Bard & Tew (Part 3)

With Mike Sanderson

The Bard was recovering, and decided, for the good of his health, to amble up to the windmill: something he hadn’t done for a while. And, of course, sitting in the midday sun, their backs against the old stones, staring up where the stocks used to be, were Tew and his grandson. As you would expect, ragged-trousered them both!

“Long time no see,” said Tew. “Likewise,” said the Bard. “Oh, and thanks for your call-out. Sort of sums up social well-being in action!”

“I liked what you wrote as well: about closing your eyes and remembering your first view of Tysoe. You asked what it was that made this place special; memorable; a place where you wanted to base your life. For me, it’s about the people, and their sense of community. A place to return to.”

“Aye. Even old Joseph Ashby talked about ‘the elements essential to the material and social well-being’ of the people – so it’s not as new-fangled term as you mighten expect,” said the Bard, wistfully.

“This NPPF puts it more drily, though – says how: ‘The planning system can play an important role in facilitating social interaction and creating healthy, inclusive communities’ – that, to me, is making places for people to meet, shop, work and play. Therefore,” added Tew, watching the sun drift behind a cloud, “we need to be active in making sure we all work together to keep what we’ve got; and build on that. We can’t just rely on philanthropy to keep Tysoe this way. The outside pressures for new houses might mean there are enuff of us to keep our school, and district councillor. That’s why we need our Neighbourhood Plan and for everyone in the village to have their say.”

“Nicely put,” said the Bard “and I say: all this walking and talking’s made me thirsty! The Peacock beckons I reckon.”

– Originally published in the Tysoe & District Record (August 2014: no.746)

Other comments…

Tysoe has evolved steadily over the years – in the last century growing by just over three houses per year, on average – and, although we currently have to defend ourselves from “rapacious developers”, it would be foolish to swing too far the other way, and go all out to try and master such evolution. Yes, we have to put a stop to huge, unsuitable and unsustainable housing developments of buildings “made of ticky-tacky”; but that doesn’t have to mean being utterly restrictive in what we allow, or not, to be built; what facilities we decide can become (or remain) part of the village; or that a very small – and apparently élite – group of people should be in control.

Like most things that happen in most villages, residents will poke their heads above the parapet and show interest for a few moments, whilst something different, something new and exciting (or threatening), takes place; but then disappear to get on with what is most important to them: their daily lives; the struggle, in many cases, to endure with enough money and health that their existence is – by their own definitions – made meaningful, at most; and just about manageable, at least. (This is not apathy, by the way, nor selfishness: it is just the survival instinct cutting in. Take away people’s involvement in the decision-making process that rules them, and they will turn inward to the places where they do have power, however little….)

Their involvement is fundamental, though, in – if not deciding on whether planning permission should be granted to Mr Goggins’ twelve-storey extension on his two-bedroom semi-detached (I hope, here, that commonsense would prevail!) – ensuring that the village’s strong community and identity survive, whatever happens elsewhere. Although the Neighbourhood Plan is a very good starting point for this, it is a mere encapsulation of one of those “moments” in time; and, sadly, could be wiped out with a change of national administration, or overruled by the whims of a government minister.

I am not convinced that the current structures the parish has in place are resilient enough – or, dare I say, modern enough (or even savvy enough) – to cope with such extraneous pressures and influences; and – although I do believe that the village, in some ways, possesses a robust genius loci, which, Gaia-like, is at the heart of its evolution – I hope that the one thing that emerges from all this is a greater involvement in Tysoe’s future of all those who live here: not just greater than it is now; but greater than those who live beyond its boundaries, and therefore care little what becomes of it.

How we secure such participation – in the process; the strategy, and not just the individual tactics – I’m not that sure. (Nationally, there is a parallel growing dissatisfaction with, and disenfranchisement from, the Establishment: which, so far, no-one has shown any likelihood of addressing successfully.) Like alert meerkats, a huge proportion of villagers rose to defend the initial threat from Gladman – and, perhaps, it is only such a large peril that can achieve this.

However, I would hope that, within us, there is some way of – someone capable of – communicating (i.e. making people hear and understand) the fact that ensuring our village evolves as we would like – and that this relates directly to the minutiae of the meaning and manageability of our daily lives – requires us all to (re)act, and contribute our thoughts and actions continually – not just momentarily. (The Neighbourhood Plan survey is just one early stop – albeit an important one – on a long and arduous journey.) Otherwise, we will wake up one day to find a village that we no longer recognize, love, or wish to live in – its spirit of place eradicated.

The right to die the right way…

Thou know’st ’tis common, all that lives must die,

Passing through nature to eternity.

