On Gift Giving and the Wild Eye of Prayer

A small gift from the Mac Gwylans? Plus a tiny slug.

Today I have had a chat to the everyday angel pigeons in our garden, together with indulging in a rather acrimonious exchange with a jackdaw, who seemed to feel that I wasn't putting his breakfast out in quite the right way. I was faffing about a bit I know but Jackdaws can be terribly demanding.

An everyday angel, beautiful in the blossom 

Speaking of demanding, I thought that I would share with you this possible tiny wonder and small beauty. Every Wednesday I pop to the shops and for a coffee with my dad-in-law. Yesterday we set off as usual and our garden path was empty. When we came back several hours later the ceramic decoration from one of the pots in our back garden had appeared exactly in the middle of the path! It is quite large; maybe 3 inches across, and is biscuit-thin so it must have been carried and put down very carefully. It is a mystery.

Beautifully placed in the centre of the garden path

My only thought is that Mr Mac Gwylan  the herring gull ('gwylan' is Welsh for gull) gathered it up and put it there. Things tend to move around here, as both the foxes and the magpies like to pick things up, play with them, and then put them down somewhere else. A magpie recently appeared with the cover of one of our long-gone garden lights, which is like a little sparkly ball, in his beak and it is now often put in, or taken out of, our garden pots. I have also seen a magpie do the same with a piece of broken pot, but I think that this is too large for a magpie to carry so carefully and the foxes would have been fast asleep at that time of day.

Mr Mac Gwylan considering my shortcomings as a host 

You may recall that last year we looked after a herring gull chick who had come down from the roof too early in the exceptionally hot weather and had hurt his wing. If you would like to read more about him you can do that here. He was here for a few days and his parents were watching closely. There was much communication between adults and chick, although they didn't venture down into the garden. Eventually he had to go to a specialist wildlife rescue centre as we were afraid that his wing was broken (It was only a sprain. Phew!) My husband, Simon, spent much time explaining to the chick's parents that he was safe and that we were doing our best for him. We were sad at the thought that they might consider him lost.

Steve Mac Gwylan, the baby herring gull

Every year, gulls return to the same place to nest and we were overjoyed when the Mac Gwylans returned after New Year. In the past we haven't had much to do with them, other than admiring them on the roof and ooohing and ahhhing at their gangly babies, but this year they have been popping down to the garden to drink from the pool of water Simon made for last year's chick to splash in and I have been putting out a few mealworms for them by the garden gate. Generally, Mr Mac Gwylan comes down first and his lady sits on the roof making concerned noises, but she comes down too in the end or he goes up to get her. Yesterday, when I went to fill the bird feeder, which they can't get to as their wings are too wide, he made it quite clear that they would also like some snacks. I wonder whether the ceramic disk was a thank you, or a bribe! Either way it was lovely to wonder about that and I have put it on our garden table with all our other nature finds.

The more that I spend time with the birds the more I feel that I understand (a little) the amazing complexity of their communication, the richness of their social interactions with one another, the tides of their cyclical comings & goings. It is a beautiful thing. And a privilege to even consider that they sometimes notice me. They feel like family and they make this feel like home.

Everyday angels

Today, I had hoped to write about St Cuthbert, which I have been planning to do for several weeks, but what follows is what came instead. As Cuddy is sometimes credited as the ‘first conservationist’ for introducing laws to protect nesting seabirds on the Farne Islands as long ago as the 7^th Century, and was said to have been brought gifts by ravens, perhaps I have written what he would have wanted after all. I try very hard to listen to what the day asks of me. I will return to him soon, to Welsh St Cenydd, who was born with a disability and cast out to sea in a willow basket only to be rescued by seagulls, and to Irish St Caoimhín, who had a blackbird build a nest and lay an egg in his open hand when he stretched out his arms out to pray, and who remained in stillness until the egg hatched and the fledgling flew. We have much to learn about relationship with the wild from our holy ancestors.

'St Kevin & the Blackbird, Clive Hicks-Jenkins. From https://blueeyedennis-siempre.blogspot.com/2012/05/st-kevin-of-glendalough.html

Returning to our gift from the gulls; of late there has been a lot of discussion here and there about the language we use when referring to the natural world. How, if we are to play our part in preserving or even saving, words matter and need to speak to the heart. We need to fall back in love with the earth. One thing that particularly struck me was the suggestion to stop talking about 'nature reserves', as though some bits of earth can be set aside for nature to live quite happily whilst we do what we like with the rest ~ to be fair, that is the prevailing mindset but it really needs to be challenged. There is no room for complacency or for feeling pleased with ourselves just because we allow something, anything, to stay green. Instead, we might really engage with what is happening and speak of 'nature refuges'; a place of sanctuary for our wild refugees who have had their homes taken by diggers, and landscapers, and poisons, who have been chased across an increasingly barren land to the very edges of endurance and survival. Our gardens, or even a little balcony or a windowsill, can be refuges too, no matter how small or unpromising we might consider them to be. It is a privilege to be in service to and to watch over any land in a world where so many are landless. There are (a very few) people on this planet who don't care about life, not even their own, and those of us who do care have to hold the line for life itself. All of nature is speaking; “don't mourn, organise”.

