A ginger tale

"I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little they become it's visible soul."

(Jean Cocteau)

(All photos: Gigi, album)

A couple of pictures of a very stoical Ginger, the tom-from-next-door, especially for Annie, who wanted to know more about him. Immediately, I have to say Ginger is not "my cat": he very much belongs to the family who live next door to me and simply visits, but he's a much-loved visitor. I don't think my neighbour will mind me featuring her cat in the blog: he lounged about like a professional diva for his photo shoot,  breaking his pose only to attack my bootlace or clean something unspeakable from his tail.

Ginger is a long, big-pawed, big-haired cat who's terrified of hoovers, Kings of Leon and other loud noises. He's slightly cross-eyed and also veers from extreme clumsiness to utter slinkiness. He insists on leaping onto the sloped roof of my old lean-to shed, only to slide off it in slow motion every time, with an air of gritted nonchalance. In spite of his size, he has the most pitifully tiny meow. Unfortunately for my feathered friends, he's actually a fearsome and prolific hunter. However, he still likes a little hot water in his milk at this time of year, just to take the chill off things. 

A total drama-queen, if there's a hole somewhere, Ginger will drop down it; a large puddle and he'll fall into it. He's scared of spiders and even tomato stalks or my grass plant cuttings that vaguely resemble spiders. My neighbour says he loves king prawns but he'd clearly be meowing up the wrong hibiscus to think he'd get such fare from me. He does get a nice dollop of soft cheese with his fishy cat biscuits. I have given him veggie pate which he smacks away at without knowing the difference. He developed a taste for fruity fromage frats after sticking his whiskers into a bowl when I wasn't watching his every big-footed move; but he'll only eat strawberry flavoured.

He likes to sit on the stairs and watch bemusedly as I potter about; at least once a week he'll poke his head through the banisters and have to be eased out of them. He's a frequent companion as I type this blog early in the morning or late at night: if blogger's block sets in or I start to droop, Ginger has been known to sit on the laptop; enough to make any hard-drive crash.

Shortly after I moved here, Ginger disappeared. After four days of searching and calling, my neighbour despaired that he must be dead. I felt sure that he was alive and very near, but in serious trouble. On the fourth night, I walked down to the disused warehouses at the end of the road, padlocked off from the street and due for demolition. I called him for nearly an hour until I heard the faintest, weakest little mew. I fetched my neighbour and at two in the morning, some very amused firemen arrived and broke into the rusty upper floor of the warehouse. A terrified Ginger sprang out into the dark, only emerging at my backdoor as dawn was breaking. He'd been stuck in a compartment furthest away from the street, apparently surviving on pools of rainwater. He'd obviously gotten himself in but a door had closed shut behind him. Like me, he still has a penchant for climbing; like me, he can't always get back down.

I think we bonded after his little escapade. He was very jumpy for a few months afterwards and lost a lot of his bushy tail, now grown back even fluffier. He was a wonderful companion while I had pleurisy recently, purring patiently and following from room to room while I was housebound. He purrs almost constantly; I talk to him a lot while he's here and it's occurred to me that he may actually be groaning. 

He's extremely loyal, following my neighbour around the corner to the convenience store and waiting patiently for her outside; thankfully never showing any interest in the relentlessly busy main road. The other day, he arrived at my front door carrying a bedraggled piece of blue ribbon which he proudly dropped on my doormat; regrettably, his more usual offerings are freshly caught and less easily disposable.

I try not to let him sleep here: he isn't mine, at the end of the day. He comes in for his biscuits, some milk, a grooming, forty winks in his favourite spot in the hall (under the radiator) and a bit of a chat. When my neighbour and her family moved to this street some seven years ago, Ginger had apparently been left by previous residents. Maybe he moved away with them and found his way back here: who could leave such a wonderful animal behind? My neighbour took him in and called him "Ginger" because that's essentially what he is. She tells me he was already fully grown and I realise he may be getting on a bit now. I'm trying not to think about that.

When my own very beautiful, slightly quirky little cat died some years ago, I couldn't bear to replace her and still feel she's irreplaceable. I told myself I would welcome a cat if it adopted me, which is what my Sooty did. She arrived in my life when she was about three months old and died with her head on my lap, some fourteen years later. My belief is that God brings people, animals and places into our lives for a reason. I think Ginger simply appreciated that I was a cat-person-without-cat and decided to take me in paw.

