Novena for the Fallen Through ~ our first prayer for Peace on Earth

Mari Lwyd image by Flying Viper on DeviantArt

‘I refuse to engage prayer as a weapon
I wish it to be like a river
between two shores
for I seek neither punishment nor grace
but rather new skin
that can bear this world.’
(‘99 Psalms’ by SAID)

A novena is an ancient rhythm of prayer repeated over nine hours or nine days consecutively. It is believed that the first novenas, which means 'nine' in Latin, trace their origins to pre-Christian Greek and Roman customs performed by families mourning the death of a loved one, followed by a feast ~ because death must always be woven back into life. Since then they have become more general prayers and devotions to the Divine, often dedicated to a particular saint or to the Virgin Mary.

This is an invitation to join, each full moon, in nine days of simple any-faith prayer in solidarity with those who have 'fallen through' and who cry out for justice. In this way we will seek to weave an act of sacred activism, holding all who are in pain, who may feel lost and ignored, and those who are working for truth and liberty, in threads of wild prayer, fierce hope, and deep community.

Many reading this will have noticed that this novena is not taking place at full moon, but rather as the moon turns to new. It has been a deep birthing woven through with frustrations and, what has felt like, failure. Often I feel that I am too breakable to take on this work and this month’s prayer in particular seems an almost inconceivably immense one in these times. In October we lifted prayers for justice for the victims of the Grenfell Tower fire. In November we wove prayers of love and protection for our threatened wildkin. December's theme will be 'Peace On Earth'. What could be bigger and bolder than that, and yet I feel neither big nor bold.

I have thought a lot about this over the weeks since full moon. I have thought about the concept of the ‘wounded healer’ and the need for those of us who don’t always feel strong to step up as and when we can. Many of us are ‘weather vanes’ pointing to what is wild and true after all; that is one of the reasons why we break. And I thought of our ex-Prime Minister, David Cameron’s concept of the ‘Big Society’; one in which volunteers take the place of public services. In some ways this might seem a fine idea but, of course, it represents the loss of all that we as a nation have put in place to protect the most vulnerable in our society; the NHS, the welfare state etc. When I first heard about the 'Big Society', which has continued under the name of Austerity in subsequent governments, my biggest fear was that the only people who would be able to afford to volunteer would be the wealthy, creating an even deeper sense of division than exists already with the well off 'administering' to the poor; Dickens would recognise this way of being. It is one step away from justification of the workhouse. It is so easy for those who have money, power, and confidence to fill the cracks in our world, cracks that really need to get wider until they are gaping wounds that can’t be ignored. There is so much that festers under the skin of our society. And it feels the same with prayer.

The other day I watched the memorial for Grenfell with my friend. It mattered that it was held in St Paul’s, in the heart of religion as institution and institution as religion, that the fallen through were acknowledged there, but there was no breaking open, no cracks showing, the names of the dead were not read and the prayers were somehow cold when they could have fanned the flames of healing and justice. They were made by a church that refuses to be broken, clinging tenuously to its links with secular power; a secular power that didn’t care enough to keep people alive. There was beauty and there was power of a sort but I felt no Spirit in it, not until Nadia Jafari, who escaped the fire but lost her father, Ali, read a Rumi prayer in a small voice filled with unimaginable heartbreak.

Until those of us who are breakable, who feel that we don’t have the strength, the status, the wealth, or the right to speak truth to power, find the courage to lift our own wild prayers, no matter how fragile they seem or we feel, there will be no fire. And, in spite of and because of all that has happened, we really do need to reclaim the fire. Where the broken are, there is the Spirit and Spirit is justice burst into flame.

Each cycle of novenas is traditionally devoted to a saint. December’s will be dedicated to Mary and Mari Lwyd, who I dare to refer to as 'Saint Mari Lwyd'. To me at least, she is one of our own wild-edge saints, or 'folk saints', the drumming hoofbeat of the Divine Feminine that still echoes in our wild lands, just as Mary, the mother of Jesus, the ‘God Bearer’, is the Divine Feminine hiding in plain sight within patriarchal institutionalised religion. There was a time when we didn't allow the institution of the church or anyone else to tell us what, and who, was holy.

