Preventable Regret

I read a good article in The Guardian today. It reminded me of what it means to live fully as a human. We need each other. We only learn to be fully ourselves until we lean on each other and find out that loving friends, family, partners, husbands, wives means sharing our time, love and emotions day after day, night after night, week after week, year after year. It means being there. A thought struck me as I read through this article. It was this: 'These aren't only the regrets of the dying. They are the regrets of the living too'. We have to struggle to escape the trappings of the modern hustle and bustle, the drive to do 'what people expect' and the frustration of being 'too busy'. God help us all.

I copy some of the article below.

A palliative nurse has recorded the top five regrets of the dying. 

There was no mention of more sex or bungee jumps. 

Here are the top five regrets of the dying:

1. I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

"This was the most common regret of all. When people realise that their life is almost over and look back clearly on it, it is easy to see how many dreams have gone unfulfilled. Most people had not honoured even a half of their dreams and had to die knowing that it was due to choices they had made, or not made. Health brings a freedom very few realise, until they no longer have it."

2. I wish I hadn't worked so hard.

"This came from every male patient that I nursed. They missed their children's youth and their partner's companionship. Women also spoke of this regret, but as most were from an older generation, many of the female patients had not been breadwinners. All of the men I nursed deeply regretted spending so much of their lives on the treadmill of a work existence."

3. I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.

"Many people suppressed their feelings in order to keep peace with others. As a result, they settled for a mediocre existence and never became who they were truly capable of becoming. Many developed illnesses relating to the bitterness and resentment they carried as a result."

4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.

"Often they would not truly realise the full benefits of old friends until their dying weeks and it was not always possible to track them down. Many had become so caught up in their own lives that they had let golden friendships slip by over the years. There were many deep regrets about not giving friendships the time and effort that they deserved. Everyone misses their friends when they are dying."

5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.

"This is a surprisingly common one. Many did not realise until the end that happiness is a choice. They had stayed stuck in old patterns and habits. The so-called 'comfort' of familiarity overflowed into their emotions, as well as their physical lives. Fear of change had them pretending to others, and to their selves, that they were content, when deep within, they longed to laugh properly and have silliness in their life again."

Unexpected gentle breezes form rocks

Treasures can be found in the unpublished archives of Roger Deakin. He died, too young, in 2006, and a friend remembers him here. In his work, although I know not his religious views, I frequently find inspiration. He wrote Waterlog, and Wildwood, and Notes from a Walnut Tree. Each work is an intimate relationship with the natural world, with Creation and everything it can teach. The words below are an extract from a poem called 'Blue wind, Blue light'.

'A wind that's already slipped

in and out of several gardens

is churning the blue light of summer

waking sparrow, swift and starling

in my roof - 'Your roof is infested

with birds and mice'

said the chartered surveyor

with no trace of pleasure

at having made

such a discovery'

It reminds me of the quiet work of Pentecost: so dramatic in Acts of the Apostles, so quiet and unobtrusive in real life. The unappreciated awakening, the blue light of dawn, churning, new life and discovery. Demanding, welcome and unwelcome. I love the idea of a 'wind that has already slipped in an out of several gardens'. The Spirit has been moving for generations. There is never a new idea, only the inspiration to carry on, keep going, breathe life into living the Gospel. I also like the idea of being a bird or a mouse awoken to build new things, slowly and gradually, nibbling away with purpose, collecting, forming. The unexpected gentle breeze has, in my experience, formed the rock on which I stand. An onlooker, the chartered surveyor in this case, may well look askance. Sometimes I think myself the onlooker, whilst the Spirit nibbles and gnaws. I am the one who looks askance.

I haven't made anything remarkable lately. I have mostly been trying to see myself through the term, and enjoying students rejoice in their exam leave and the last days of a school career. Of course, I wish upon them the spirit of knowledge, wisdom, courage, understanding and right judgement. But, most of all I wish them the spirit of Wonder and Awe and Reverence: that they may be continually amazed by the life given to us, and they we all may appreciate it.

It is May and it is Spring! Hurrah! I have noticed that the Rosemary is in full bloom, and so this week I will make Rosemary potatoes. Ye Olde stories about these ingredients should demonstrate to you why. May is the month of Mary, as well as the Spirit of Pentecost. First the recipe:

Rosemary Oven Roasted Potatoes 

Peel and chop into little 1/2 inch cubes some fresh waxy potatoes and place them into a non stick oven dish. Drizzle them liberally with olive oil and season with sea salt and cracked black pepper. Grab a good sized handful of rosemary sprigs. Taking two or three of the sprigs, hold each one upright and run your forefinger and thumb down the central twig to release the leaves. Stir these into the potatoes and tuck the remaining whole sprigs into the dish strategically. Bake in the preheated oven for 45 minutes turning the little gems over frequently until they are golden. 