– William Shakespeare: Hamlet

Having a slightly different, and particular, perspective on the matter than most, I find myself agreeing with, and understanding, most of the arguments (on both sides – apart from those based on evangelical posturing) concerning Lord Falconer’s attempt to get his Assisted Dying Bill through the House of Lords, today. David Cameron may not be “convinced”: but, then, I’m not so sure he fully understands what is at stake.

This is not to say that I’m straddling – or resting my bum on – the palisade of pointy issues this raises: just that, having lived my life for the last eighteen years in what I think most people would consider intolerable continual pain (along with other symptoms that can make life a challenge), I know that I can survive – albeit with diminished quality, sometimes – in circumstances that I previously wouldn’t have envisaged possible. I also believe that, knowing you can die in a non-excruciating, non-extended manner at the moment you choose – and in a manner you choose – when you eventually (over a period of time) do reach the point of intolerability in suffering (which is different – and changes – for everyone) – would give me great, deep comfort (which would also, I think, mean that I would put up with more agony that I envisage, even now…).

Desmond Tutu, in last Sunday’s Observer, wrote beautifully and meaningfully on the issue – from a personal perspective – demonstrating to me that his Christianity is more than mere religion, or even faith, but a true, humble belief in the value (sanctity?) of all human lives, a true empathy for the condition of others, and not just a set of old-fashioned rules:

This takes me to the question of what does it mean to be alive. What constitutes quality of life and dignity when dying? These are big, important questions. I have come to realise that I do not want my life to be prolonged artificially. I think when you need machines to help you breathe, then you have to ask questions about the quality of life being experienced and about the way money is being spent. This may be hard for some people to consider….

It is important for all of us to talk about death and our dying. A survey was done of doctors in the UK in 2008. As many as two-thirds of them said they had difficulty discussing end-of-life care with their patients. Physicians were once healers of life and easers of death. In the 20th century the training for the latter has been neglected.

Death can come to us at any age. The clearer we are about our end-of-life preferences, the easier it will be for our loved ones and our doctors. I am coming to understand the importance of having a living will or advance directive, as some people call it. I do not want artificial feeding or to be on an artificial breathing machine – I don’t want people to do their damnedest to keep me alive.

In the same paper, Daniel Boffey featured the words of Baroness Campbell of Surbiton: who “has spent a lifetime defying the consensus. When she was 11 months old, doctors diagnosed her with severe spinal muscular atrophy and told her parents her life would be short. At six she attended a school for the severely disabled, yet she went on to gain a master’s degree. She was later told by prospective employers she was too disabled to work, only to end up running major campaigning organisations and being selected as commissioner of the Equality and Human Rights Commission.” She said:

This bill is not safe. We know that the country is in crisis in terms of its social care and the choice they talk about will not be there for many people. So you can either have a lethal injection or go home isolated and struggling to get the care that you need. And it is ridiculous to say that a person should be eligible if they have six months to live when we know you cannot be sure when someone will die.

As someone with a progressive illness, I know only too well what that means. The medical profession have given me six months, one month, one week on many occasions. You cannot predict.

Stephen Hawking – who is obviously also similarly immersed in the issues such a bill raises – does back it, though: saying, in an interview with the BBC, that “it was “discrimination against the disabled to deny them the right to kill themselves that able bodied people have…” and that – although he once tried to stop breathing – it would be “wrong to despair and commit suicide, unless one is in great pain, but that is a matter of choice. We should not take away the freedom of the individual to choose to die.”

The words that meant most to me, though, come from Jo Beecham, who was diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer in 2011; and keeps a stock of drugs in her fridge that will end her life, when she deems them necessary:

I can understand people wanting to go down the palliative-care route. There is some part of me that thinks, “Oh, just submit to the care. Just allow yourself to submit to it.” (This is the route I’m going down at the moment.) They will take care of you. And I'm sure that people who are ill want the system to take care of them. But no one can guarantee I will have a good death. I’ve been told that the likelihood is I will need 24-hour care, probably sleeping for most of the time. I can see that some people might like that. And maybe, if I start taking morphine and drifting off anyway, that might be OK for me too. But I want to have the choice.

Putting aside any emotional arguments, for a moment – although I do not know how you can separate feelings from discussions of death – there is now a legal need to begin quantifying what can and can’t be done to help those who are terminally ill, or in great suffering (however you define either of those terms). As Lady Hale – one of the five justices of the supreme court who recently ruled on this matter – stated:

I have reached the firm conclusion that our law is not compatible with the [European human rights] convention…. Having reached that conclusion, I see little to be gained, and much to be lost, by refraining from making a declaration of incompatibility. Parliament is then free to cure that incompatibility.

And, as Saimo Chahal, the solicitor who represented Jane Nicklinson – widow of the right-to-die campaigner Tony Nicklinson – said:

[The judges] have given a clear message to parliament that it must review the ban on assisted suicide and the judges have said they may be minded to make a declaration next time around.