Mari Lwyd: Necrovivrea DeviantArt

Since full moon, Donald Trump has provocatively chosen to acknowledge Jerusalem as the capital of Israel, even though it is also claimed by the Palestinian people as their capital. Peace on Earth must always include the West Bank and all that is unfolding there and this December, in protest against colonial power, the Christmas lights have been switched off in Bethlehem. What more powerful image of the darkness that threatens our peace; not the luminous darkness in which earth beings hibernate and seeds germinate, but a darkness devoid of life? And so our novena will also be devoted to the Star of Bethlehem and the Light that she holds. Stories tell that, after she had guided the Wise Men to the birth of Jesus, she broke into thousands of pieces and fell to earth. She knows about being broken and still shining with hope. She must be very tired of not being seen.

Returning to Mari Lwyd and Mary, the devotion of this Novena is woven from the story told in the deeply moving song by Hugh Lupton, sung by Chris Wood in the film below, which gives a further insight into the tradition of the Mari Lwyd and into the divisions that have been willfully created between people of Spirit.

The Mari Lwyd is a midwinter wassailing custom, found mostly in South Wales, where groups would travel from house to house with a ‘hobby horse’ made from a horse’s skull mounted on a pole and carried by someone covered in a cloth. The ‘hooded animal’ tradition is found in many parts of Britain, and indeed there is a tradition similar to the Mari Lwyd here in my area of Kent called ‘hoodening’, or the ‘hooden horse’. These groups would demand entry to a house through song and the inhabitants would be expected to deny entry in the same way until the householders (hopefully) relented and the Mari Lwyd would be granted entry. Her carriers would then be rewarded with food and drink; so many of our Midwinter customs are rooted in sharing by those who have much with those who have little. The custom was given various names but ‘Mari Lwyd’ is the most ubiquitous. Folklorist Iorwerth C. Peate believed that the term translated as ‘Holy Mary’. However, there is little evidence for the use of ‘Mari’ for ‘Mary’ in Wales prior to the Protestant Reformation, and as ‘llwyd’ translates as ‘grey’, it is thought more likely that her name means ‘Grey Mare’. This would echo hooded horse traditions in Ireland and the Isle of Mann, which in those tongues is named ‘Láir Bhán’ and the ‘Laare Vane’, both translating as ‘white mare’.

The earliest recording of the Mari Lwyd tradition comes from J. Evans' ‘A Tour through Part of North Wales, in the year 1798, and at Other Times’. However, many have suggested a pre-Christian origin for our wild mare. The Uffington White Horse chalk figure in Wiltshire may be up to 3,000 years old and reveals the importance of the horse spirit to our ancestors. Whether this is linked to the Mari Lwyd is anyone’s guess. As with so many things in our mist-covered land, she is a mystery that we must feel the truth of for ourselves.

Storyteller, Hugh Lupton, tells us that the tradition of the Mari Lwyd is rooted in the tale that the Mari Lwyd was cast out of the Bethlehem stable on a cold winter’s night to make room for Mary to give birth to the Christ child and that ever since she has roamed the world as a wraith looking for somewhere to give birth to her foal. This is a sad tale indeed.

MARI LWYD

The Hodening Hoss, the Marbury Dun,

Old Bone-face the deathless am I,

Heavy with foal two thousand years,

Bridled with sorrow,

Saddled with fear,

I canter through pastures of tremble and quake,

I gallop the track between sleep and awake

Seeking the deep of welcome

And stint for my tears.

Let me in!

The Mare-headed Queen, the Mari-Lwyd,

I was mother of all the herds.

Ten thousand years my shining foals,

Bridled with starlight,

Saddled with gold,

Leapt the divide between living and dead,

Quickened the year with each toss of the head,

Galloped the deep of beauty

And never grew old.

Let me in!

But Mother of God, the Mary Mild,

The pregnant Maiden came,

Bursting with Jehovah seed

She entered my stable

And cried out her need.

With ropes I was dragged from the birthing straw,

Aching with foal I was heaved to the door,

Swapping warmth for bitter weather

And birth of a rival creed.

Let me in!

