It might be thought that, in our technology-driven age, the concept of belief has become less important. If we go back fifty years, belief was still central to most people’s lives; so what has happened to change that?
(1000 words, a ten-minute read)
A friend of mine suggests, slightly tongue in cheek, that the biggest factor in religion’s decline is shopping… We might substitute football for shopping, to even up the gender sheet. The principle is the same: occupation of the mind and emotions by identifications with things of a tangible nature. If we’re fortunate, these may be luxuries. If less so, they are the passions generated by, say, our favourite team, of whom we are a loyal and devoted follower.
Passions for the less tangible things of life seem to be fewer, in this more advanced age…
I read this lovely collection of 365 haiku over a few days, but honestly it should take a year to fully savor them. For that reason, I plan to read the book again, one poem a day, which is how the author crafted them. The poems loosely follow the seasons. They’re reflections on the beauty and wonder of nature and the passage of time. They explore the mysteries of an ancient landscape and the human connections to sacred places. Some return home to the heart, to the magic and poignancy of love and the mysteries of life. In every sense, I found this a deeply spiritual read. Highly recommended to readers who enjoy haiku, daily inspiration and reflection, and beautiful, thought-provoking imagery. A few favorites:
*
walk forward in grace
stars have strewn a path of gold
bounded by beauty
from a darkling shore
dreamers can walk on water
a land of light calls.
closer to earth
a child’s eyes sees miracles
we have forgotten
we pass as shadows
ephemeral fallen leaves
on the path of time
Midnight Haiku
Sue Vincent
The photographs and the three hundred and sixty five poems within this book collate a year’s journey in poetry through the seasons and the intermingled landscape of mind, body and spirit.
fragmentary thoughts
seeds borne lightly on the breeze
pen captures whispers
The poems were originally published as “midnighthaiku” every night at the appropriate time, leaving behind, like Cinderella, a trace of a day’s passing and a glimmer of the day yet to come.
Each poem can be read alone and simply ‘on the surface’. Many can be read in sequences that add an extra dimension to the wider human tale contained within these pages.
But each poem has its own layers of meaning too, waiting to be discovered by those who turn their attention to the heart.
The paintings of the north transept with their beheaded saint and crowned figures would have been enough and well worth the visit. On this wall alone there are layers of decative themes, from figures to foliage, curlicues and stars. There are at least five schemes of painting, from the late 1200s to the 14th C, with the window splays being amongst the latest to be painted. No other paintings survive on this side of the church apart from one of the Cromwellian bible verses from the 17thC that were the only permitted decoration at that time in history. The rest were painted over.
On the western walls at the base of the tower, a few intriguing fragments remain. The clearest is that of a hand and part of a torso. The hand grasps a tool whose blade is at right angles to the handle, suggesting a scythe. The painting is post-reformation, so later than many of the others. It is thought that, in line with the prevailing thought of the day, this may originally have been a depiction of Father Time, and he would have been accompanied by Death. These two themes were often found together, the abstract concepts personified to remind the congregation of their mortality, in the same way as the many memento mori tombs show skeletal remains beneath the portait figures.
Tiny patches of colour show through the limewash across the walls. On the south wall, around the door, is a larger scene, too badly damaged to fully decipher. You can make out the stonework of a castle or walled city with turrets outlined against the sky. Figures look out of the windows, including a blonde wearing a beret. It is thought that this may be a fragment of a depiction of the tale of St George and the Dragon that was often painted around doorways. Opposite there would probably have been the story of St Christopher, ready to welcome pilgrims, but nothing now remains.
In the nave there are the Cromwellian verses, but as beautifully painted as theya re, you barely notice them. Instead your eyes are drawn up to the large expanse of paint above the chancel arch. There is a central space in the painting where the wooden cross … the Rood of the rood screen… would have stood. On one side a figure given as St John, on the other the Mother of Jesus. To either side are winged angels with censers, referring to the verse in Revelations 8:3 “Another angel, who had a golden censer, came and stood at the altar. He was given much incense to offer…” The golden chains frame the space where the coross would have hung.
