Sunday for Celtic Advent Day 23

The third candle has been lit on our Advent Crown and the light is quietly increasing, although it may feel to many of us that the darkness has deepened since last I wrote.

The UK general election results have left many reeling and deep in grief, and I am amongst them. I have tried to write, and have several half finished pieces to share, but often I am rendered wordless by events or am trying to manage in my own ineffectual way the distress ebbing and flowing here in the hedgehermitage since the vote took place. My husband, who has Asperger's and has already had most of his support from our Government removed and who is currently in the midst of yet another assessment process, is overloaded and overwhelmed. I feel for those, and there are many, who are much less well off than we are.

And so, I breathe deeply as I write that this week's candle, the third of Advent, was dedicated to Gaudete Sunday and to joy.

Gaudete Sunday takes its name from the Latin word 'gaudete', 'Rejoice'.  Some of us may be familiar with the word from the song of the same name by Steeleye Span.

Ever so lovely.

Gaudete in Domino semper: 
iterum dico, gaudete. 
Modestia vestra nota sit 
omnibus hominibus: 
Dominus enim prope est. 
Nihil solliciti sitis: 
sed in omni oratione et 
obsecratione cum gratiarum 
actione petitiones vestræ 
innotescant apud Deum. 
Benedixisti Domine terram tuam: 
avertisti captivitatem Jacob.

Rejoice in the Lord always; 
again I say, rejoice.
Let your forbearance be known to all,
for the Lord is near at hand;
have no anxiety about anything,
but in all things,
by prayer and supplication,
with thanksgiving,
let your requests be known to God.
Lord, you have blessed your land;
you have turned away the captivity of Jacob.

Philippians 4:4–6; Psalm 85 (84):1

This reminds me of Mary's fierce and revolutionary song, the 'Magnificat', which was the first thing I thought to write about as the Election results came in; 'He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.' These songs are not an inventory of what IS but a call to what will BE. Here, is Paul's own song in the face of suffering, written to the Philippians as he awaited sentencing and certain execution at the hands of the Roman Empire; 'Rejoice in the Lord, always'. Not their Lord, of power over and might; OURS, the Peasant King of the World Turned Upside Down. Or, as our priest Eileen described it yesterday, "the upside down world of justice and joy." To find joy, to be joyful in the midst of despair, this too is the Resistance. And that is what Advent is all about.

Theologian Henri Nouwen described the difference between joy and happiness by explaining that happiness relies on external conditions but that joy is knowing that we are held in absolute love and that nothing can take that away. I'm not sure that many of us feel secure in being held in absolute love, despite it being true, but I do agree with Henri Nouwen that joy can be present in the saddest of times. This is what Small Beauties, which I have written about many times before, teach us; that circumstances may sit on us like a dark and increasingly stormy cloud but, every now and again, the sun will come out and we will glimpse wonders.

Last Saturday, still feeling tearful, heartbroken, and raw, I ventured out as I had promised to deliver some leaflets about lovely Christmas happenings. I didn't want to go but I made myself because I had promised. This is anothet reason why community and respobsibility matter; they force us out when we might otherwise curl in ourselves and perhaps never fully reemerge. And so I went out and I did experience moments of joy.

I found that the Goat Willow down the roadhas new leaf buds, I found a newly-revealed-by-winter bird's nest, the bare-branch trees were beautiful against the winter sky, Solid Dennis, our cat companion, found a new sitting place, I played pee-bo in church with a toddler who was fascinated by my bindi and flower hat, I found a quince bush, I received a surprise gift in the post, our new giant bag of bird seed arrived, and our garden was visited by the Mac Gwylan herring gulls who nest on our roof and a stunning magpie.

Some of this weekend's small beauties & moments of joy

And all these things delighted me, even the trees despite them being the only few survivors of a new housing development.  Or perhaps, because of. In this complicated and complex world we often discount what's beautiful, what brings us joy and hope. We so quickly move to, "yes, but....". We don't need escapism or false positivity but we do need moments of joy. They are respite and food for the long journey to justice. To me these little joys are fleeting but perfect moments of connection to the spark of Creation when everything else falls away. We need those.

And respite is just what Gaudete Sunday is all about. As I have written before, following an older tide, Advent once echoed the fasting and austerity of Lent and, like Lent, lasted for forty days, beginning at Martinmas on 11th November. This was known as 'St Martin's Lent', a name by which it was known from at least the 5th Century.