And now I am nightmare, I am rattling womb,
The Uffington wraith I've become,
Forced into darkness you've made me a fiend,
Bridled with shadow,
Saddled with scream,
From window to window traversing the night,
My face in your glass in a shudder of light,
Seeking that deep of welcome
Befitting a Queen.
Let me in once again,
Let me in!

(Hugh Lupton)

I don't believe that Mary, who was herself a refugee, would have denied anyone, particularly a birthing mother, room and so there is much mending to be done, both between our 'holy women' and in seeking 'Peace on Earth' when we live under the shadow of war and the needless deaths of our children, the brutality of poverty, homelessness, and loneliness, the Boxing Day Hunt, the driven Grouse Moors, hare coursing, mindless consumerism, and all that is unfolding on the West Bank and the tiny town of Bethlehem; the focus for many over this Christmas period. It is ironic indeed that the one whom many would name the ‘Prince of Peace’, was born to a refugee family under Roman occupation in a place that is even now is similarly blighted. There is a reason why our archetypal stories rise in the places that they do and why religious leaders called the 'sinners' and tax collectors who Christ surrounded himself with 'the people of the land'. For some it seems that is an insult. Being outsiders and outcasts they were too aware of the drumming hoofbeat of the call for justice perhaps...

Mary's 'Magnificat', Ben Wildflower

And Mary too has struggled to be heard. Those on the margins have throughout history identified with her ‘Magnificat’, which is threaded through with the hope of liberation from oppression. So much so that, in the last century, its public recitation was banned in at least three countries due to it being considered ‘dangerously subversive’. No, it wasn’t Mary, nor Joseph who stayed by her side defying so many social conventions in deeply patriarchal times, who cast the Grey Mare from her stable. Both these stories are revolutionary, challenging to the status quo, lifting up what is ‘humble and poor’ and bringing down what is ‘rich and proud’, seeking justice. There are plenty of others though who have good reason to fear them enough to create division and mistrust between people of Spirit.

I wrote more on some of these themes in my piece on Epiphany; ‘On Following Starlight and Listening to a Deeper Song’, which you can read here if you would like to http://radicalhoneybee.blogspot.co.uk/2017/01/on-following-starlight-and-listening-to.html

'Singing Round the Star on Twelfth Night', Cornelius Troost, J.Paul Getty Museum, Wiki Commons

And so we begin our journey with Mary and Mari Lwyd. Like them, I hope that we can seek to birth better things in the dreaming darkness, that, like the frost, our Novena will provide a tender breaking open of long neglected ground as we lift prayers for what is and what might be in preparation for the return of the light in the depths of winter dark. The day when our Novena was to begin was not only full moon but also Advent Sunday. Advent, which continues until Christmas Eve and which makes waiting the centre of spiritual practice, is the perfect time for clinging to the stubborn hope and possibility of peace to come, in spite of evidence to the contrary. No matter who we are, or what we believe or don’t believe, it is only human to long for the light to return in the depths of the dark, now even darker as the new moon waits to be born. The light is all the more precious for that. And like, Mary and Mari we are all searching for somewhere safe to give birth to what is gentle and good. 14th Century Dominican theologian, philosopher, and mystic Meister Eckhart, said “We are all meant to be mothers of God, for God is always needing to be born.” For this we pray.

Novena for the Fallen Through

Peace on Earth

Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,

Holy Mothers of Peace,

Sisters of Reconciliation,

Singers of the Mending Song.

We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth

seeking Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,

in the depths of winter cold.

With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,

in the midst of anguish and despair.

We seek a Revolution of Love.

We expect Justice. We speak for Peace.

We will not be shut out. We will be heard.

Room will be made.

We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.

We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.

We allow our waiting to become a prayer.

We call for the end of war,

of arms trading, of the lifting of greed over life,

knowing that the children of the poor are sacrificed

to the machine of war,

that thousands upon thousands of mothers and fathers

weep tears that will never dry.

We pray for the day when the trading of arms

is seen as a crime against us all,

when our governments look to the people

not to the power,

when those whose hearts are cold

will be warmed instead by the Fires of Peace.

Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,

Holy Mothers of Peace,

Sisters of Reconciliation,

Singers of the Mending Song.

