Merry Sproutmas…!

For Alex and Mike…

This year, for the first time in living memory, the Winter Solstice coincides exactly (in fact, to the minute) with the (as yet) little-known celebration of Sproutmas: where we commemorate the budding of the Monster Sprout; and remind ourselves of our gemmiferous saviour’s miraculous creation story.

Today’s lesson is therefore taken from the first chapter of The Book According to Cranberry (an arguable source, admittedly) –

1. In the recipe was the Sprout, and the Sprout was with Chestnut, and the Sprout was Chestnut.
2. The same was in the ingredients with Chestnut.
3. All things were cooked by her; and without her was not any thing cooked that was cooked.
4. In her was taste; and the taste was the feast of diners.
5. And the feast smelleth in the kitchen; and the cooker-hood extracted it not.
6. There was a chef sent from Chestnut, whose name was Floyd.
7. The same came for a toasting, to raise toasting of the Feast, that all diners through him might be satisfied.
8. He was not that Feast, but was sent to raise toasting of that Feast.
9. That was the true Feast, which feasteth every diner that cometh into the restaurant.
10. He was in the restaurant, and the restaurant was made by him, and the restaurant knew him not.
11. He drank unto his socks, and his socks carried him not.
12. But as many as carried him, to them gave he menus to become the fans of Chestnut, even to them that believe on her name:
13. Which were cooked, not with sauce, nor of the turkey of the flesh, nor of the bill of diners, but of Chestnut.
14. And the Sprout was made festive, and eaten among us (and we beheld her greenness, the greenness as of the only pistachio of the Nut), full of relish and flavour.

Thanks be to Chestnut. Worship the Sprout.

The price of greatness is responsibility – an open letter to Tysoe Parish Council…

Government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the Earth.

– Abraham Lincoln

We seem to have forgotten what politics is. What politics is really for. It is not for self-aggrandizement – i.e. for the enlargement of egos – but for serving the requirements of the constituent population: whether this is at national, regional, district, or at parish level. Anyone elected to any governing body should therefore always remember why they were elected; how they were elected; and who they were elected by. To misquote another American president: Ask not what your village can do for you; ask what you can do for your village. Perhaps, whatever your religion – or lack of it – Christmas provides the perfect opportunity for such reflection.

This is therefore just a polite request – from one of your many constituents – that you work together; and work through any differences you may have (amongst yourselves; or with other parties who may believe they hold sway in the village – however delusional their reasons…) for the good of the village. If such responsibilities are not your principal measures – your principal guides – then perhaps you should rethink your relationship with those you serve; or the standing of those who would try to wield over you power that they should not have. I do not – however beautiful the landscape; however generous the majority of my fellow residents – wish to live in a village riven by the selfishness and solipsism of an élite few, who believe, through sheer arrogance (whose only fuel can ever be ignorance), that it is only their wishes and needs that should be fulfilled; that only their supposed ‘vision’ for the Tysoe we all love is correct.

Another request, therefore, is that – particularly with regards to the Neighbourhood Plan – the Parish Council returns to first principles: and asks those of us who live here whether such a plan is actually required; if so, what form it should take, what we think should be in it, and how we would like it to be put together. I would rather this, than have stricture imposed on us from above by those whose perspectives are skewed by either supposed expertise, wealth, or bigheadedness.

And, no, I don’t have the answers. I also don’t have the power; or feel I should have it. I am just one small voice; one small part of this place – who loves it beyond measure; knows, if push came to shove, that it would survive (as it has done for centuries) without the interference of heavy-handed governance; shaped by those forces – internal and external – that invisibly wax and wane in and around it.

What I do know, though, is that I do not want our local councillors to act like the worst combative proponents of the Westminster ‘bubble’. You may disagree with his (and my) socialism – which I must assume many of you would, considering the local demographic – but I doubt if anyone can disagree, deep down, with the politeness, conviction and sheer decency of the way Jeremy Corbyn conducts his type of politics. Such thoughtfulness befits us all. Especially those who have the power to mould other people’s lives. Especially at this time of year.