When he started visiting me, he didn't know what to do with the cat toys I bought for him. I've spent several exhilarating if exhausting evenings, throwing catnip mice and balls with bells up and down the stairs and retrieving them myself. Ginger usually simply watches until I collapse on the sofa, when his work here is done, One of us is clearly eccentric; I'm pretty sure he feels it's not him.

Hi to Annie-the-Pagan and also to Christine and Colin, who care about all creatures (including Gigis).

"Hmm. Ginger you say? Really?" My own irreplaceable Sooty Poshpaws

"What greater gift than the love of a cat."

(Charles Dickens)

"Love  Cats"  The Cure

"Of all God's creatures, there is only one that cannot be made slave of the leash. That one is the cat. If man could be crossed with the cat it would improve the man, but it would deteriorate the cat." 

(Mark Twain)

For all Goodness, on a Friday

"The cross was two pieces of dead wood; and a helpless, unresisting Man was nailed to it; yet it was mightier than the world, and triumphed, and will ever triumph over it."

(Augustus William Hare)

"Another time

Jesus smeared God like mud 

on the eyes of a man born blind 

and pushed him toward the pool of Siloam. 

The blind man splashed his eyes 

and stared into the rippling reflection 

of the face he had only felt. 

First he did a handstand, then a cartwheel, 

and rounded off his joy 

with a series of somersaults. 

He ran to his neighbors, 

singing the news. 

They said: 

“You look like the blind beggar 

but we cannot be sure.” 

The trouble was never

that he was blind 

and could not work out 

but that they could see 

and did not look in." 

(From "The Son Who Must Die", John Shea)

"Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west, 

This day, when my soul's form bends to the East. 

There I should see a Sun by rising set, 

And by that setting endless day beget." 

(From "Good Friday, 1613, Riding Westward", 

John Donne)

"It is accomplished." 

(Gospel of St John, 19:30)

"Were You There?" Johnny Cash & The Carter Family

"What is now proved was once only imagined."

(William Blake)

Foibles

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."

(Henry David Thoreau)

 

  

 

  

 

"In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed."

(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Equinox

"It is spring again. The earth is like a child that knows poems by heart." 

(Rainer Maria Rilke)

Yesterday was the vernal equinox; a reflective day when the hours of light and darkness match each other before daylight grows longer. "Equi-nox" is simply Latin for "equal night". As we enter the last days of Lent, this is also our formal passage from winter; today is the first day of spring. 

The spring equinox is the most important point of the astronomical year, although there's nothing stunning or unusual about it to be observed from the earth. As the sun imperceptibly moves across the celestial equator from the southern to northern hemisphere, the latter will also grow warmer.
The ancient pagan peoples called this time "Ostara", in homage to their goddess Eostre, or Esther; this may have evolved into our Christian word "Easter". Eostre was the Anglo Saxon and Norse goddess of springtime and also of the east itself, where the dawn rises. The incarnation of fertility and abundance, as the land sprang back to life, Eostre's symbols were the egg and the hare: the circle of life and the prolific "Easter Bunny". In many pre-Christian cultures, including the Druids, the Ancient Egyptians and Greeks, eggs featured in burial rites as a symbol of rebirth. 
At Easter, Christians obviously celebrate the rebirth of Christ after his trials and torture and a terrible death: the Resurrection is a foundation of Christianity, the embodiment of hope, faith and love. As far back as the second century, accounts show that the disciples initiated and promoted the commemoration of Easter around the time of the Jewish feast of Passover. In Western Christianity, Easter should be celebrated on the Sunday immediately following the Paschal full moon.
Determined on the basis of lunisolar cycles, Easter has become a movable feast. Eastern Christianity may still base it's calculations on the Julian Calendar: the Julian spring equinox during the 21st century actually corresponds with 3rd April in the Gregorian Calendar. In Western Christianity, the feast of Easter may vary between 22nd March and 25th April. So Easter will be early this year, although personally this feels like a long Lent; nothing to do with what I've ceremoniously "given up", but very much to do with waiting.
I've a pagan friend who tells me she respects Christian beliefs but can see the tangible proofs of her own faith in nature: spring is sprung every year, regular as lunisolar clockwork. These days, it makes perfect sense to me that as the sun moves imperceptibly across the heavens, fulfilling the promise of rebirth and hope, so can the Son.

"You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming."

(Pablo Neruda)

 

"April 3rd"  Donal Lunny & Friends

The Stranger at the door: for peace in Ireland

"Love is never defeated, and I could add, the history of Ireland proves it."