We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth

seeking Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,

in the depths of winter cold.

With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,

in the midst of anguish and despair.

We seek a Revolution of Love.

We expect Justice. We speak for Peace.

We will not be shut out. We will be heard.

Room will be made.

We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.

We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.

We allow our waiting to become a prayer.

We call for the end of violence in all its forms,

whether against human or non-human animal,

knowing that the lust for money and power

tramples all peoples of the land without thought or care.

We pray for the end of the Boxing Day hunt,

of driven grouse shooting and managed grouse moors,

of hare coursing, the badger cull,

knowing that violence against one is violence against all,

that suppression of the wild is the bitter prayer of the lost.

Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,

Holy Mothers of Peace,

Sisters of Reconciliation,

Singers of the Mending Song.

We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth

seeking Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,

in the depths of winter cold.

With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,

in the midst of anguish and despair.

We seek a Revolution of Love.

We expect Justice. We speak for Peace.

We will not be shut out. We will be heard.

Room will be made.

We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.

We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.

We allow our waiting to become a prayer.

We call for and end of the violence of poverty and loneliness,

of over consumerism and built-in obsolescence,

of possessions over people,

knowing that unfettered Capitalism fears the light,

holds up structure over Spirit,

fear over hope,

apathy over engagement,

and war over peace.

We lift a prayer for mending and kindness,

for compassion and mercy,

for dignity and grace

in the face of profit and power.

We wassail the wasteland, weave in the wild,

call the Light back in.

Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,

Holy Mothers of Peace,

Sisters of Reconciliation,

Singers of the Mending Song.

We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth

seeking Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,

in the depths of winter cold.

With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,

in the midst of anguish and despair.

We seek a Revolution of Love.

We expect Justice. We speak for Peace.

We will not be shut out. We will be heard.

Room will be made.

We ask for nothing less than Peace on Earth.

We cling to the stubborn hope of light in the darkness.

We allow our waiting to become a prayer.

We call for peace for the people of Palestine and Israel,

asking for the wisdom of that ancient land to prevail,

we sit in the darkness with the dispossessed

offering solidarity as we wait for justice to catch fire.

We listen for the hoofbeat of the Mari Lwyd,

we listen for the revolutionary Magnificat of Mary,

we look to the Star fallen to earth, sing the Spirit in,

gather up the pieces of broken hope,

weave starshine in our hair,

stand with the saints with starlight at their brow,

knowing that we also shine.

Like all that is born, Sun and Son,

vulnerable and new in the midst of this deepest dark,

May we be undefended and undefeated,

bright with possibility and hope reborn.

Blessed Mari, Hallowed Mary,

Holy Mothers of Peace,

Sisters of Reconciliation,

Singers of the Mending Song.

We stand in solidarity with you at the gates of Birth

seeking Light in the luminous beauty of Darkness,

in the depths of winter cold.

With you, we follow the silver thread of starlit Hope,

in the midst of anguish and despair.

We seek a Revolution of Love.

We expect Justice. We speak for Peace.

We will not be shut out. We will be heard.

Room will be made.

We lift the first shard of a shattered star.

We allow the wild hope of Peace on Earth to shine.

The lights are going on.

For this we pray.

Aho mitake oyasin, amen, blessed be. Inshallah.

''The Pole Star' from The Greenwood Tarot (Artist: Chesca Potter)

References:

On Mari Lwyd ~

Mari Lwyd lyrics ~ https://mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=73326

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mari_Lwyd

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hobby_horse

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Uffington_White_Horse

On Mary ~

Mary; the Subversive Magnificat ~ http://enemylove.com/subversive-magnificat-mary-expected-messiah-to-be-like/

We are all meant to be mothers of God ~ https://stchrysostoms.wordpress.com/2017/05/01/we-are-all-meant-to-be-mothers-of-god/

Advent ~ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advent

Hugh Lupton, storyteller ~ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hugh_Lupton