There are two shemes on this wall. The one that runs across the top and which would have backed the rood screen dates to the 14thC. This is the brighter painting, with far more colour and a more stylised feel. Below it remain traces of an older painting, going back to the 13thC. The style is simpler… more of an outline drawing. This would once have covered the entire wall, though now only two fragmentary scenes remain.
To the north is what is thought to be the Passion, though looking at it, and seeing only limbs, I am reminded of some of the older Tarot cards depicting Judgement, where the dead rise from the earth. It is not impossible… but of course, from the floor it is impossible to get a closer look.
The style of these older paintings is not only simpler, but in some ways seem to carry a deeper emotion. They are more graphic, less comfortable… more poignant. To the south side stands the figure of the risen Christ.
His face is still clear, as are his feet, piereced and bloodied. In his hand he holds the vexillium… a processional banner or cross… and anothe figure stands close by. This is thought to be another of the common themes of medieval art… the Harrowing of Hell, when the Christ is said to have descended to limbo to free all the souls of those who had died, save only those of the damned. But to me, the most poignant painting of them all here, is that of the Feet.
Above these two fragments two figures from a later painting watch. To the south, the one we are told is St John, dressed in flowing green. I am no expert, and again, the details are difficult to capture, but I have to wonder if, for the sake of the lover of symmetry who painted the two censing angels, we should not consider the possibility that this may be another grieving woman. There was more than one Mary who grieved for Jesus, after all, and she is often shown wearing green.
It is the Mother of Jesus, though, that takes your breath. She is the most beautiful I have ever seen in a medieval wall painting of this type. She reminds me of an alabaster fragment at Stewkeley with the delicate transparency of her veil, the flowing lines of her stance. The artist who painted her knew what love looked like. From below, as you raise your eyes, the perspective softens the figure, and she is gentle, sorrowful and tender.
Not a young woman… but not old. Grieving, but not lost in grief. Serene and beautiful. The artist who painted her knew what love looked like.
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Nature trembles on the edge of spring. The sun reaches for the earth with renewed strength and the wind whips through the land with a renewed spirit. In places, spring breaks through. The lilac crocus shoots in the park that survived the snow have become delicate starbursts with hot orange centres. A single snowdrop and a single daffodil plant are pioneers from elsewhere, not normally seen here.
It is getting harder and harder to get up off the floor these days… for both of us.
I struggle a bit, but can still manage. If she goes down, she stays down until the cavalry come to rescue her. We had to get my boy down to help pick her up the other night, as her leg gave out… and it just flops about a bit when she tries to use it. She’s not happy about that. She’s put lots of non-slip mats down for em to get a grip on…but they don’t seem to work for her.We’re both having to learn to live with changes, but while mine are coming on gradu’lly, hers seem to come all at once…
We just have to learn to live with it, I s’ppose. There is an old saying says that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Well, you may not be able to… but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn them. And that seems to apply to two-legses s well as four, because since she’s been poorly, she seems to be getting waited on, hand and paw… and she isn’t doing anything. I couldn’t get my head around it. I mean, what a lifestyle! And does she appreciate it?
I watched her. She’s just sitting there at the desk.
She doesn’t need to ask for a drink… there is always one beside her. He brings her medicine… and nice, chocolatey things to take the taste away. He uses the groomy thing on her muscles… and she only has to smile.
If I smile, and especially if I try to sneak in to give him a give him a cuddle… he just complains about fish breath. Or being squished.
But there had to be some way she was getting him to do all this nice stuff. I couldn’t see it.
Then, while he was in the kitchen… I saw her in action. Sneaky…
All she did was cough.
Just a little cough. Nothing much… nothing desperate… not even on purpose…
… and the Ball Guy downs tools in the kitchen and comes running…
Was she okay..? Did she need..? Could he get..?
