Exiles, east of Eden…

My mate Graham posted this today- a lovely Martin Joseph song that I had not heard before;

The song plugs in to quite a few new and old thoughts/conversations. Time for an old poem I think, written for a Greenbelt worship event;

There is this story from the beginning of us
Of brothers who started to measure their relative success
It began with small things –
the domestic injustices, the long silences

One brother loved the wild places
The freedom of the forest – to hunt the deer and gather the low fruit
He could bear no borders

The other was a man of industry
He fenced the land
and turned the earth to fields
And the land was bountiful
His store houses were overflowing
In this he was vulnerable

Somehow these things became a wall between them –
Leading to violence
And death.

.

You are placed under a curse and can no longer farm the soil. It has soaked up your brother’s blood as if it had opened its mouth to receive it when you killed him. If you try to grow crops, the soil will not produce anything; you will be a homeless wanderer on the earth.

And Cain said to the Lord, This punishment is too hard for me to bear. You are driving me off the land and away from your presence. I will be a homeless wanderer on the earth, and anyone who finds me will kill me.

But the Lord answered,
No. If anyone kills you, seven lives will be taken in revenge. So the Lord put a mark on Cain to warn anyone who met him not to kill him. And Cain went away from the Lord’s presence and lived in a land called –

Wandering…
…which is east of Eden

.
We think we were the first to ever feel

The first to dream of higher places
The first to fall
The first to scream at sharp things
The first to feel that indescribable sting
called love

The first to make music
The first to feel shame shrinking
our callow souls
The first to seek the promised land
The first to eat from the tree
Called puberty

We were not

Long before light could be conjured
by a switch
Men and women sat around fires and
dreamed of starflight
They rose high above the flat old earth
Pregnant with new possibilities
Favour rested on their fields

But every generation grows and leaves home
We make and break and forge our own magnificence
And these palaces we build need solid doors
To protect what is mine
From what you will never have
And we wander – marked like Cain
East of Eden

Sometimes it seems that you and me
Have spent forever
Looking for a way
Back

Giving hospitality…

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We have had a house full of (paying) guest over the past week- here for the Cowal Highland Gathering.

Highland Dancers from Newcastle.

A family of highly creative folk from France and London, including a jazz musician, an opera singer and a life model.

Michaela and I cooked 31 cooked breakfasts (once at 6am!) cleaned constantly, changed bedding every third day, and in the middle had time to do some pottery, some wood carving and bits of socialising. It has been a busy hectic week, but we have both enjoyed it enormously. It helped that our guests were so lovely of course, but just the process of welcoming others into our space with other people is such a simple pleasurable act.

Michaela in particular is really good at those little touches that make people feel that special effort has been made- place mats with hand lettered quotes, suggestions of places to go and things to do, etc etc. Mostly (particularly in the morning) I kept out of the way and worked in the kitchen. On one occasion whilst delivering some toast I was accused of sending it sliding down the table western bar style- with no small amount of elan I thought!

Weekends like this when the house is so full gives hope for the future of our mixed economy way of making a living. It will always be marginal, and Cowal Games comes but once a year, but it kind of fits with who we are.

This week an old friend from Bolton is using the Annex- I have not seen her for 10 years and it will be lovely to catch up with her news.

Our big old house is a demanding old aunt, but at last it feels like she has softened into genial old age…

Come and see for yourselves!

Seamus Heaney (1939-2013.) A great voice is silent…

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Seamus Heaney, perhaps the greatest living poet, died yesterday. I thought it appropriate to post some of his poetry…

Firstly, let us hear him read something- it gives some idea of the warmth and humour of the man;

Next, here are a couple of poems in word form. Almost always the best way to catch a poem in the soul. The first one about the process of writing (and so much more)

Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney,

“Digging” from Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.

Next something far darker;

Limbo

Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,

A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I’m sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly

Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.

She waded in under
The sign of the cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be

A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ’s palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.

Next, something of Heaney’s courage in the face of the violence in Ireland;

Funeral Rites

I shouldered a kind of manhood
stepping in to lift the coffins
of dead relations.
They had been laid out

in tainted rooms,
their eyelids glistening,
their dough-white hands
shackled in rosary beads.