Bethlehem ~ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bethlehem

Walking with Grenfell, November’s Silent Walk ~ When Everything Just Feels Wrong

Last month I shared my first experience of ‘Walking with Grenfell; a Silence Louder than Words’. I have just had my second. There are times when you would rather be anywhere than where you are, and yet couldn’t possibly be anywhere else and, for me at least, the monthly Grenfell Silent Walk feels like that. The Grenfell community have asked for as many people who can to be there and so I feel invited and welcome, and yet at the same time that I am intruding on private grief and imposing my own thoughts on something that I can’t possibly understand. And I think that I am probably right to feel both. It is the same as seeing film cameras and photographers there. It matters so much that the Grenfell fire isn’t forgotten, that those in authority know powerfully that people still care, that the walk and the ever-growing number of attendees is reported, especially whilst the Public Inquiry is taking place, and yet what could be more wrong than to film people taking part in such a raw act of remembrance. Often there are people hugging and crying on the pavement as the walk passes by. These are intimate moments not to be shared by a scavenging media which seems often only trying to sell newspapers or get clicks on a website, or with a voyeuristic public addicted to watching suffering but often little engaged in what caused it. And the banners. On this walk there were two types of banners being shared amongst the walkers; one, white with simple black lettering, calling for ‘Justice for Grenfell’, but another, more colourful, declaring that ‘The Tories have Blood on Their Hands’ and including the Socialist Workers’ Party address. It just feels not the time for such statements or self-regard. And I wanted to take photos, so that others might be encouraged to go along or see what can be achieved by human beings standing together in support and solidarity, but taking photos feels like a brutalisation. I did take a few after the walk had ended, because it matters to make it real for others who haven’t been there but the thing is that none of us should have to be, and that we are is an endlessly open wound. Everything just seems to come back to that. Over and over again.

But there is such sweetness too. This time, because I arrived before the walk set out, I was given a jar with a t-light inside to take with me on the walk. I saw that all the jars had been beautifully painted, mine with delicate daisies. There is such an atmosphere of being kind too, allowing for different responses to all that has happened, allowing those who live in the community to have different ways of thinking about what might happen now. And so many people come along, even on a dark and rainy edge-of-winter Tuesday night in November. It is heartening.

I have never seen the remains of Grenfell Tower in daylight, which I am quietly thankful for, but it has a magnetic pull no matters which way you face in North Kensington. Somehow it has become the blackened star that everything else orbits around and it felt so as we walked. We walk slowly, stopping every few minutes and just standing in quiet reflection and personal thought. You could hear a pin drop. The silence is something powerful, especially in the midst of busy London. It feels bigger than this small group of people, as though it becomes its own creature; something breathing for those who no longer can. And I feel that we have become ghosts. Towards the end of the walk we passed under a railway bridge close to the tube station. There were two fire trucks parked there, one on either side of the road. The leaders of the walk had stopped by them, remaining in silence. I was too far back to know what happened but the flashing blue lights on the fire trucks suddenly sprang into life and any firefighters who had been out of the vehicles got back in. I suppose that there had been a call. Imagine in that moment being perhaps called to another fire. I don’t know how they have the strength to do what they do but, of course, they do it for us. We were accompanied by police throughout the walk but they had little need to do anything and, as the fire trucks began to move off, we stepped silently aside to let them through. As they passed we applauded, just as I saw the community do after the fire. The silence held even then. It was deeply affecting.

When we got to the Westway where the walk ends a few words were said to us all by the walk leaders and other members of the community, mostly to call for more people to be there next time for the six month anniversary of the fire. In a high tower block I could see someone looking out of their window and a light flashing, probably a camera but it looked as though they were signalling for help. It feels that nothing happens there now that isn’t about the fire or a reminder of it, and I know that I have no personal connection with that place so I can scarcely imagine how it must really be ay after day. But the community cafe was still there twinkling with t-lights and a row of smiling women were serving free food. One day I might eat some but I still feel as though I shouldn’t be there. I am sure that many people feel the same. And it’s not that more people haven’t died all at once in bombings in Syria and Yemen, and in so many other places. Of course, a number of the people in Grenfell Tower that night had fled such wartorn places, which seems so deeply and horribly ironic. I don’t know why Grenfell feels so important but it is as though, on the night of 14th June 2017, the Earth slightly shifted on her axis and we have become trapped on the wrong side of things. I don’t know what will mend it and I’m not sure that I believe there will be justice, not really. How can there be? Because it isn’t just that people died. It’s the attitude that put them in such danger and which pervades every layers of our society. It’s that so many there warned of the likelihood of fire over many years. It’s that so many of us, without having ever heard of Grenfell, knew that what was unfolding in this country through the Government’s Austerity agenda would kill people and so it has and continues to do. My friend told me that she was weeding the other day and was clearing some of a particular plant from a patch of earth. She hadn’t realised that, unseen beneath the surface, the plant was putting out long roots, creating a thick web taking all the moisture from the plants around. She said that the roots were so strong that you could follow it through the soil as you pulled it up. Grenfell is like that; you pull at one of the ‘roots’ that might have caused it and then you see how far it goes, that it reaches into everything. But whether justice will ever come or not, it matters to be there. In solidarity and community.