(Pope John Paul II)

"Hands Across the Divide", Maurice Harron's Peace Sculpture in Derry, N Ireland

At the close of St Patrick's Day, with no commentary on the whys or rights or wrongs behind the recent shock of violence in Northern Ireland, pray with palms upturned to the future; the lines you may find there, like the lines of the prayer included here, are themselves ancient but timeless.

If you really, truly want peace now and forever, never chart your future by looking back into the fray.

"You are the peace of all things calm, 

You are the place to hide from harm, 

You are the light that shines in dark, 

You are the heart's eternal spark, 

You are the door that's open wide, 

You are the guest who waits inside, 

You are the stranger at the door, 

You are the calling of the poor, 

You are my Lord and with me still, 

You are my love, keep me from ill, 

You are the light, the truth, the way, 

You are my Saviour this very day." 

(Old Irish prayer - Anon) 

"Be Thou My Vision" Van Morrison

"Peace is liberty in tranquility."

(Marcus Tullius Cicero)

The light heart or a dark pint: Happy St Patrick's Day

"The light heart lives long."

(Irish proverb)

St Patrick's Day altar, 2012: All Saints Anglican Church in Patcham, East Sussex.

"The Fiddler's Elbow" in Brighton is ostensibly a decent, die-hard Irish boozer: every year, a local St Patrick's Day parade starts and returns there, and it generally hosts a weekend of Irish music and revelry. Having caught this year's flier (see below), I was quite intent on a Saturday evening of traditional Celtic high-jinks and the odd version of "Fields of Athenry" to sob into my glass of Virgin Mary to.

Having coerced a long suffering friend to go with me, we found that the pub's street party was two heaving beer tents outside the already rammed pub, with the "musical" element being drum and bass music belting out at eardrum-perforation level from a third tent. Apart from the Guinness and the ubiquitous lime-green party top-hats, Dublin and Belfast might just as well have been distant planets. I appreciate it was Saturday night and that this is very much a university town, but I can't be the only Brighton resident who expected to find the town that usually likes to enjoy itself a little too much most weekends a-wearing of the green and a-pogoing with The Pogues on this one weekend of the year?

I can't blame the pub: apparently they did have traditional Irish music playing on Friday evening, and they are patrons to Irish musicians across the year. It's a nice pub. Management were simply catering to your average Saturday night drinking crowd; just as the opposition were doing.

In 1800 there were some forty one inns and taverns in Brighton, equivalent to one inn for every thirty houses. They served the local fishing community upon which the town was founded, newly settled residents and the wealthy visitors and trippers who'd taking a shine to the original English seaside resort. By 2011, there were around fifteen hundred bars and pubs in Brighton and Hove. According to a citywide poll last year, more than sixty percent of the population feel that alcohol has to feature in social activities for them to enjoy themselves. Given Brighton's dark, longstanding reputation for substance abuse, I fond this sad as well as damning.

 I count myself incredibly fortunate that I've never felt I couldn't be merry or relaxed without a glass of something stronger than tea. I actually love the taste of a good white wine, a nice dry sherry or a sweet Tennessee whiskey, but my life isn't empty without it and I wouldn't even estimate that I have a "drink" once a week. I think I've only ever been drunk once in my life; I really didn't like it, or the sickness and fatigue that followed. When I was a bit younger, I could probably drink most of my friends, male and female, under the table and still get up and walk home,  probably giving bi-lingual, accurate directions to tourists on the way. I've always said that after one too many for me, I go into my Kylie routine, suddenly remembering all lyrics and dance routines; two drinks too many would see me harmonising with myself as both Annifrid and Agnetha from Abba. Beyond that, I would just feel sick. And stop.

I see females out and about in Brighton of all shapes, sizes and sensibilities with the skimpiest clothing and the most staggering heels, all still trying to strike a pose, after many bevvies past my Kylie stage. Usually, they're struggling to look sultry whilst sat in the gutter or lying on the pavement. I've sometimes stopped to ask if they're OK as various lads have been circling around them like vultures, only to be shrieked at to **** off and leave them alone to "enjoy" themselves. Of course, just as frequently and possibly almost as vulnerable, I do see lads of all ages from fourteen to four score and ten, crying, puking, urinating or bleeding in the street. Those who've "enjoyed" themselves to the max would seem to be those doing all of the above simultaneously.

If I sound harsh, I'm not without empathy. My own family hasn't been a stranger to addiction: my mother's only brother literally drank his life away and two of her sisters died of alcohol and tobacco related cancers; my father's gentle and kind-hearted nephew, my cousin, died of  heart failure at thirty years of age after drowning his sorrows a little too deeply a little too often. I know that for every person who drinks to remembrance, many drink to forget.