Their puffed knuckles
had unwrinkled, the nails
were darkened, the wrists
obediently sloped.

The dulse-brown shroud,
the quilted satin cribs:
I knelt courteously
admiting it all

as wax melted down
and veined the candles,
the flames hovering
to the women hovering
behind me.
And always, in a corner,
the coffin lid,
its nail-heads dressed

with little gleaming crosses.
Dear soapstone masks,
kissing their igloo brows
had to suffice

before the nails were sunk
and the black glacier
of each funeral
pushed away.

II

Now as news comes in
of each neighbourly murder
we pine for ceremony,
customary rhythms:

the temperate footsteps
of a cortège, winding past
each blinded home.
I would restore

the great chambers of Boyne,
prepare a sepulchre
under the cupmarked stones.
Out of side-streets and bye-roads

purring family cars
nose into line,
the whole country tunes
to the muffled drumming

of ten thousand engines.
Somnambulant women,
left behind, move
through emptied kitchens

imagining our slow triumph
towards the mounds.
Quiet as a serpent
in its grassy boulevard

the procession drags its tail
out of the Gap of the North
as its head already enters
the megalithic doorway.

III

When they have put the stone
back in its mouth
we will drive north again
past Strang and Carling fjords

the cud of memory
allayed for once, arbitration
of the feud placated,
imagining those under the hill

disposed like Gunnar
who lay beautiful
inside his burial mound,
though dead by violence

and unavenged.
men said that he was chanting
verses about honour
and that four lights burned

in corners of the chamber:
which opened then, as he turned
with a joyful face
to look at the moon.

Finally, something that makes us live a moment with him in wild places;

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park or capture it
More thoroughly.  You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

Viewing beauty through a screen…

I love this little film- a few friends shared it on FB.

It manages to ask all those questions about excarnation, and the subtle changes in our connection to people brought about by smart phones.

I believe that the lived experience is more important than the digitised one.

(That was quite profound- must tweet it. Where did I put my phone?…)

The myth of success, and better ways to use ten thousand hours…

There was an interesting discussion on the radio this morning about the so called ‘Ten thousand hours principle’. We heard a lot about this around the Olympics- leading to a general feeling that success in any given pursuit is related to one main thing- sufficient application. Time spent over and over again practicing, rehearsing, developing skill, muscle memory and endurance.

It is all based on this book;

Outliers

This from the Wikipedia entry;

In Outliers, Gladwell examines the factors that contribute to high levels of success. To support his thesis, he examines the causes of why the majority of Canadian ice hockey players are born in the first few months of the calendar year, how Microsoft co-founder Bill Gatesachieved his extreme wealth, how The Beatles became one of the most successful musical acts in human history, how Joseph Flom built Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher & Flom into one of the most successful law firms in the world, how cultural differences play a large part in perceived intelligence and rational decision making, and how two people with exceptional intelligence, Christopher Langan and J. Robert Oppenheimer, end up with such vastly different fortunes. Throughout the publication, Gladwell repeatedly mentions the “10,000-Hour Rule“, claiming that the key to success in any field is, to a large extent, a matter of practicing a specific task for a total of around 10,000 hours.

Makes sense right?

Success is thus democratised. With the right amount of hard work we can all succeed; we can climb the highest mountain, pass the exams, win the recording contract, make our first billion. The American dream has been quantified.

I do not want to squash your ambition; if you are aiming high, may success light your days, fickle though it will surely be- there is after all always another mountain beyond. My issue however is that the whole ten thousand idea is hogwash.

Some of this is about the relationship between application and ability. The nature of the kind of success we value is that it is a rare commodity, achieved by people with extraordinary ability. These people are out on the far edge of the bell curve- gifted with ability to run, climb, reason, sing, dance etc. Sure, in order to scale their own possibilities they need to work hard, make sacrifices etc, but do not pretend that their success was actually available to all, it simply was not.

Next, most of the successes that are quantified in this book are the ones that can be measured in terms of two things- celebrity and money. There is a nod to academic achievement too, but pretty much this is a marginal matter. It is success within a very specific context- democratic market capitalism. In order for our continued buy-in to our zeitgeist, we have to believe that the glittering gifts of our culture are available to us all, without exception.