On the way back to the Underground station I visited a walkway that has been turned into a place of remembrance, the walls covered in photos of the dead of Grenfell and a shrine filled with flowers, candles, and religious symbols at the end of it. As I stood there, I heard a tiny voice and looked around to see a little boy of around three with, I imagine, his dad. The little boy said to his dad in his sweet little voice, “Where is Hajiid?”* and his dad, sounding very calm and reassuring, led him into the walkway, pointed to a photo and said, “Here he is, here is Hajiid.” The little boy asked about another someone and his dad pointed to another photo, “Here he is. Look, he’s here too.” The boy was pleased, happy to know where his friends were and they left. As they did so, he turned and waved, “Bye bye, Hajiid. See you soon.” How could anyone’s heart not break? Sometimes I wonder how this country didn’t just crumble into the sea that night…

Silent walks to honour the dead and the survivors of the Grenfell fire, to express solidarity for their families and their community, and to continue the fight for justice, will continue every 14^th of the month at 6.30pm. The walk gathers outside Notting Hill Methodist Church at 240 Lancaster Road, London, W11 4AH. The community have asked for as many people as possible to come and walk with them in silence, because the silence will be heard. Alone, they will become invisible. It is growing in numbers each month and I know that it would mean a lot to them if that growth continued. Please do think about joining them if you can. It matters. If you are unable to be there on the night please think about holding your own silent vigil, either publicly with others or at home, and send photos or messages to the Grenfell community on the silent walk Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/Grenfell-Tower-Silent-Walk-122708985093572/ . It will show them, and the people responsible who need to know that we won't forget, that we care. 

No justice, no peace.

Novena for the Fallen Through ~ our ninth prayer for our wild kin

Here is the ninth, and so the last, of our November Novenas for the Fallen Through, which for this month are devoted to Saint Cuthbert and to a call for protection for our wild kinfolk. If you would like to read more about this month’s novena you can read our first prayer here.

We have already lifted prayers for our badgers, our hedgehogs, and for the street trees of Sheffield, for otter, cormorant, and seal, and for sharks and orcas, for stag beetles, for starlings, and for water voles. Today, we must return to ourselves, perhaps having learned something of the lives and struggles of our wild family, both those close to us and those who live in ways that we can hardly imagine, such as our sea kin, the sharks, orcas, and seals. Perhaps we will feel more deeply woven into the web of things, or have found a new creature to speak up for, or cried tears of blessing for what has been lost.

Rumi said, “There is sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and unspeakable love." I know that I have learned a lot, cried a lot, and that I have very much valued making this deep journey with St Cuthbert. I am so very fond of him. Anne, a a Facebook friend who has a long and devoted relationship with him, told me that she and her father refer to him as ‘Cuthbert Greenpeace’. I liked that. And I liked that, this very evening, he helped me to make a big decision when I was reminded of the dream I had about him and the breaking of the cross to reveal a Tree of Life. He is a fine soul friend.

We have shared many stories of Cuddy during this Novena but the other day I was reminded of one that speaks deeply of relationship, devotion, and how powerfully woven in we can become with what, and who, we love.