I've often perceived that the romantic but fiery Celtic psyche might lend itself more readily to that dream-catcher-turned-demon-drink. Walking home last night, I didn't see any drunk Irishmen (or women) on St Patrick's own evening. I merely waded through swaggers of smashed students and London day trippers, tripping over their green top-hats and asking what day it was. 

Today, I lamented the lack of St Pat's shindiggery in Brighton this year with an Irish pensioner who frequents my local Sainsbury's for the warmth of the air-conditioning as well as that of the regulars and staff. He told me it was a pitiful St Patrick's when there was no room in any bar for a decent Irishman to fall down. I said I'd missed hearing dozens of versions of "The Irish Rover" and felt cheated out of even one sobbed refrain of "Danny Boy". His reply made me crack a smile: "We have these songs in our hearts. If you know them, you will know them all year round and forever." See, this is why I love the Irishness.

I do feel my St Patrick's weekend was hijacked this year by those wanting to get legless rather than jig, to get wasted en-mass rather than toast a feeling of heritage or togetherness. Ah well. I already have my newly acquired little ukulele and am looking to get my very own Irish drum, a bodrhan, as a belated birthday gift. Next year, I may be inviting selected friends to join me in my parlour for St Pat's tea, tatties and proper Irish drum and bass.

Wherever you've been this St Patrick's Day, whatever you've done and whoever you've done it with I hope it went well and safely and you've the shoes, the shillings and the smile to get you to Easter. 

Slainte.

"May the saddest day of your future be no worse 

Than the happiest day of your past."

"In Ireland the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs. "

(John Pentland Mahaffy)

"You Couldn't Have Come At A Better Time"  Luka Bloom

"You've got to do your own growing, no matter how tall your grandfather was."

"Raglan Road" Van Morison and The Chieftains

"God is good, but never dance in a small boat."

"The Fields of Athenry", wonderfully raucous version by The Dropkick Murphys

"Get on your knees and thank God for your two feet."

St Patrick's Trust

One place definitely open for business as expected, both yesterday and today, was St Patrick's Anglican Church in Hove. Still very much in use as a place of worship, St Pat's has been used as a night shelter for homeless people and addicts since 1985., when the parish priest allowed two rough sleepers to sleep on the floor of the church. More and more homeless people were encouraged to come forward and now over 300,000 bed spaces have been taken up over the years.
In 1987 a dedicated shelter was formed to raise funds as the church space was converted. St Patrick's Trust now offers help and support through the Night Shelter House and also the semi-independent organisation "Move-On Housing". As well as accommodation, the shelter is open from morning till night to offer advice, meals and social activities. The church continues to celebrate daily services.
Yesterday, St Pat's was offering tea, coffee and cakes and helpful literature to all-comers.

StPats-Hove.co.uk

Funny thing, charity...

"As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself and the other for helping others."

(Sam Levenson)

There is a Hebrew word for "charity" which is "tzedakah"; it literally translates as JUSTICE. Yesterday was the 25th anniversary of "Red Nose Day" (RND), the highlight and major appeal day of British charity "Comic Relief". The charity was founded in 1985 by comedian Lenny Henry and scriptwriter Richard Curtis, in response to the famine in Ethiopia. It was launched on Christmas Day, from a refugee camp in Sudan. The charity's maintained aim is to bring about positive, lasting change in the lives of disadvantaged people, investing in work that addresses immediate needs and tackles the root causes of poverty and injustice. It's maintained principle is that every pound donated is spent on charitable projects; all operating costs and salaries are covered by corporate sponsors or any interest earned on collected funds before they're distributed.

RND was launched on 5th February 1988 as a national day of comedy and corporate and personal fundraising. The day traditionally culminates in a BBC telethon. It appears that we need comic, light relief to stem the deluge of heart-breaking films showing life and death in what we too readily refer to as the Third World. More than a quarter of a century after the images of famine on an apocalyptic scale flickered on our screens, accompanied by appropriately emotive pop music, we are still being asked to give. 
Personally, I wish I had a pound for every time I've heard someone moan: "the famine's still there, so giving five, ten, twenty years ago didn't do any good". Today, there other children starving; so many of those featured in previous RND films and documentaries will have died. Hunger is as naturally occurring as greed and lust. You and I will probably "feel" hungry at some point during every day throughout our lives,  yet will have no comprehension of what hunger actually is.
People don't volunteer to be born poor or in disadvantaged, stricken or war-torn regions. Good fortune places us this side of the TV screen. For years, I watched the RND telethon with my Mum. Invariable at some point during the evening we would both be in tears and she would say "Phone now", asking me to also donate on her behalf, from a basic, unsupplemented state pension. It always moved me that Mum, by no means a saint, would give to people in parts of the world she had never learned about in school and couldn't name, even as someone whose own income and expectations seemed so restricted. 