In the 9th Century, Advent was reduced to the more familiar four weeks (or four Sundays) but remained a time of repentance and fasting. Gaudete Sunday, like Laetare Sunday in Lent, falls halfway through this time and is an opportunity to celebrate the closeness of Christmas Day without the accompanying austere practices. There is only so much that people are willing to take! I also recall that there are several made up saints' days during Advent as further excuses for frivolity.

I have long maintained that spring, not winter, is the season for self-denial and gentle fasting and the efforts of our ancestors to find reason for a knees up during Advent is further proof of that.

And so, Gaudete Sunday has opened us into a week of joy in the midst of deep despair for many. This is perfect Advent work; not to suggest that life is easy, but to accept the challenge of finding sweetness in the sour, to affirm that the 'upside down world of justice and joy' is a reality whose time will come, despite the evidence of injustice and sadness all around us, and to be defiant against the dark.

Christingle at St Martin's 1,000 year church

References:

Gaudete Sunday https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaudete_Sunday

Laetare Sunday https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laetare_Sunday

Phillipians https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistle_to_the_Philippians

Frost at Advent ~ a poem for Celtic Advent Day 17

Image: Jacqueline Durban 

Continuing the theme of hope, here is a beautiful poem written only yesterday by my Kent Christian Peace Activist sister in solidarity, Holly Elsie. Such a tender and fragile-strong poem of finding peace and hope in the smallest, most intricate, and yet most ordinary, of things. This is where we find the Beloved.

Frost at Advent 

Unfurling ferns of frost on the window:
The first sign of you in the morning.
Beyond, hoarfrost on fenceposts and fields -
All exposed things are changed.
And I know that winter
Is yours as much as spring.
If I could wait and watch
the slow growing then thawing
of frost on the window,
I would learn something of peace.
For hope is a perennial shoot rooted deep,
And I believe I shall see the goodness
of the Lord in the land of the living.
If I could sit patiently, faithfully,
Watching your microscopic work
Transform the pane,
I might glimpse that which
Could be...
And shall be.

Holly Elsie, December 2019.

Hope is the Thing with Feathers ~ a Prayer Song to Small Brown Birds

'Winter Wren', Wiki Commons ~ https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Winter_Wren_(8085328310).jpg

Hope is the thing with feathers 
That perches in the soul 
And sings the tune without the words

And never stops - at all -...

(Emily Dickinson)

These are difficult times, with so much unfolding, both here in Britain and elsewhere, that is painful, frightening, and feels almost impossible to bear.The election and inauguration of Donald Trump, and all that that promises to bring into being, Brexit, the rise of right wing politics and attitudes, fracking, the Dakota Access Pipeline, continued attacks on the poor and vulnerable, the badger cull, and so much more, all conspire to make life less bright. In my own small life, I struggle personally with financial worries, with keeping my little family afloat, and with the loss of the beautiful hawthorn hedge and mature trees that until recently were close to our house but have now been hacked down to make space for new houses. It is a small blessing that my beloved wilding tree has been spared thus far. She was the next tree in the line that was felled but, for reasons that are unclear, she has remained standing. For how long I don't yet know. Where once I walked care-free, I now turn the corner preparing myself to see an empty space where her beautiful old branches once met the sky. It is not a good feeling. From the personal to the collective, it all just feels too much, enough to shut down our hearts and make us turn away. And yet, hope is the thing with feathers that perches in our soul.

Chiffchaff, Wiki Commons ~ https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chiffchaff_(Phylloscopus_collybita)_(7).jpg

I have much to say about the war on our hearts and on our connection to the Land and to the Sacred. I will write more on that soon but, for now, I want to write about the blessings of small brown birds. What matters most, and perhaps what is hardest, in times like these is to keep our hearts open, to allow the flow of feeling when so much of us wants to shut down. Without that flow I believe that we are lost. I have written before about how grief is one of the gates to an open heart, but there are so many gates and, for me, one of those gates is birds. I have also written about feeding the birds in our garden every morning but I have not really talked about how much joy that brings into my life, nor the anchor that it provides to what matters. Today, for example, I have been scared and a little bit lost. It is a feeling that I am familiar with and one that might cause me to become grasping and needy. I feel that part of me scratching at the window of my soul, demanding to be let in. And yet today as every day, I fed the garden birds, with seeds and suet, with cheese and apple, I broke the ice on their water bowl and poured fresh, clean water for them to drink, and that made it better. It is not just that it matters to feed birds in the winter, nor that it is a nice thing to do and means that there will be birds to watch in the garden. It is that, at a time when we are being told, both explicitly and implicitly, that there isn't enough for everyone and that it would be best to think only of ourselves, when we are encouraged to turn inwards and harden our hearts, that buying seed and fruit and making sure to go out every day because the birds are waiting, challenges all of that. Because there is more than enough for everyone. It's just that some people don't want to share. And it matters because birds are one of the things that can keep our hearts open.