We have increased numbers of everyday angel pigeons here now because the army barracks, where so many had roosted, probably for generations, were bulldozed last summer to make room for a new estate. It is the same with the fire-flame foxes. There are more and more squashed into a smaller and smaller area because their earths and hunting grounds have been taken from them. No wonder that mange spreads amongst them. We are currently treating several who visit our garden and who are in a sad state. The badgers are gone; their setts, possibly centuries old, abandoned or lost, or perhaps they just can't bear to come this way. We shouldn’t assume that a badger’s heart can’t also be broken. Rats, who had lived quite happily in the, by now empty, army barracks were forced into the nearby estate and were poisoned. To discourage them trees and bushes were cut down. Before that, despite their close proximity to human habitation, they had bothered no one. The one strip of green that isn't mowed every spring by the council has also been poisoned, dowsed in glysophates, parched earth. Others put down astroturf, because we are all just too busy to care for our gardens. And I don't judge, or try not to; we’re ALL pushed to the very edges of endurance and survival in one way or another and it is just one more thing amongst many. We all fail. There is just no time to care in a world where caring only breaks our hearts, but that is not an excuse, not really. The crows' nests; 100 year old trees, have been felled; there was a man, a tree surgeon, almost in tears over them at a developers 'consultation' event here last year. And even the 'affordable housing' for these new estates are squeezed out to the edges too. It is all the same thing; what we do to the wild we do to ourselves. They cut down the crows' trees, destroy the foxes' earths, and make neat little boxes as battery farms to keep us, the fodder of Capitalism, just happy enough, but worn down just enough too.

Nina George in her Spring 2016 essay, ‘Everything Breathes the Revolutionary Spirit’, for ‘Gods and Radicals’ quarterly which I return to for sustenance again and again, tells the story of four men who were hanged in Chicago in 1887 for being leaders of a movement demanding workers’ rights and an eight hour day. All of the men spoke passionately and eloquently in court in their defence. One, August Spies, used examples from nature to suggest that revolution and resistance are a natural state; that “a force can be brought to try to push us down but this can never stop us. We rise. We grow. No one can stop the inevitable growth of the land, its people, and the forces we contain...Revolution is ever present in all beings’ spirits and lungs.” Everything breathes the revolutionary spirit; a plant that’s cut down will grow again wherever it can, birds who lose their brood will lay more eggs. Life is always bubbling up through the cracks. We must embrace that energy; finding the cracks where life can get in and playing our part in putting it, and keeping it, there for as long as we can. And if, and when, that fails, we must look for more cracks. As Nina George writes, we must be “the green fuse that refuses.”

And we do all need to refuse and find refuge; not to be thought of as us doing our wildlife a 'favour', because we need refuge too and I am quite sure that I gain more from the beings who find shelter here than they from me. But this is one time when we are all in it together. All of nature is in deep communication and trying to communicate with us, in solidarity. “Wake up!” they say, “remember that you are not alone.” The badgers, the foxes, the nettles, the blackthorn, the bees; everything breathes the revolutionary spirit. And of course they are speaking to us. Our planet is dying and we are the ones who are killing her. Why would they want us to give up and sink into despair? There is only even more death that way.

But we do have power, although we are encouraged to think otherwise. Where there is still even the tiniest piece of land for us to call kindness and generosity in there is hope. And so I will rejoice in being told off by jackdaws, and in spending money we haven't got on birdseed, and speak out when it's suggested to me that we buy wheat-free seed to 'put off' the pigeons, because what matters more in life than the breaking of bread in good company, and I will believe that the herring gulls, who are on the RSPB red list as being 'at risk' on our hugely nature depleted little island, have brought us a precious ceramic disk as a gift, because I have to believe that they too know there is still love and hope in the world.

"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)

Thank you, Mr and Mrs Mac Gwylan for the wild eye of your prayer. I am listening, with every cell I am listening.

True love

Aho mitake oyasin. For all our relations.

An Early Spring Prayer for the Beeing

Mo Gobnait*,

Holy honey woman in the line of Brigit,

Little smith who walked the land as prayer,

follower of the white deer tracks,

Wild lands dweller at forge and well,

saint-protectress of the heart-hive of bees.