Some of us are looking at the stars…

I tend not to write (on here) about the many and major downsides of (me) being disabled – unless I am describing how I continually (attempt to) overcome those drawbacks – having learned, slowly but surely, over the last nineteen years, that, for me, having a positive attitude (if only in public) means that I cope more easily; and am not completely defined by the fact that my life and body have been seriously damaged by the recklessness of others. I also hope, of course, that those who meet me, and get to know me, can therefore similarly learn to ignore such negative aspects – seeing past the walking stick and hearing aids, as well as any visible pain (that may leak through the clumsy forcefield I erect) – concentrating instead on the happiness, creativity, intelligence, and frequent goofiness; rather than dwelling on being sympathetic to what they may perceive as my ‘plight’.

Yet, as an individual, there are innumerable core facets of my personality that have not changed in this time. Those that have, I would categorize as ‘growth’: aiding and abetting a maturity that, otherwise, may have taken much longer to emerge. I have learned patience; acquired stoicism; become more attuned to the world around me – especially the natural and the aesthetic. I have also realized that ploughing my own furrow – oft with little or no regard for those who would want me to fulfil their expectations, rather than (or even ignoring) my own thought-through desires – is the only way I will survive (or even flourish).

It would be easy to label such an outlook as ‘selfishness’: but I only have this one life (a truism, I know); and many – particularly the physical – facets of it (and therefore some of my ambitions) have already been snatched from my reach. This approach, then, to me, is more about making the most of my limitations: bringing a smile to those others who do care – and not just for me – by being vividly genuine.

¶

When I have written on this blog about (my) disability, I have tended to follow three paths: the humorous (often in rhyme); what could be described as the general, objective, or political; or, as I mentioned above – particularly when I am reducing the subject to the specific: the way being crippled affects me – the physical mechanisms I use to try and get on with those aspects of ‘everyday’ living that are still open to me (although not actually every day…). There are therefore very few people who know and understand just how tough ‘being’ is for me; and, for most of the time, that is how I would want it to remain.

However, I have been told on numerous occasions that, by appearing so generally happy – which, in many, many ways I am – I often do myself a disservice. (One of the things you are taught on pain management programmes is not to fall habitually into that supposedly British response of “Not bad”, when asked how you’re feeling: but to remain honest, without, if possible, reducing yourself or the questioner to a pile of gibbering mush.) This then, is about finding a middle way – although not a compromise as such: just refining (and perhaps minimizing) the detail, without being dishonest. (After, all, no-one expects – or wants – a lavish exposition….)

¶

Abetting such an aim – although perhaps counterintuitively – is my desire to live what life I have remaining (meaning both in a “threescore years and ten” way, as well as one limited in capability) to the full. I referenced Robert Herrick, recently: and yet there are (too-frequent) days when I am confined to the house – and often to bed – where that gathering of rosebuds is simply not possible. Those days, therefore, when I am out and about – although I would not go so far as to describe this as determined socializing: any interaction with others is more liable to be accidental, because of my Mole‑ish nature and dulling ears – are filtered through lenses of tinted joy; coloured with the success of (temporarily) subduing the demons of my disability; overcoming the limitations I am supposed to let rule my invalid existence.

As I have written before, I am no fan (in practice) of ‘pacing’ (despite my intuiting of its logical, proposed benefits): and will, on the rare days that I envisage the successful fulfilment of the tiniest potential, become an enthusiastic repudiator of any impediments – increased suffering; decreased energy, etc. – placed in my way. Short-term gain for long-term pain, no doubt. (And, almost certainly, countless days of worsened symptoms, as a result.) But the psychological benefits, for me, are reward enough: not only giving me something to write about, on here; but, more importantly, producing an all-encompassing glow of achievement that then motivates the next escape from the confines cruelly placed around me. (Some people never learn, do they?)