In the last few days I have been moved to tears of wonder and quiet awe, not to mention delight, at the presence of small birds. A wren seems to have taken up residence in our garden and is often to be seen foraging in our brambles. Two days ago she let me get quite close to her before she flew away, and today I was standing at the kitchen sink and she landed on the tree just outside our window no more than two feet away from me. I was enchanted and transfixed. I have also watched a blue tit on the rose bush outside our living room window carefully turning over rose leaves with his tiny foot to search for insects and, today, a chiffchaff doing the same. Sometimes small birds seem more mammal than bird, flowing with stoat-like grace between blackberry tendrils and rose thorns. I could watch them for hours. And that is not to mention that starry-night starlings who gather in a joyous cacophony of squawks and clicks in our cherry tree every day, or the doves with their outspread tail feathers lit by the sun, or the fat woodpigeons that land and seem to threaten to knock the bird feeder over, or the jackdaw couple who always arrive and leave together, or the lesser spotted woodpecker who spirals up and down our cherry tree and brings a flash of red flame to grey days, or the magpies with their long balancing tails and stunning secret rainbow colours, or the gulls with their demanding fluff-ball babies that blow onto our roof every spring, or the blue tits whose colours seem so vivid in the winter light, or the excitement of the sparrows who occasionally call by, or the blackbird pair who, to my absolute delight, have begun to visit, or the bright little winter robin. Every day they bring me a precious brush with the wild, and there are days when I would swear that they save my life.


And then yesterday I walked, as I often do these days, to the graveyard of the 1,000 year old church close by. Churchyards are so often a rich source of connection to nature and this time I was particularly blessed; first by watching a wren indulging in a lengthy dust bath, something which I have never seen before, and then by a tiny goldcrest foraging on the branches and leaves of two yew trees that I happened to be standing under. Goldcrests are well known for their cavalier attitude to the presence of humans and I stood enchanted for at least half an hour watching this one flit from one tree to the other only a few feet from where I was standing. Who needs a mountain to feel awe when there are goldcrests in yew trees? There was a moment when he was lit from behind by the pale winter sun and I have to admit that I wept for the beauty of it all and for the fierce aliveness of that tiny bird.

Goldcrest in a yew tree, Wiki Commons ~ https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Regulus_regulus_-Auderghem,_Brussels-8.jpg

I have little more to say. It was just that something in me wanted to record that moment as a prayer song to all the things that are beautiful and fiercely alive in our world, in spite of and because of it all, and in the feathered hope that we will all notice the things that could keep our hearts open in the days and weeks to come.

As for the birds, the late winter is sometimes known as the 'hungry gap' when many winter berries and seeds have gone and little food is available. Birds need more energy in cold weather and the shorter days mean that they have less time to forage. At the same time, the loss of wild hedgerows and much garden space means that there is less and less food for them to find, and at a time when many migrant species are arriving and needing feeding up after their long journeys. It is a blessing to them, and to us, if we can put out a little food and water for them every day. The RSPB provide some valuable tips on how best to feed the feathered~kin in winter, and at other times, here. I wish you many moments of quiet awe and simple delight in their good company.

Goldcrest eating silver birch buds, Wiki Commons ~ https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Goldcrest,_eating_the_silver_birch_buds_(11585923184).jpg

You can read the full text of Emily Dickinson's poem here. Honey for the soul.

Autumn Equinox Small Beauties

An early walk down to the sea and taking a bus along the coast. Such a feeling of stillness and a breath held. A beautiful pause to dream in.

The wide, wild open spaces of Romney Marsh and the shingle beach; flat, empty, seemingly reaching on forever.

entranced by the faraway sea, silver light spinning shimmers across the shallows, rich mudflats of toffee and cinnamon ripples, the small dots of sea birds in the distant blue. This world of salt and shallow, so much hidden in this landscape that might like you to believe that it has revealed everything.