This is a great side dish, it is great at a barbeque, as an alternative to chips, as a snack served in paper cones....anytime really. 

Now, that story: 

Rosemary originated in the Mediterraean, but has now spread to most temperate climates. It holds the ancient Latin name lamiaceae, which means 'sea dew'. You may thing that this is because of the oceanic colour of its' flowers, and perhaps you are right, but there are more entertaining tales to be had about its' foliage. Rumour has it that during their flight into Egypt the Holy Family had cause to hide from some soldiers. Mary threw her cloak over a rosemary bush and knelt behind it with the child, Jesus. When she rose again, in safety, the flowers of the sweet smelling plant miraculously turned from white to blue in her honour. 

You might think that one miracle story would be enough for rosemary, but no. The plant is also said to bloom at midnight on Christmas eve (no I have never checked, don't spoil it). It apparently will only grow for 33 years, the age of Christ, and then will wither and die. 

Shakespeare's Ophelia famously says 'There's Rosemary, that is for remembrance", and indeed, it used to be common practice for mourners to throw rosemary onto the coffin from the graveside. Strangely, it has also been a traditional plant for the bride to have in her bouquet and is said to bring happiness to the couple. Often grown at the front of the house Rosemary has the reputation of being able to keep spirits, thieves and witches at bay. Medicinally it is a good cure for headaches and, the oil makes both excellent antiseptic and insect repellant. The smell is also said to inspire 'good' thoughts. 

In the spirit of Pentecost getting outdoors into the gentle breeze seems the thing to do, a time to admire the spirit brushing round nature in all it's glory. Sure, the rain might be falling, and it is certainly colder than it could be, but time outdoors is precious: too often we are cooped up indoors. The time has come to break free. 

Above all else, love.

Once again I approached the weekend exhausted from the challenges of an hectic week. On Friday, unusually, I had woken in a foul temper and found it hard to shake. Please God I did not allow my odd mood be seen by too many. Journeying home I began to look forward to a weekend with family and friends. I knew we would all be sleepy. The busy-ness in my life is not unique!

Gemma and Tracey arrived in good time for the three of us to catch the bus to the Ashmolean and meet my flatmate. There was an evening event to promote their new Chinese exhibition. At the heart of the museum a huge crowd gathered around the atrium and new staircase. There was to be a live re-enactment of The Scream by Edward Munch. Without warning a young artist standing in the midst of a buzzing huddle of curious by-standers began to scream. He was joined by his secret colleagues. It was an unsettling experience, and sent shivers down the spine. Screaming is an alarm call, we only use it in emergencies - it means something must be done, urgently. Screaming demands that action should be taken. I began to laugh. What action should be taken? The artist began to conduct. He wanted us all to scream. 'Why do we have to scream?', I asked.

I have since found my answer. There was an urgent action that needed to be taken. After a wonderful evening out Gemma and I brought our friend out to the country to meet with my parents at their home. We had a wonderful shared lunch prepared by my Ma, and sat and gently chatted about many things before we headed out for a walk in the woods. My Ma said we all had to hug a tree. 'Why do we have to do that?', I asked. But I did it. It took 5 of us to stretch around the trunk. I laughed, and was a little embarrassed. 'Ma! There are other people coming!'. I get my complete love of trees from my Ma. I love the way they feel, the way they smell, the dappled light they cast on the woodland ground.

Then, in the Gospel this morning, the urgency of 'The Scream' returned. Jesus' farewell discourse, his last words before his death. We take notice of the last words people utter, and rightly so. 'Love one another', Jesus says, 'By this love others will know that you are my disciples.' Christian love is demanding, of course, Jesus gives his life out of love and, if we are to love as he loved, we will give our lives too. All of a sudden I knew what the scream was about. Love one another. No one ever gave their life to their loved ones by being so sleep they 'couldn't be bothered'. No one ever gave their life to their loved ones by getting so stressed they 'didn't have time'. We give our love and our lives to others by being there, by sharing our energy, laughter, stories, tears, hugs, sorrows, joys. I was screaming at 'The Scream' because sometimes the world of work must stop, we need to step off the treadmill and give our everything to the people that matter. Nothing else  in the world matters so much. And, if that is not happening having a good scream and taking urgent action to remedy matters is vital. With that in mind I spent my Sunday appropriately and looked back over the weekend grateful for family, friends and all the people I love. 