As the earth wakes from winter into spring and symbols of hope are everywhere,

we ask for a blessing on the waking bees whose hum calls us back to Creation,

and whose gathering of pollen, freely offered by the spring flowers,

by snowdrop, and crocus, by primrose, and by daffodil,

reminds us to trust that the earth can provide everything that we need.

We give thanks for the beautiful creation that we have been invited to share in,

for the intricate web of life that holds us and all our brothers and sisters in

abundance and beauty.

May the pollen gathering of the bees remind us that we are held safely in the Holy One’s generous hand, and may their return after winter sleep revive in us the knowing that we live a Resurrection Life grounded in hope that can break through winter’s frozen ground. May our fear of lack and ingratitude for the simple things melt away with the last frosts. Let us see that we already live in a land flowing with milk and honey.

Mo Gobnait,

Holy honey woman in the line of Brigit,

Little smith who walked the land as prayer,

follower of the white deer tracks,

Wild lands dweller at forge and well,

saint-protectress of the heart-hive of bees.

We come before you in grief and gratitude for all that we have done and do not do

to live in harmony with the web of life.

As our fruit trees begin their journey to blossom,

may we remember the essential role of bees and other pollinators

in producing so much of the food we eat,

not just the wild honey which fed John the Baptist in the wilderness,

but in ways which might not be so easy for us to see.

Let us come deeper into awareness of the intricate relationships woven into

Creation, that we might learn love and serve it better.

Let the bees inspire in us the hope that we too can bring to flower the barren places in ourselves and in our wounded world.

Mo Gobnait,

Holy honey woman in the line of Brigit,

Little smith who walked the land as prayer,

follower of the white deer tracks,

Wild lands dweller at forge and well,

saint-protectress of the heart-hive of bees.

May we follow the example of the hive in knowing that our greatest service

is to work not for ourselves, but tirelessly for the common good of all creation.

May we too strive in the dark and secret places of our hearts to

shed light on our own complicity in not speaking out, in refusing to change through

fear, through tiredness, through stubbornness, through greed, and through

self-entitlement, knowing that in the perfect society of the honeybee all

have equal worth and know their power in working for the good of all.

We ask forgiveness for all the ways in which we give up hope,

letting go of the belief that the honey of love can change everything in an instant, that everything has already changed.

We ask that you help us take the tattered pieces of our battered hope to be shaped into

a honeycomb; strong and beautiful, perfect of form, that might sweeten the lives of our community, the poor, the vulnerable, the oppressed, and any who have given up, lost faith in the possibility of good, or who are afraid to speak. Let justice be the sweetness on our tongue and the medicine we offer to a broken world.

Mo Gobnait,

Holy honey woman in the line of Brigit,

Little smith who walked the land as prayer,

follower of the white deer tracks,

Wild lands dweller at forge and well,

saint-protectress of the heart-hive of bees.

Let us remember the holiness of bees; that it was once believed that their hum

spoke the secret name of God, that the souls of the dead left their bodies as bees, that the tears of Christ on the Cross transformed into bees as a symbol of Risen Life, that beauty can come even from the darkest of journeys.

Let us treasure the Beeing** as a precious messenger of beauty, joy, good work, generosity, and abundance, in a world so often lacking in all of these.

Let us do all that we can to ensure that our bee family thrive by being mindful of our own actions and by speaking out against anything that threatens their wellbeing; the use of pesticides, the mowing of wildflower meadows, the proliferation of monoculture farms, the loss of orchards and wild places, and the hubris that tells us we can do it without them.

Let us speak truth to power for the Beeing and for all who cannot speak for themselves, that the holy Word might become as wild honey in our mouths.

Mo Gobnait,

Holy honey woman in the line of Brigit,

Little smith who walked the land as prayer,

follower of the white deer tracks,

Wild lands dweller at forge and well,

saint-protectress of the heart-hive of bees.

Hear the prayers of our hearts for our sister and brother bees, for the world, and for our part in it.

Aho mitake oyasin, for all our relations, amen, blessed be, Inshallah.

*Saint Gobnait, also known as Mo Gobnat, is the 6th Century Celtic saint of bees and beekeepers. Her Feast Day is 11th February. Like Saint Blaise, whose Feast Day is on 3rd February, she has much in common with Goddess-Saint Brigid, and it may be that they are one and the same. More about the weaving of holy threads soon.

** The 'Beeing' is a name for the collective consciousness of honeybee kind on our planet. See the work of the Natural Beekeeping Trust , who say "Each beeing, each hive is a little universe, completely evolved, perfect like a star", for more.

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/