However, there is one particular pitfall to such a disposition (one which could be described, I admit, as fighting my own body; confronting my infirmities in what may be seen as quite an aggressive manner): one which comes from scheduling those “rare days”, rather than waiting for them to emerge through the mechanism of happenstance. And Saturday night was such a heffalump trap.

¶

Continuing my musical “pilgrimage”, I had hoped to attend (and therefore had bought tickets for) the Orchestra of the Swan’s Christmas Concert at Holy Trinity, with members of my extended family. (I also had an invitation to review another concert, that night, in Bradford-on-Avon!) I can be (I will admit) a little bit of a Dickensian humbug when it comes to such seasonal celebrations – decades of being in, and running, church choirs can do that to even the staunchest musician (especially an atheistic one…) – but, obviously, the chance of enjoying any music (and from such talented performers) was enough to lure me away from my innate aversion.

However, for the last eight days, I have – despite short remissions for good behaviour (well, impatience, really; combined with stubbornness and stir-craziness) – been plagued with migraines of increasing severity: and I am still somewhat (at the time of writing) in a position where the left side of my body feels as if it has joined the Dark Side. Never mind the pain (which, on its own, I have learned to deal with): I also have very little vision on that side (insert Jeremy Corbyn joke here); and what I have is extremely light-sensitive. Additionally, on top of my usual tinnitus, I have hyperacusis – a cruel irony for someone losing their hearing. And, just to top all that, my movement is severely limited.

¶

So this is where, and when, my ‘condition’ finally ‘gets to me’. Where all the psychological resilience I have constructed, crumbles. Not for the first time; and certainly not for the last. But the blinding reminder – in the same way that a memento mori may shock you into remembering your own fragile mortality – can be quite overwhelming: especially as proof that you don’t (and won’t) always win; that you can’t always get your own way – as other, more ‘normal’ people do – and that there’s a reason why the sheer exultancy of setting goals, making plans, ignoring limits, comes with its own equally harsh, depressing risk of consequential, unplanned-for, hurtful reality.

But if you don’t take those risks, then what is life about? I accept that I will never climb Helvellyn again: threading my way gingerly down Striding Edge. But I will never accept that I cannot at least make an attempt to see it again; or slowly explore easier, flatter parts of the Lake District at my own, bumbling pace (whatever the short-term consequences). And I will also play my part in overcoming those ‘social’ aspects of disability that stand in my way – more captions at the RSC; better hearing aid provision; ramps and handrails; self-opening doors – enabling easier access to the things most take for granted.

¶

It is hard, though, to accept the disappointments that stem from being less able; less mobile; less (and simultaneously more) sensitive to sound; more riddled with pain. And, when even the smallest victory appears unachievable, inaccessible, it is hard to envisage future successes. They will come, though….

Prologue to an (as yet) unfinished play…

MELPOMENE:

Once my world was the world, a world entire;

I made it mine, stamped my feet hard across

Vancouver’s islands and Pacific coasts;

Ascended tall Chicago towers, relished

Michigan’s shores, its pier, its peerless art

Made concrete; crossed the Seine at dawn; explored

Deutsch Kirchen; Dutch kerken – sang their echoed

Magnificats to an unknown godhead;

Wandered Swedish forests, paddled broad fjords;

Crossed seas; strode Highland glens and Lakeland fells;

Broke the back of Beacons; dark Pennine moors;

Rode ridgeways; saw spires; edged Midland waters;

’Til I found my home safe beneath Edge Hills.

My world – a world without limits; without

Unknown places that could be turned knowledge –

Turned small.

THALEIA:

                    A fall of curtain too early;

Too soon before its call could play its turn;

All dramatis personae vanished, too

Soon, before their parts completed starring

Arcs across the heavens of their stagecraft.

MELPOMENE:

Once my world was the world, the world entire;

Now it is a village, at best; a house,

When less better; a room; a bed; myself –

My world has shrivelled into my grey skin.