Do you love me?

So, today is the Gospel where Peter is asked by Jesus three times, 'Do you love me?' It is always one of my favourite Gospels, especially when it is dovetailed with the fishing trip. Peter leaps from a boat 'wearing practically nothing', throws his cloak round him, and rushes to greet his friend, his Lord. I love Peter when he rushes about like this, impulsive, full of energy, bursting with emotion. 'Of course I love you'. Peter is hurt by being asked three times, but he is gently making up for having denied his love three times. This, to me, is the story of every relationship of love. It is about family, about friends and about God. It is how we are. We love people. We love them with all our hearts, we would jump from a little fishing boat into deep water and wade to the beach to greet them; we would make feasts for them; we laugh with them, we work for them; we cry for them. But, in all that, we sometimes still mess things about, upset the people we adore, betray them, let them down. In the end, it is our little declarations of love, spoken and unspoken that repair the damage we do.

Another thing. In Church today our Priest and Preacher reminded me of the story of The Fiddler on The Roof, a beautiful story of another family working through the love they have for each other.  The credit for this blog post belongs to that preacher and teacher: I have stolen it. So, in the Fiddler on the Roof three daughters spurn the idea of an arranged marriage and find partners who truly love them. All these partners, of course, are truly unsuitable in the light of their Father's eyes. Nevertheless, in living through the situation he asks his wife, Golde, the question on his mind, "Do you love me?" Her response is wonderful: you have indigestion; you are a fool! For all these years I have done so much for you, and now you ask, 'Do you love me?' Well, 'I suppose I do.'

Here's the thing. Love undeclared in words is spoken in action. She knows she loves her husband because of what she has given to him: a home, a family, food, comfort, a bed, company, companionship. Love has creeped up on them in its' most natural form: action. It needs no words, but given words, 'after 25 years, it's nice to know'.

Cooking for others is one of the many ways I show that I love those I love. Today we shared a most delicious Sunday Roast. I suppose I think that is what Sundays are for: cleaning the kitchen before Mass and coming home to cook a delicious meal, sharing that meal together and then relaxing through the afternoon. Family, friends and loved ones all coming together to share a meal and each others' company.

In school too, I can see this dynamic in play. Cheeky students sometimes ask, 'Do you love me?'. More often they might declare, in order to get out of trouble, 'But, you know you love me.' Teachers everywhere show the love they have for their students day in and day out, going the extra mile to stay with someone who needs help to grasp something, taking the time to laugh and play with their students, being there to listen to the trials and tribulations of growing up, preparing young adults for the task ahead of them: the life worth living, the life of love.

In conclusion, today I was grateful for this Gospel, and for The Fiddler on the Roof. Thank you to the priest and preacher who brought it to my attention, I plan on wilfully stealing and using it in school. And I hope, more than anything, I will always recognise  and thank the people that love me because I will always be grateful for the beautiful tasks they take on for me: teaching, preaching, feeding, clothing, loving, befriending, laughing with and laughing at, looking after, holding, supporting, praying, being. In return, I hope I will always take on and enjoy such work for them.

Regina Caeli

Easter Wordle

"just connect"

"friends corner"

"lovers made time"

"world beautiful place"

"seasons pass"

"loving laugh"

"adventure star chattered God"

What do you see?

Shadows of Light: Whisper it Softly

I have been exhausted. I know this because when you are on your last ounces of energy it is hard to find the reserves to feel. The most amazing homily, the saddest film, the happiest story - all can be heard and listened to impassively, as if from a distance. That is how I approached Easter this year. It is why I have not written. There was nothing to say. Thank God for the holidays! I am well rested now, and in the company of friends have begun to recharge my batteries. Thank God for my friends, especially those who know, even though I wake early, laugh, head out on adventures and play, sometimes I do not know how tired I am, and a few excuses to rest and sleep will do me the world of good.

Much of the Triduum passed me by, muted in tiredness. Or so I thought, but it returns to me now, in snatches. There are beautiful moments: the washing of the feet - 'this is the night God knelt to serve you'; the quiet meditations of Tenebrae; creeping to the cross on Good Friday; the fire of Easter, firelight spreading to candlelight through the church at the Vigil, the bells and smells of the Gloria. I remember very few words from the services, perhaps none. But, I can feel the action of the prayer we made together, standing, sitting, kneeling. I can smell the services: frankincense, rose, peaty charcoal, snuffed candles, perfume and damp coats. I can feel the crepuscular rays of the resurrection throwing light into the future.