Happiness and fulfillment- what do we know about them? Do people who succeed have a higher measure of these things, or a lower one that drives them on? Are they satisfied with their success? And where does that leave the rest of us scrabbling in their wake?

I think the answer to this is that success is not closely associated with happiness. This comes from a gentler kind of human being-ness, better understand as living in harmony and connection with each other. It is more about commonality than ascendancy- and a far better use for our ten thousand hours.

It might also be that even though most of us are ‘ordinary’ in the reach of our achievements, the value of what we are has nothing to do with celebrity or bank balance. There is such beauty in small things, in moments of grace, in every day loving.

Greenbelt 2013…

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Will and I are just back from GB 13- the 40th year anniversary of the first festival, back in 1973. We had a lovely time. I spent time with some old friends and as ever immersed myself in new music and ideas.

I did not take a camera this year- we were on the train as far as Preston and so took a minimalist approach (the photos here are all pinched from the GB website.) However, I thought I would pick a couple of highlights from each day;

On Thursday Will and I were picked up at Preston station by Andy and Hannah, and set off down the M6 into bank holiday traffic. The inevitable happened- and accident closed the motorway in both ways and so we all got out of our cars and had a chat to one another. In fact, Will and I went over onto the empty opposite carriageway and had a game of cricket. That evening we really enjoyed Eliza Cathy and Jim Moray.

Saturday, rather amazingly belonged to Graham Kendrick. Firstly he did a worship set- all the old favourites, including the dreaded ‘Shine Jesus Shine’. Kendrick was charming, in a geeky slightly fey kind of way. We even had a ‘give God a round of applause’ moment. Hands were waved and (please do not judge me) I cried.

I think I cried for what I was, what I loved, what has gone, but was (despite all the foolish edges) still beautiful. Music does that to you.

Later Kendrick did an acoustic set of his folk songs- the things I listened to back in the early 80s when you were listening to the Clash and the Sex Pistols.

The other highlight for me was Dave Andrews– telling stories of a life of community activism- trying to live a life motivated towards the poor.

Sunday highlights would be; Jim Wallis, another man living a life of protest against those in power. I also enjoyed John Bell’s talk about the operation of power. Musically, the Moulettes were simply stunning- unusual, quirky, gorgeous music, including the use of a Bassoon.

I really enjoyed the wall of noise that was Black Rebel Motorcycle Club too…

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Monday morning saw Will and I listening to Pete Rollins, weaving stories, jokes, theology and philosophy together. He is very entertaining, and some of his points hit home. There is a knowingness about Rollins that has an elitist edge however which I do not warm to. He seems to be at his most creative out beyond the edge, looking at us all with a sardonic grin. It is an approach that excludes and intimidates me a little.

Finally, I might as well mention the Greenbelt institution that is Martin Joseph. Songs that are mixed out of fragile emotion. Each one teeters and might fall on each note, but in spite (or because) of this it all soars heavenward.

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Off to Greenbelt…

Mud greenbelt 2012

(Hope we do not get a repeat of last years conditions!)

Will and I are going down to Greenbelt Festival on our own this year- Michaela and Emily are simply too busy with other things. In fact, it was a late call to decide to go down, partly because Will was desperate to go, and also because I get the chance to meet up with some old friends. Oh- and my mate Andy had some spare tickets!

This year we are going as punters- no responsibilities, no installations to set up/services to lead. I have strangely mixed feelings about this however. Greenbelt has provided for me a sense of loose ‘belonging’ to a wider ‘church’, and I am not sure that it will be quite the same experience without actually contributing something to the festival. It will certainly be a lot less stressful however!

I watched a DVD last night called Greenbelt/40, the journey so far. It was full of the music of my youth- trips to the festival in the early 80s. It was a slightly surreal experience- like watching your life pass away into the distance. It did leave me wanting to look forward, not backwards however….

May there be sunshine, good conversation, great music and new ideas…

Are you ready for doomsday? Get your score here…

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You can never be too ready for Armageddon.

Or perhaps you can.

Check this out- you could not make it up…

For the record, I expect to be dead after a couple of weeks.  (Assuming I have not already been raptured.)

What is it about rich western societies that constantly need to invent some dark hidden enemy to fear in order to give life meaning? Why not live in the light? It is much easier to read books.