St Cuthbert had a dear friend for many years called Hereberht, later St Herbert of Derwentwater in Cumbria, who was also an anchorite (someone who has withdrawn from the world for spiritual contemplation) living on a small island. Each year it was Hereberht’s habit to visit his friend on the Holy Isle to seek spiritual instruction. In 686CE he heard that Cuthbert was visiting Carlisle and chose to go and see him there. On meeting, Cuthbert told him, “Brother Herebehrt, tell me now all that you have need to ask or speak, for never shall we see one another again in this world. For I know that the time of my decease is at hand.” Hearing this, Herebehrt fell to his knees and wept, begging Cuthbert to obtain grace from God for them both to enter heaven at the same time. Cuthbert prayed and then said, “Rise, my brother weep not but rejoice that the mercy of God has granted our desire.” And so, Cuthbert returned to Lindisfarne and Herebehrt returned home but soon he became ill with a long sickness. Both men died on the same day; 20^th March, 687CE. In 1374, Thomas Appleby, Bishop of Carlisle, granted an indulgence of forty days for anyone who, in honour of St Herbert, visited his island in Derwentwater and was present at the Mass of St Cuthbert, sung annually by the Vicar of Crosthwaite. Such deep love that one could not bear to live this life without the other.

This is the love that our culture has lost for our wild kin; the sense of interdependence, of devotion, of knowing that we could not live one without the other. The relationship of Cuthbert and Hereberht, and Cuthbert with his wild, and our’s with our own, reminds me of Glenn Albrecht’s phrase ‘soliphilia’, which he describes as 'love and responsibility for a place, bioregion, planet, and the unity of interrelated interests within it', 'soli' coming from 'solidarity'; fellowship of responsibilities and interests, from the French solidarité, from solidaire, interdependent, from Old French, in common, from Latin solidus, solid, whole.' I wrote more about this here; 'Soliphilia: On the Seeing of Stars'

I hope that we find many, many things to fall in love with in the days and months to come and that we are brave enough to cry sacred tears when we must.

Novena for the Fallen Through

Protection, justice, and shining health for our wild kin.

This is a prayer is for the warp and weft, for the weaving of the web.

Blessed Cuthbert,

Beloved Cuddy,

Saint of Salt and Fire,

Antlered ancestor,

Friend of otter, eider, cormorant, and crow,

Walker of the untamed edge of Land and Spirit,

Lover of wild places, wild creatures, and wild grace,

Threader of sea-stars into wild prayer.

We stand in solidarity with you at the roots of the Tree of Life.

The first is for the badger people.

We seek to weave a prayer of protection and bright and thriving life

for our companion of soil, sett, and ancient soul.

We honour badger as digger and unearther, old tunneler,

keeper of the songlines of burrow and root, wild forager,

quiet earth hunter, beloved of the Elder Mother,

lover of the soil, warrior spirit, wild gardener,

planter of primroses, carrier of earth scars, watcher of time,

guardian of land, mapper of memory,

snuffler of spirit paths, wisdom-keeper of home and hearth and clan,

story-holder of the ancient tales of land and tribe.

We seek to weave a wild spell of word and prayer to surround

our badgers, tonight and every night.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity with the badger people,

our wild kin.

The second is for the hedgehog people.

Blessed, furzepigs, tip-toe urchins,

we come to you in sorrow for the ways in which

we have contributed to your suffering and your decline.

May we come to see the beauty and potential in seeming untidiness,

value the wild poetry of leaf and woodpile,

the silver trail of slug and snail,

knowing that they too are our neighbours and our relations.

Help us to be more mindful in our use of pesticides,

casting them aside forever as we truly weave ourselves

into the ecosystem that we too are part of,

listening to, rather than dominating, the earth,

finding natural ways to bring health to our ordinary Edens,

knowing that all creatures come to teach us balance,

how to care in wilder and better ways.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger and hedgehog people,

our wild kin.

The third is for Sheffield’s street trees, the standing people

We ask for strength and protection for all

in Sheffield who stand for tree and home,

all who speak truth to power,

knowing that attacks on people, badgers, trees,

and all wild kin, come from the same place of

fear for what is truly alive in a world of ghosts.

Let there be justice in Sheffield for trees and people,

rooted in wild grace and the sweet soil of community.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, and standing people,

our wild kin.