It creates a national debate and a necessity for parliament to look at it. Parliament must consider this group of people who have suffered catastrophic injury and who have a settled intention to end their lives.

To me, this is, firstly, then, about choice – as Jo Beecham and Stephen Hawking say. As is often mentioned, when assisted dying (not suicide) is discussed, some of the ways we treat humans, as they approach death, would be punishable by law if we ‘cared for’ the animals we are responsible for in the same way. Admittedly, this can be seen as a little simplistic – although, to me, all life is sacred (or, if you want a word without religious connotations, inviolable…) – but it does have an easily understandable ring of truth: we should be as humane with humans as we are with our pets. They cannot choose when or how to die. We can.

It is also about control. Unlike most other people in western civilization, I do not have that much control over my life. I do not get up every morning, knowing what I will be physically or mentally capable of; being able to make plans that I can fulfil. (In fact, on many days, I do not get up every morning. Full stop.) I really do live each day – sometimes each hour – examining (and stretching) my then capabilities; making constant risk-benefit (or struggle-reward) analyses about my next action, based on the whims of my health: an almost infinite decision-tree stretching, though – I hope – into a long and preponderantly enjoyable life (as it is now).

Some things are constant: the love and support of my family and friends; the wonderful place where I live; the growing piles of pills; the increasingly frequent medical appointments (when I can manage to make them…). But a majority of my life is spent trying to ascend and conquer what I know from my ‘previous’ life, the majority of people – those with their health (reasonably) intact – take for granted.

This is what gives me that “slightly different, and particular, perspective”. I know there are many people much worse off than me; but I also know – especially having witnessed some very cruel and prolonged deaths, at the end of cruel and prolonged illnesses… – that, when the time comes, I will know how much cumulative suffering I am capable of dealing with (almost certainly a lot more than I currently imagine…); and will make a decision: a decision that will probably be made many times – and has been made before… – to keep on fighting. But one day, I may decide – along with those closest to me – that enough is enough. I will have the choice; and I will be in control. I just hope that, when that time comes, the law agrees with me.

Postscript

Jo Beecham died peacefully at home, in the company of friends, on 15 October 2014. The drugs stayed in the fridge until her friends disposed of them safely.

Depart at leisure…

If ever there was a bird which defined joy – and was defined by it – it is the swift, with its easy and enjoyed mastery of its environment; its life permanently airborne; its communal displays of skill. No braggart, though; just a natural exuberance. Aerial ecstasy.

It seems to me, though – and it is only a sense, a feeling that something has changed subtly… – that Tysoe’s swifts are preparing to leave for their southern wintering areas in Africa: a little earlier than last year, I think; but then, the fledglings have been exhibiting independence for a while, along with their parents’ effortless command of the air; and the youngsters’ numbers have noticeably filled out the ritualized evening ascent of the flock to their high-altitude on-the-wing roosting – spiralling and spiralling, the group shepherding and shrieking at the strays; then breaking stochastically (“we haven’t finished our suppers, yet!”); before spiralling again; breaking again; and finally rising out of sight… – as the sky darkens, joined by adults who no longer have to nurture or babysit; and joining the drifting, fading orange-tinged cirrus clouds and contrails.

The birds seem to have grown more gregarious as the summer has warmed, over the last couple of months, despite the breeding season now being well passed – and I hope that the good weather we’re currently experiencing will keep them with us a little while longer… – bunching together, this afternoon (as I sat out in the garden, reading), to bombard a feckless kestrel, overhead, that had strayed into their airspace, disturbing their aerobatic late lunching. The poor thing hurried off, ducking, twisting and spiralling out of the way of the perfectly-judged near-misses – each swift seemingly waiting its turn to dive – heading towards the fields in the west: probably regretting its diversion above the village!

Soon, they will be gone, though; and I will miss their squeaky-toy cheeps; and screaming challenges; their bluff, cheeky dogfighting; and periodic grouping and ungrouping (their celebrant patterns much less obvious than the famed massing of starlings: modern ballet to their ballroom ensembles…). The sky – and my world – will then be a sadder place; their absence a lessening of happiness.

This Nest, Swift Passerine [excerpt]

Dan Beachy-Quick

But how find how as it flew onward

& the mountains gave back the sound

to say what I mean the call of the bird

& the echoe after to say I’ve seen?

Raven hungers and calls and the mountain

Hungers back and calls

The whole range of peaks in the bird’s beak.

Raven lonely and the mountain rings

Loneliness & the echoe after we could see

him no longer

The echo after we could see      Light in echo the eye

sees

also through the ear      a double infinity

The Wastage of the Willows – Branch I; Leaf V

Not dark yet…

When the Badger called all the inhabitants of the river bank together, for the first time, under the ancient small-leaved lime tree, no-one could remember such a gathering happening within living memory; nor could anyone imagine what it would lead to.