Ice Age shingle beaches, a sprinkling of shells and different kinds of seaweed ~ one that looked as though it was made of felt that I didn't believe was real until I saw its sister in the shallow water, small treasures to be found everywhere if only I remembered to force my eyes away from the wide silver-blue to the ground beneath my feet.

the warm wood of the boardwalk and the small lichens who have made it their home. the unexpected texture of sea kale ~ so much to learn about this new kind of green, and the face of a tiny stone-spirit found in a beach pebble. 

So much that was unfamiliar and which I long to learn about. And the absolute silence so loud that I could almost hear the song of the Salt Mother. Almost.

The buzz of my friend's coffee morning, full of people who felt that they held the warmth of community; good conversation, plots and plans woven, much laughter, sweet truffles put in a little box to take home to Himself, and Victoria Sponge for me. My favourite!!

Bright sunflowers against clear blue sky.

The familiarity of the intimate beaches of home. Nothing wide and wild there, except the sea, the sea and the black of our night-sky cormorant.

The coolness of the woods on a hot, hot day, and the continued stillness of Equinox; looking up in awe of the tree people who grow there, the air filled with tiny fairy-like light beings, the Equinox sun now and then bursting through a gap in the trees and making the leaves glow golden.

Finding a gathering of tiny, tiny mushrooms in the park.

Good conversation and sharing with Himself on a walk high above the, by then, darkening blue sea; white wave tops and the most stunning view of France, which I have never seen so clearly. We talked of our ancestors looking out across the waves and seeing this mysterious land of chalk cliffs and green hills that appears and disappears, seemingly like magic. No wonder that our folklore is full of such tales.

A hand lick from a shy ginger cat and then from a very unshy little dog.

A tray of far-too-abundant-for-one-man apples on a wall freely shared with passers by. I left a little thank you note and the apples were delicious. What a magical day for the sharing of apples!

The most perfect Autumn Equinox in this new place.

A Late Summer's Day of Small Beauties

Yesterday was a day of abundant small beauties...

Waking to no electricity, so no internet. It was beautifully peaceful.

Early morning Stefi, Queen of Cats, time. The lovely feeling of a cat purring on my lap.

A chance to chat to our behind-our-house-neighbours and spotting their one eyed black cat and teeny tiny new kitten.

Reaching up to a high branch on the wilding tree and picking a sun-warmed apple. Feeling gratitude for the deeper connection created by tasting its unexpectedly sweet flesh.

Loving the early flowering of the ivy this year and the opportunity to witness the bonkersly joyful celebratory wasp and honeybee party that was in progress. Love, love, LOVE ivy flowers! They are just so important to our little pollinators.

The beautiful late summer flowering of deep pink dog roses.

A day of very-nearly; elderberries and hawthorn berries so close to being ripe but not quite yet. It feels like a held breath.

Eating blackberries straight from the brambles. For some reason I have become reticent to collect them and bring them home. I just love eating them warm from the sun. And it made me smile that there were so many huge juicy looking blackberries just out of reach.

The autumn colours of virginia creeper along a wall.

Brightly coloured flags against blue sky.

An elderly gentleman on the beach wearing a knotted hanky on his head! I was beside myself with glee.

A jaunty little dog called Morgan wandering amongst everyone sitting on the beach. Much visiting.

Finding a stone like a seals's flipper and one with crystals sparkling inside it on the beach. Much love for the stone people from the sea.

Stunning storm-sun skies above the sea.

Reading 'Ten Poems from Wales', a gift from my friend Helen, on the beach. Magic word weaving in our true language.

Exploring a little back road in Sandgate and finding old fishermen's cottages leading to a little gate with gingham bunting draped along the wall. I could so feel the need for dwellings so close to the sea to huddle together in that way and imagine the lives that had been lived there.

Foraging for nettle seeds, mullein, and hedge woundwort on the way home. The best thing was being asked what I was foraging for by a passing family and so having the opportunity to tell them all about nettle seeds. I told them all about how to collect them and why they are marvellous and they all had a nibble of some straight from a plant. Nettle evangelism!!

Scrumping for apples. I felt very norty!! And the apples were so abundant!!

Apples beginning to rot on the tree and lying on the ground; a sure sign of the season turning and perfect for the creation of drunken wasps! And there was the most lovely smell.

A tortoiseshell butterfly sunning herself on a crumbling old red brick wall.

Flowers of bittersweet and one precious snowberry.

Green holly berries and the excitement of waiting for their ripening.

Sitting on the grass in the sun chatting to my friend on the phone with children playing all around.