Blessed Cuthbert,

Beloved Cuddy,

Saint of Salt and Fire,

Antlered ancestor,

Friend of otter, eider, cormorant, and crow,

Walker of the untamed edge of Land and Spirit,

Lover of wild places, wild creatures, and wild grace,

Threader of sea-stars into wild prayer.

We stand in solidarity with you at the roots of the Tree of Life.

The fourth is for the seal, otter, and cormorant people.

We ask for the return of health to our waters,

wild children of the Silver Salmon Mother seeking Source,

salt and sweet, fish brimming,

overflowing with diversity of life,

not valued for what we can take,

the money we can make,

but for itself as the womb from which we all were born.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, standing, otter, cormorant, and seal people,

our wild kin.

The fifth is for the shark and the orca people.

May all beings of the sea that you so loved,

where you sang Pslam songs to time and tide,

be bountifully blessed and wild with mothering,

hallowed with fathering,

and may we, in the name of salt and sea,

walk in grace with grief and gratitude

until justice comes for all beings of land, sea, and sky.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, standing, otter,

cormorant, seal, shark, and orca people,

our wild kin.

The sixth is for the stag beetle people.

May the stag beetle kin thrive,

may they teach us gentleness in seeming fierceness,

to not judge by appearances, to love the unfamiliar.

In following the tracks of the little deer people,

may we weave a web of noticing,

shimmering threads of right relationship,

woven with the family of all beings.

And in that weaving let there be

a mending between human and wild,

a knowing that we can take communion with life,

that we can be forgiven, make amends.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, standing, otter,

cormorant, seal, shark, orca, and stag beetle people,

our wild kin.

Blessed Cuthbert,

Beloved Cuddy,

Saint of Salt and Fire,

Antlered ancestor,

Friend of otter, eider, cormorant, and crow,

Walker of the untamed edge of Land and Spirit,

Lover of wild places, wild creatures, and wild grace,

Threader of sea-stars into wild prayer.

We stand in solidarity with you at the roots of the Tree of Life.

The seventh is for the starling people.

May the starling kin thrive.

In a human world where so many walk with loneliness,

let them teach us the value of good company

the protection of community,

the joy of dancing in constellation,

and may humankind and starlingkind

become celestial family,

a twinkling stellar society,

find that our futures are entangled,

that it’s written in our stars.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, standing, otter,

cormorant, seal, shark, orca, stag beetle, and starling people,

our wild kin.

The eighth is for the water vole people.

May the water vole people thrive,

once more become the tiny engineers,

the cornerstone of the cathedral of our wild,

find safety and peace in our waters,

help us to regain balance,

allow us again to sink into stories

without the taste of bittersweet,

become the awe-filled, open-hearted earth-children

that we were born to be.

We weave a thread of good company and solidarity

with the badger. hedgehog, standing, otter,

cormorant, seal, shark, orca, stag beetle, starling people,

water vole and mink people,

our wild kin.

The ninth is for the web.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting,

over and over, announcing your place

in the family of things.

Blessed Cuthbert,

Beloved Cuddy,
Saint of Salt and Fire,
Antlered ancestor,
Friend of otter, eider, cormorant, and crow,
Walker of the untamed edge of Land and Spirit,
Lover of wild places, wild creatures, and wild grace,
Threader of sea-stars into wild prayer.

We stand in solidarity with you at the roots of the Tree of Life.

May our string of prayer beads,
formed in the starry sea where all things are one,
gathered on the shore of meeting,
be filled with life, love, and wild justice
for all beings on this earth we share.

For this we pray.

Aho mitake oyasin, amen, blessed be. Inshallah.

“For Earth to survive, she needs your heart. The songbirds and the salmon need your heart too, no matter how weary, because even a broken heart is still made of love. They need your heart because they are disappearing, slipping into that longest night of extinction, and the resistance is nowhere in sight. We will have to build that resistance from whatever comes to hand: whispers and prayers, history and dreams, from our bravest words and braver actions. It will be hard, there will be a cost, and in too many implacable dawns it will seem impossible. But we will have to do it anyway. So gather your heart and join with every living being.” (Deep Green Resistance)

References:

https://citydesert.wordpress.com/2013/03/20/saint-cuthbert-and-saint-herbert-hermits-and-friends/