Whisper it softly, but today I felt warmth in the glow of the sunshine. It made me stretch like a cat, and I began to feel again. I am happy, excited about life, ready to take on what comes. The Easter shadows of light are finally beginning to creep into my blood. No great revelation this year; no 'Alleluia' moment; just a gradually increasing sensation that everything is going to be okay. He is risen. So be it. We walk on together. Tell me a joke and I will laugh, tell me a sad story and I will cry. I am here.

You may tell me it is all not very Easter, but if I must talk of food, and I must, I should tell you the truth of the fare that has been enjoyed chez moi. It is not fancy, and you might not call it the stuff of feasts, but I have been making of late: sausage rolls and star blue pastries; chicken in white wine (that was a dinner); cheese and bacon on toast (that was a lunch). A sausage roll or a cheese toastie I am sure you can all do; chicken in white wine anyone can look up, so I will share with you the makings of a star blue pastry. It's not rocket science.

Star Blue Pastries

Puff pastry (I bought it)

Soft blue cheese (dolcelatte or some such)

A large white onion

olive oil

Milk

Greased baking tray.

Preheat the oven to 180C and grease the baking tray. Finely chop an onion and fry it in a little olive oil until soft. Chop the cheese roughly into small pieces and place it in a bowl with the warm fried onion. Mix together thoroughly. 

Roll out your puff pastry to about 2mm thick, and slice it into small squares, about 8cm by 8cm. Taking one of these squares cut each corner diagonally towards the centre, leaving a 2cm central space. Carefully spoon some of your cooled cheese mixture into the centre and fold in alternate corners to create a star shape. Ensure the ends hold by glazing with milk. Repeat this process until you have filled you baking tray. Bake for approximately 15 - 20 minutes. Eat warm and eat with friends and family.

Happy Easter All.

Behold, Behold (Re-Post)

"To enter a wood is to pass into a different world in which we ourselves are transformed. It is no accident that in the comedies of Shakespeare, people go into the greenwood to grow, learn and change. It is where you travel to find yourself, often paradoxically, by getting lost......

Merlin sends the future King Arthur as a boy into the greenwood to fend for himself in The Sword in the Stone. There, he falls asleep and dreams himself, like a chameleon, into the lives of the animals and the trees. In As you Like It, the banished Duke Senior goes and lives in the forests of Arden like Robin Hood, and in Midsummer Nights' Dream the magical metamorphosis of the lovers takes place in a wood 'outside Athens' that is quite clearly an English Wood, full of the faeries and the Robin Goodfellows of our folklore.....

The Chinese count wood as the fifth element, and Jung considered trees an archetype. Nothing can compare with these larger than life organisms for signalling changes in the natural world. They are our barometers of the weather and the changing seasons. We tell the time of year by them. Trees have the capacity to rise to the heavens and connect us to the sky, to endure, to renew, to bear fruit, and to burn and warm us through winter."

Wildwood: A Journey Through Trees

Roger Deakin

This post is for Good Friday. The hymn is traditional to the somber liturgies which take place on the day the Church recalls Christ's death. Actually, it is one of my favourites, and has been stuck in my head for weeks. I have deliberately juxtaposed the work of Roger Deakin here because, for all the sadness, tribulation and horror of the crucifixion, Good Friday is a liturgy of renewal. To enter into the wood of the cross is to pass into the realities of this world: it is where you travel to find yourself, often paradoxically, by getting lost......The cross is the barometer of my spiritual weather and changing seasons. I tell the time of year by it. It has the capacity to rise to the heavens and connect me to the divine, to endure, to renew, to bear fruit, and to burn and warm me through the cold and dark of winter. Behold....Enter.....

Chattered Stones

This is my all time favourite object. I have posted this before. I bought my Da the CD of History of the World in 100 Objects for Christmas 2011. I just found the story of this beautiful, beautiful treasure and played it. 

It is the Ain Sakhri lovers, and has formed part of the History of the World in 100 Objects series, narrated beautifully by Neil MacGregor.

The history of this object can be completely, and more thoroughly researched by clinking the link above. Here, I would like to tell you why I love it. But, if you really love this, listen to Neil talk about it. He is so precise with his words, you will never forget the story.

Where to start? It is made from 'chattered' stone. A pebble which has journeyed down stream, 'chattering' against other stones as it passes through the water. This has made the pebble smooth, its contact with others has rubbed off its hard edges, made it soft to the touch. I like the idea of being smoothed by interaction with others: loving company will turn us all to chattered stones. At some point in the journey, someone, perhaps the person whose domestic and homely cave in which this figurine was found, picked this smooth stone from the cold waters and carved it into an image of human love. A couple locked in a sexual embrace. Smooth, calm, intimate.