Coming home with a basket full of beautiful foraged abundance.

A velvet black crow on the bird feeder and hearing his claws tapping as he moved around to get to the food and water.

Two jackdaws in the rowan tree; such richness of beautiful darkness against the red berries.

Some Days of Small Beauties

The gently wonderful feeling of being home after six long days away and the first sight of Himself at the station. My heart goes pitter pat.

How Stefi, who is the most beautiful of cats, gazes at Himself all the time with such adoration on her face, even when he is asleep. There is something about cats and people with Asperger's; they just work somehow. She loves him and that is lovely to see.

A further visit from the gang of baby blue tits and the continued gangly legginess of the roof seagull babies.

The sting of a nettle ~ I honour the connection through the skin.

A happy conversation at the supermarket checkout about the loveliness of winter weddings.

Days of stunning storm clouds and rolling thunder.

How Himself works so hard to understand himself and the world through his heart connection to She~Who~Is.

Happy time cooking, adding last week's dried nettle seeds to a jar, the smell of fresh basil and making pesto, a new kilner jar for flour, the taste of fresh green beans, and scrubbing mud off beautiful carrots with my vegetable scrubbing brush. Such simple pleasures but they make me blissful.

A baby woodpecker being brought to our garden birdfeeder by his parent to be fed. How much more lovely could anything be!?

(I think) spotting oystercatchers in the low-tide mudflats of the river that my train passes over on my way back to London.

The beginnings of gold in the wheat fields that until very recently were fresh, new green.

Hearing a young girl at the Monday school I work in singing 'Hopelessly Devoted to You' from 'Grease' in the school play rehearsals. Such a stunning and confident voice! And another, even smalller, girl showing me a butterfly picture that she was colouring in. The hearts of small girls and butterflies are so deeply entwined.

That my friend's 8 year old daughter has adopted the phrase, "what a lovely young man!", which she tells me makes her think of me and which makes her giggle. And that they did meet a 'lovely young man' who offered them his umbrella in a rainstorm.

When a little autistic boy who comes to play at my friend's house allowed me to help him make a boat. It felt like an honour.

Learning about sea snakes from 'Octonauts'. And a lovely bit of 'Abney and Teal'.

Strangely getting lots of random friend requests in response to a post of mine last week that was shared hugely. Apparently most of the requests were mistakes due to the strangeness of accessing Facebook via mobile phone but they did open up several lovely conversations. I liked that.

Watching the unfolding of huge support for Jeremy Corbyn. Heartening.

And that, even in the face of such difficult times, many people are making positive acts of solidarity with those from other countries. I hope that there will be more and more acts speaking out against racism until those who have taken encouragement from the Referendum result learn that this is a country of tolerance and beautiful diversity and that they are the ones who are not welcome here. This is still our land!

Today's Small Beauties

Waking up feeling all snuggly.

The number of lovely bottles of bathing deliciousness that I have unearthed in my massive campaign of decluttering. Today, I had a wondrous shower with vanilla pong for company.

Remembering Tony Benn, who died 14^th March 2014.

Badger Monday, a campaign against the cull on Twitter. It heartens me.

Learning that badgers helps to spread primroses, through their digging up of worms, and hugely help with the growth of difficult to propagate wild cherry trees, by eating the fruit and then leaving the stones in helpful little badger poo piles. How deeply they shape our land.

Learning that our British badgers are unusual in living in such close knit family groups. Apparently in the rest of the world they are much more solitary. Ours are truly special; independently minded island-dwelling beings, just like us. It has been a learning about badgers day.

The beautiful sunshine spring warmth of the day.

Buses coming just when I needed them and drivers being kind.

Speaking to a man who knew about vans. I like a man who knows about vans.

Small girls with shiny pony-tailed hair. There is something so sweetly hopeful and innocent about them.

Extra small children all shouting "fee fi fo fum!!!"

A lovely patch of red deadnettle and a bumblebee foraging on daisies.

The hope of a heron.

Blackthorn flowers like bright little stars.

Himself giving me a lecture on the way to fold socks, and folding in general. I love him for that.

The continuing making of brave moves towards a wiser, wilder, truer life.

Finding a tiny 200 year old Scottish Blackhouse with whitewashed walls for sale on the island of Tiree. I am making plans to move in immediately (if only!). I will send my dreaming there tonight.

Talking to a dear friend on the phone. I have a little bit of a phone phobia so that is a small victory, and it is always good to talk to a friend.