All know that with age comes unkind shrinkage:

Of height; of mind; of friends’ encompassing

Love, and life – a narrowing of knowledge

Expected: as arteries atrophy,

No new blood is made to warm our fingers

Or our toes.

THALEIA:

                    But not too late; yet, for me,

Ever too soon; too far; too quick. Finis,

Before the second act has started on

Its way: ices yet to melt; drinks not drunk;

Rôles to be delivered; and plots entwined.

Too soon, too quick, my mind may be my world:

Complete as the sun; wide as planets; bright

As the moon; journeying as comets do

To fantastic destinations not known…

Yet.

MELPOMENE:

     Shrunk to a stop: a black, marked point of

Pressed ink, deep within blank, bleached, milk linen –

THALEIA:

An original space to be filled: with

All that was my last world; made new with new

Imaginings; explorations; visits

To the broadest limits of my new-found

Loam; and then beyond. I will not be bound

By infirmity or pain. I will face

Impositions; false borders of barbed wire

Erected by dull, slow expectation

Against the anarchy of thought; against

Sprinting regular creativity;

I will face them with joy and rare strangeness;

From my infinitessimal blot I will

Trumpet, demolishing establishment;

Will blast loud: shout My world is world enough!

Collapsed, my corner may well be; subdued,

Punctured, rendered miniscule; but not done.

I am not done. Not done. This is no end –

It is a chance; a vantage: not over,

But [grins] an overture! So, let’s not dwell on death:

But fill our heads with light; our hearts with spring’s bright breath!

I’ll go walking in circles…

The cold comes in many colours. On what felt like a rare, cloudless morning, crouching beneath the unkempt, unspoiled hedgerows, the lingering frost painted the shadows a cleaner, crisper shade than that of the lethargic sheep – too hungry to clear my path, or be concerned at my intrusion. Elsewhere, the bright, verdant clumps of appetizing torn grass glistened with innumerable distilled jewels in the low sun: which cast the trees as dark prostrate giants reaching across the silent meadows, now littered with their singed green, gold and umber confetti.

A biting sou’wester gripped at my jaws, clenching my teeth until I turned my back against it – my cheeks the colour of the few scattered berries and hips. Out of the wind, sheltered by a recent copse, the flaxen light brought surprising warmth; and I soon removed my gloves. The cloudless sky still glowed pale steel-blue, though: a reminder of the morning’s insistent chill.

Returning to the grounds of Baddesley Clinton, from where my short walk had begun – the rhythmic hum of Elgar’s Introduction and Allegro accompanying my every step – I found the birds also overly intent on foraging to mind my presence. A young, fluffed-out, almost spherical chaffinch pecked close to my mud-spattered boots beneath the pines, sorting through the spillikin needles. Above my head, a treecreeper scuttled shrew-like, spiralling upwards around the trunk, and then along the underside of a large branch: unaware that its characterful acrobatics effortlessly defied gravity. A robin preened itself just out of reach: a gleaming black eye permanently glowering at my impertinence; its traditional Christmas plumage matching my still-smarting face. In the leaf-littered tangle of branches at the pond's edge, a silhouette of a blackbird chuntered in impatience; the mallards taking up its call with short, fading, slowing cackles.

For a while, I was their only observer: until a moorhen, skittering paranoiacally over the water, alerted me to an unheard squirrel, checking and re-checking its scattered winter larders, bouncing ever closer, from remembered spot to remembered spot. Only then did more humans appear. So I retired to the comfort of another coffee: surrounded by the ceaseless chatter of my own kind; and thawed by the glorious flames of the wood-burning stove.

Against strife and contention…

At a loss for something local to do, and with a small wodge of time to while away, I wandered lazily into Tredington: lured by “the tallest spire in Warwickshire” (reminding me of my beloved Salisbury) and too-frequent unacted-upon glimpses from the road of a uniquely seductive clump of surrounding houses and grassy plots. (Next time, I must remember to take my DSLR.)