I mean, isn’t that what two-legses are supposed to do for us four-legses? Cats seem to manage that kind of service! Why not dogs? So I settled down for a snooze and a think…
A Year In Contemplation Midnight Haiku. This is much more than a book it is a beacon of light and wisdom. I read it in one sitting and found it delightful. Every Haiku or set of Haiku has a beautiful accompanying photo. Sue Vincent’s words take us on a magical journey through life.
I am re-reading now, in-between cooking and cleaning and writing. Each turn of the page teaches me a little more. A beautiful book from a beautiful person.
***
Midnight Haiku
Sue Vincent
The photographs and the three hundred and sixty five poems within this book collate a year’s journey in poetry through the seasons and the intermingled landscape of mind, body and spirit.
fragmentary thoughts
seeds borne lightly on the breeze
pen captures whispers
The poems were originally published as “midnighthaiku” every night at the appropriate time, leaving behind, like Cinderella, a trace of a day’s passing and a glimmer of the day yet to come.
Each poem can be read alone and simply ‘on the surface’. Many can be read in sequences that add an extra dimension to the wider human tale contained within these pages.
But each poem has its own layers of meaning too, waiting to be discovered by those who turn their attention to the heart.
There is a calm, clean feeling to the church of All Saints in Burton Dassett. It isn’t just the limewashed walls or the plain glass in the windows… not the stone flagged floor or the mefdieval tiles. It is something about the place itself. The proportions are beautiful…right in an indefinable way. Yet this is quite a big church for such a small place. Not for nothing is it known locally as the Cathedral of the Hills.
Although the original church dates back to around a century after the Norman conquest of 1066AD, the aisles are a little later, and much of the visible fabric of the building is typical of the 13th and 14th centuries. Strange creatires lurk in the roofspace where carved corbels bear the weight of ancient wood.
The pillars of the south aisle may be plain, but those of the northern aisle … the direction associated in medieval times with the devil and his cohorts, are covered with intricate carvings. Beasts, both mythical and natural, chase each other around the columns, eating fruits with bared teeth and posing riddles to the 21st century visitor who no longer has access to the same language of symbols so readily understood by our forefathers.
It is tempting with many of the carvings to see a sense of humour at play. There are, in other churches, very obvious examples, where humour and perhaps subversive political commentary, have been crafted into the fabric of these sacred places. It is a mistake, I think, to forget that the workmen were as human as we, with the very same concerns, hopes, fears and laughter. We may moan about taxation and government… no doubt they did so too. We too worry about our children, complain about our aches and pains and ask awkward questions of our souls.
The story of our own human history, as much ecclestiastical history or that of a nation, is encapsulated within walls such as these. The land and its people cannot be separated and what affects one is written upon the other. Within this litle church we can get a glimpse, almost as clearly as if it was a time machine, of the impact of the Norman invaders, altering the face of the country with their style and power. We can see, too,the glimpses of an older time to which the local folk were, perhaps, closer. In the 17th C, the overlay of Puritanism under Cromwell whitewashed the older paintings of the Catholic faith that had survived the Reformation under Henry VIII in the previous century. Only verses from the Bible were allowed to be displayed upon the walls and the rood screens were lost… most taken down and destroyed.
The small folk of hill and dale had little choice but to obey, whether they agreed or not. Familiarity and a love of place would have held no sway. The Crown and the Church were all powerful… until Parliament briefly deposed the monarchy, changing one absolute rule for another. I can imagine, in places such as this, a real heartache at having to paint over the sacred stories, depicted on the walls of their church and that were the only access that the unlettered peasantry would have had to the Bible. I can imagine, too, that those with eyes for beauty would have found that a hard task.
The wall paintings here span centuries . Many are too badly damaged to decipher… but amongst the rest are some of the most beautiful and poignant that I have yet seen. But… they’ll have to wait. They deserve space to themselves.
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There are your favourite huge lilies in a vase, filling the air with the perfume of heaven. White and pale lilac blooms wait with the chocolates, destined to fill another vase. Your granddaughters have made beautiful cards for you… and invited you to Sunday lunch.