The Mole and the Water Rat had enlisted the mice and rabbits to ensure that everyone was aware that the meeting was taking place: spreading the news keenly from burrow to hole to nest, hall and field, and beyond; and even nailing handmade notices to the willows. Some of the animals were still scared of the Badger, back then: but his sagacity, seniority and authority drew them in, nonetheless, to listen to what he had to say.

Raising himself up on a convenient mossy log, under the tree’s thinning canopy, as the sun started to bed behind the mustered, eager throng, the Badger repeated the grave news; and warned the river-bankers of the impending threat: an expansion of the Wide World – an invasion, in reality – encroaching on what they all thought of as theirs: their land, their territory, their homes. “But why is he doing this?” whispered the Otter: “HIS home is safe. No-one would dare attack the Wild Wood.”

“Because he cares, is the simple answer,” stated the Rat. “Because he cares not only for himself, his cosy seclusion; but because he cares for ALL of us; doesn’t want us – or our little piece of the countryside – to be hurt; to be damaged; even to disappear. Badger’s a noble beast; and would put himself out for any one of us. As he sees it: any harm comes to us, it comes to him.”

As the Badger delivered his speech, thoughtfully, and with measure, the animals’ fear of him faded away, and they started to gather closer: encouraging him to invite them to ask questions, to tell their peers THEIR thoughts: what could be done; and when; and by whom. Which of them would help him fight the battles that lay ahead?

For a moment, silence fell – not a harsh silence like the threatening stillness that arrives just before a summer thunderstorm; but a gentle, thinking silence, like the one that emerges just before a duckling leaves dry land for the first time, to discover the joys of the river; or a fledgling sparrow first takes to the air. This was a new situation for everyone: the making concrete of an idea of community that had, until now, just been a loose fellowship – creatures of passing acquaintance united by location, rather than in common purpose.

“What do you need us to do?” squeaked a small voice, hesitantly, instinctively, from the back of the crowd. The expectant calm was broken; and a huge feeling of relief and even comfort spread through the throng. If this small creature – “Oh, it’s one of the young rabbits,” murmured the Mole – was brave enough to stand up and make itself heard, then they could, too. Not that permission was needed; nor bravery; just that someone had to be the first to stand in the Badger’s rather large paw-prints – and not for fame, neither; nor reward – but because they realized the importance requisite in such steps; and knew that others would then follow suit.

“To be honest, at the moment, I’m not sure, young fellow,” smiled the Badger, thoughtfully – stretching his arm out generously towards the smaller animal: beckoning him to his side. “But if enough of us can get together to talk things through; discover how others have dealt with such menaces; how the rules of the Wide World can help us; then, presently, I’m sure we’ll be able to start working out a plan of sorts. We can then reconvene, and move those ‘things’ on: making sure we’re all in agreement.”

As he spoke, several others – including the Mole and Water Rat, of course; and even a pair of weasels – joined the Badger and the small rabbit by the sturdy trunk. Realizing that he was towering over them, the Badger gingerly climbed down; and sat on the thick fallen branch instead – by which time, he was surrounded by eight or nine volunteers: some of them not really knowing why they had walked forward; but understanding that this was IMPORTANT; that their lives were about to be altered, irrevocably; and it was up to them to make sure this was for the better, rather than for the worse.

“Thank you, all,” intoned the Badger, as stillness returned. “Thank you for coming” – as he looked around the wider group – “and thank you for making yourselves known” – bringing his gaze to those close by him. “It is, sadly, only in times of trouble, that we need to come together, like this; and it has been many lifetimes since last it happened; but I KNOW we will all do our very best – each in our own way – to protect what we have; what we river-bankers all stand for. I also know that this is far too big simply for the Council of Animals to address. Although they are known for being cautious” – a momentary glance towards the Otter inviting his tacit agreement – “I am certain they will help us in their own way: especially with their knowledge of the law…. But this is something different, something new; and it will take the strength at the heart of us all to fight and to win. I can make no promises, though. I just know it is better that we try, than stand idly by, and watch our beloved world fade away.”

As the gravity of these words sank in, the sun finally disappeared, the assembly dispersed; and, with the orange glow of the clouds reflecting in the Badger’s now glistening eyes, there rose a cooling autumnal wind: presaging what was to come, perhaps; and ensuring that supper, that evening, would be a more solemn affair than usual, all along the river, and in the meadows between it and the Wild Wood. Tones would be hushed; thoughts would rehearse themselves more thoroughly than of usual – anything flippant being held back for another day – and a new tangible mixture of solemnity and hope would suffuse itself through the air and through the ground, and through the very water. Change was coming; and coming far too soon.