It was found in the Ain Sakrhi cave, near Bethlehem. How amazing that the oldest representation of human love was found there! These lovers date from 8000bc, picked up by a traveling bedouin, sold to the French Fathers and acquired by Rene Neuville in 1958. The person who carved this beautiful image of lovers was a member of the Natufian people. Natufians are noted as being the first human beings to farm their food. They bred sheep and goats, and so had some understanding about the principles of reproduction. They hunted gazelle with their dogs, and gathered figs, acorns, pistachios, wild lentils, chick peas and wheat. As a lifestyle they had developed a way of staying in one place and producing an abundance of food. Naturally, this led to periods of reflection, thought and time to carve so beautiful and object.

It is amazing to me that in such moments of reflection so long ago, someone would have chosen to carve two people loving each other. Many anthropologists have argued that early human people did not have long term monogamous relationships. That sex was just a way of continuing the species, and that women grouped together to look after their offspring, whilst men headed out to hunt. This statue does not speak of that phenomenon. It is not possible to tell which of these figures is male, and which is female, they are so tightly embraced. They are looking into each others' eyes. One wraps their arms around the shoulder of the other, their legs are entwined. This, to me at least, is an image of love.

So, in conclusion, why to I really love this object? A chattering stone made a journey to Bethlehem, was picked out of the cold and moulded by a human hand into the form of love. And all of this happened because of the moment of reflection good food brought. Now, that is a perfect narration of how the world should be.

Spring to soon! Sprung!

I would write about Lent, but I'm not quite there yet. Something about it being half term makes Lent seem unreal - a desert in the holidays? I have never traveled that far.

This morning I thought it was spring. I woke with the dawn sunlight and bounced out of bed ready for activity. Then I looked at the clock - it was 6.45. Figuring no one else would want to be up yet I drank some apple juice, ate a banana and began to make plans.....

I would take my race bike out for a spin, the first of the year. I could see the sun breaking through the mist, and imagined that the hills of the Cotswolds would be magical. I could drop in on my parents and visiting family, hang out for a while doing some crochet, and then whizz back through the hills during a glorious sunset. It would be a long day - 50 miles on the bicycle - but nothing a taste of spring could not bring me too.

I dressed in my bicycle adventure gear, packed my panniers with a change of clothes and my crochet, went outside and uncovered my race bike. It was in much need of attention. A winter in pyjamas had left it stiff, with flat tires and cobwebs. I set to work. By the time I was ready to go it was nearing 10am. I whizzed a mile along the main road before I realised. It was FREEZING.

This was no day to be adventuring on a bicycle! TURN BACK!

Turning around I came to terms with the fact that the task I had set before myself was not going to be completed. It was too much of a challenge. I do not like to come to terms with such realisations.

On reaching home I made a new plan. I put on my running shoes and set off towards Port Meadow. The floods had receded enough to make my normal running route accessible. It was beautiful. Ice had formed on the blades of grass, and in the undulating lowland where the water collected. As the sun struggled to reach each corner of the land it melted and glistened. I ran along cheerily, and thought to myself, 'I should run more often'. I love being outdoors. Running time is 'me' time; it is prayer time, thinking time, God time. I never get to it though. I am always too busy or too tired, or it is too dark. Quite obviously it is much easier for me to make time for running than to make time for 50 mile adventure cycles. 

Today spring sprung. Today there is time. Today doing a little something is possible. Nothing too much, no 50 mile dashes. Just time to run and think and be. Just the time to see the world waiting, the spring springing. It begins. 

Rhubarb Pie with Cream and Ice Cream

This is what we had for dessert on Sunday. It was delicious. And, it was perfect for the time of year. My Ma makes it, so I am not sure there is a formal recipe.

3-4 sticks of rhubarb

sugar to taste

sweet pastry

butter

cream and ice cream to serve

Grease a good sized pie plate with butter and pre heat the oven to 180C. 

Thinly slice the rhubarb and add it with a knob of butter to a pan to soften. Add sugar to taste. Once softened, cool. You could add a handshake of sultanas.

Roll the sweet pastry to line the pie plate, and roll a good sized lid. Fill the pastry with the filling, and top. Pinch the lid to the bottom casing carefully. Pierce the lid to allow the air out. Glaze and place in oven for 20 - 25 minutes until cooked. Serve warm with cream and ice cream.