From the comments in the recently-published Parish Plan – including “Rural quality with interesting architectural historic mix…” and “Its beauty and history”, in response to the question “What do you like most about living round here?” – this would appear to be a thriving, involved community. In fact, as I meandered through the village, it felt like a place that was truly at ease with itself – with its mixture of building styles and periods; stone, brick, slate and thatch. Such a lack of uniformity is, I think – especially huddled together in such a small area – at the heart of its attractiveness.

In such an obviously rural – and therefore quite isolated – location, it’s strange to learn that I could once have caught a tram from here to Stratford-upon-Avon! Although a large part of me – especially whilst struggling to limp across the Shipston Road: as an extended cavalcade of tailgating cars, blatantly exceeding the speed limit, thoughtlessly ran through, slicing the village cruelly in half – then thought that such once-again-fashionable transport provision (as demonstrated by its recent adoption in Birmingham) would probably render the place both safer and a lot greener.

It was mizzling as I entered the churchyard; but, as I meandered around inside, transfixed by a centuries-old and ‑deep beauty, hesitant, developing patches of pale blue appeared through the many ancient, clear-paned leadlights. And yet I couldn’t be enticed back outside!

If you have a moment, walk to the top of the road (where the thatched cottage is visible) and look back towards the church. On a sunny day, with the thatched building to your left, an Elizabethan house on the right, and the spire of St Gregory’s rising high above the surrounding cottages, it’s as pretty a village sight as you will see anywhere in England.

This excerpt comes from a wonderful, insightful review of St Gregory’s by David Ross – and from the way it is written, I think it is easy to conclude that this sacred space affects many as it did me. (For those who want more – and immediate – information, there is also an immensely detailed and scholarly description of its architectural history on British History Online; plus, of course, guidebooks available to purchase in the church itself – including the history quoted below.) And so I lingered – luckily having the building to myself – for almost an hour: intrigued by its complex layers of development; its manifold – and yet ultimately harmonious – architectural palimpsests (with “deeply splayed” Saxon windows still evident high in the nave); its immersive beauty and immense humanity.

If one stands at the font and looks east, a whole history book is open before one – the Saxons and the Danes – the Normans – the fine English Gothic of the chancel – the screen a relic of Roman Catholic days and the pulpit of the time when England was in the midst of a bloody civil war. Also one sees, high above the nave, a well preserved coat of arms. At first sight this appears to be that of Queen Victoria, but on closer inspection it is found that the V.R. is super-imposed on G.R. This suggests that the coat of arms therefore dates back to some considerable time before Victoria’s reign.

– DML Davis: The Parish Church of St. Gregory

I have to say that my favourite object was the font (above) – “It is a magnificent relic” – in the west end: if only for the “Old staples, on [its] steps, said to be a guard against witches!” But that tower – “210 ft high” – and the “60 ft long” nave and “forty-five feet long” chancel, are certainly both worthy of admiration (if not amazement – just for their sheer scale); as are the remains of fifteenth-century woodwork (in the rood screen, reconstructed “bench ends and pew fronts”, and “probably” also the lectern). The fourteenth-century north door – which may originally have been hung in the “reset… limestone and grey lias” Norman south entryway; and with its “lead bullets… dating to the Civil War” – also forms a weighty welcome and farewell. This is a substantial edifice: with authority over all who bestride its threshold.

This then is the church of St. Gregory at Tredington. You have read how history has passed through it. It was built during the Danish invasion, it was enlarged and beautified in the medieval period and simultaneously was involved in the estrangement of the English monarch from the papacy; it was concerned with the Reformation under Henry VIII and was held in plurality by his Latin Secretary Petrus Vannes; it escaped during the Marian reaction but still carries a book of Elizabethan religious compromise; it saw and took part in the civil war and thence it has settled and become a less interested party. No longer is its advowson a source of conflict. No longer are its walls needed as protection. But it is by no means dead. It remains a memorial to men’s labour and generosity, and a witness to living faith.

– DML Davis: The Parish Church of St. Gregory