And, much as you would have loved a proper roast dinner, with proper, homemade Yorkshire puddings, you have turned that invitation down in favour of sandwiches, knowing that you will struggle to eat even those. It takes a while, but you manage…taking it slowly, a nibble at a time, with a mouthful of water after every bite.
And the girls have baked a special treat… scones, with lots of jam and fresh cream. They are as light as a feather, melt in the mouth and just perfect… those girls are going to be wonderful bakers when they grow up.
You eat the first half… almost. Still with the water ’chaser’ after every small bite. The girls are chattering… and suddenly, you cannot speak. Or Breathe. Or attract anyone’s attention.
The scone has completely plastered over the internal workings of your throat, sealing it tight. Food will not go up or down. Swallowing and breathing cannot happen. Air will not go in or out. You are choking to death, on a special treat made by your granddaughters… in front of them on Mother’s Day. It could hardly get any worse… except that there is a DNR in place, so even if anyone notices your plight and calls the ambulance, you would be dead before the paramedics arrived and they could do nothing.
And it is utterly terrifying.
Seconds stretch into eternity… then, “Alex!… Get in here, NOW…” and people are moving…
…and you are being thumped and slapped across the back like a rag dog… thumped hard enough that you should end up with cracked ribs and don’t actually care. Hit over and over again, as panic rises and nothing happens…You can only imagine how painful and difficult it is for your son to be deliberately trying to hit you as hard as he can…
And you can’t say ‘Heimlich’ because you can’t speak…
Then something shifts, and a bit more… a concrete-like pellet of scone dislodges and suddenly, somehow, you are still alive, gasping for air… and incredibly tired.
Seconds? Minutes? Eternity? It was all of those and, quite simply, the most frightening thing I have ever experienced. The absolute helplessness of it… especially with a body that will now no longer allow me to try to rescue myself. I could not have walked, or moved to anywhere where I could apply the Heimlich manoeuvre to myself.
Alex did not use that technique because, given the current state of my heart and lungs, he felt it was too dangerous and was quite right. The abdominal thrust known as the Heimlich is now recommended as a second step, rather than a first response.
Would you know what to do?
What if you were on your own and started choking?
There is no time to find out in an emergency.
If the person is able to cry, cough or breathe, they may be able to clear the blockage by being encouraged to cough. But don’t waste time if they cannot.
For children under one year old and pregnant women, there are different techniques that must be used…make sure you know what is involved.
First
Stand behind the person who is choking and slightly to one side. Support their chest with 1 hand. Lean them forward so the object blocking their airway will come out of their mouth, rather than moving further down.
Give up to five sharp, forceful blows between their shoulder blades with the heel of your hand. The heel is between the palm of your hand and your wrist.
Place your arms around their waist and bend them forward.
Clench one fist and place it right above their belly button.
Put the other hand on top of your fist and pull sharply inwards and upwards.
Repeat this movement up to five times.
If the person’s airway is still blocked after trying back blows and abdominal thrusts, get help immediately.
Call 999 (UK)and ask for an ambulance. Tell the emergency operator the person is choking.
Continue with the cycles of five back blows and five abdominal thrusts until help arrives.
If they lose consciousness, follow the operator’s instructions and/or commence CPR until help arrives.
Anyone who has received abdominal thrusts must be checked by a doctor as they can cause serious damage.
Never perform abdominal thrusts on someone who is not choking.
If you are choking and alone
Better still… why not take a first aid course and learn the basics of how to handle these everyday emergencies that kill so many people every year for want of a little knowledge.
It is not the first time that Alex has come to my rescue. He has staunched serious blood flow, kept his calm and got me through the spider-bite poisoning and subsequent allergic reactions… and seen me through extensive second and third-degree burns. His training was simply time spent with St John Ambulance as a child. Such training sticks… he has saved my life more than once, and he does so with such a calm and loving presence… though this time was seriously by far the scariest.
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Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 