I've made a bit of a song and dance about not being able to have a glass of wine or slice of sticky-toffee cake for my birthday, falling part way through Lent. The blatant truth is that I chose to give up those things, and for a very limited time. With two hands and fresh vegetables to cook with, the want of cake and Pinot Grigio will never kill me. I'm ashamed that I frequently say I'm too broke to go for a meal out, to get the bathroom sorted, to go on holiday; I have no real concept of what it means to be broken.
Of course Comic Relief funds projects "locally" too; with a growing reputation for initiatives responding to and educating against domestic abuse. But as I grow older, the world somehow seems a much smaller place. I find the whole "Charity begins at home" plea tedious and quite despicable. This earth houses us all, but supports some much more comfortably than others. There is only one world, however much we spout about the first, second or third. You don't need to be a God-botherer or a tree-hugger to appreciate the obscenity of any child wasting away for the want of water, rice, mosquito nets or basic medicines; it's irrelevantl where that child was born or who to.
Over the years, Comic Relief has raised well over £750 million; last night's telethon total will add another record breaking £75 million. Obviously we can continue to donate throughout the rest of the year.
I'm not a fan of the "Reality TV" phenomenon: I think it panders to and then feeds off the worst excesses and inadequacies of human nature, turning it as entertainment. Generally, it's cheaply made television which makes celebrities of those who shout the most. Last night, I watched the most raw, damning reality TV of all. A tiny African boy, ironically called Victor, expired on camera. His parents couldn't afford to pay for the morgue, so the local hospital allowed them to lay him in their laundry over-night. Wrapped up on the shelf, he could have been just another bundle of soiled rags. A fiver could have kept him alive: half a pizza, less than a pint of Guinness, a couple of goes on the lottery.

"You will find out that Charity is a heavy burden to carry, heavier than the kettle of soup and the full basket. But you will keep your gentleness and your smile. It is not enough to give soup and bread. This the rich can do. 

It is only for your love alone that the poor will forgive you the bread you give to them." 

(St Vincent de Paul)

www.rednoseday.com

"People Help The People"  Birdy

"While we do our good works let us not forget that the real solution lies in a world in which charity will have become unnecessary." 

( Chinua Achebe)

Congratulatio Papa Francisci! White smoke in dark times

White smoke from the chimney at the Sistine chapel in Rome about three hours ago signified to the world's one billion plus Catholics that we have a new Pope. I'm so glad to see the Conclave decide relatively quickly: this feels definitive and positive; reassuring in the face of the recent divisions within the Church and derision from without. 

Cardinal Jorge Mario Bergoglio, from Argentina, is the 266th Pope: the first Latin American pontiff; the first non-European to be elected in over a thousand years, the first Jesuit Pope, the first Pope Francis.
His initial address to the euphoric crowds was confident but humble: it also felt very personal and indicative of the man. He not only gave the traditional blessing but asked the people to pray with him and for him and for Benedict, the Pope Emeritus. I found this very touching. He likened his election to being "fetched" from the very edge of the world. Around forty two percent of the planet's Catholics are from Latin America, although Catholics have notably been leaving the faith in that region in recent years. It seems significant that our new Pope hails from the developing world. 

As a Jesuit, the former Cardinal Bergoglia will be used to looking after himself and living a no-frills existence. He's a Vatican diplomat but is not a university professor type. Regarded as an exceptionally spiritual man, he rides the bus in Buenos Aires from his simple apartment where he cooks and fends for himself, eschewing the more luxurious accommodation and private limousine afforded to cardinals. Of course, this simple life will necessarily change now: hopefully the man will not.

Known to many in Buenos Aires as "Father Jorge" as he visits the poor, he's created new parishes and restructured administration; no mean feat itself in bureaucracy riddled Argentina. A man of quiet but firm voice, he's been outspoken on many issues, including same sex marriage. In 2010, when Argentina became the first Latin American country to legalise marriage between same sex couples, Father Jorge actively encouraged the clergy and the people alike to continue to protest. 
At seventy six years of age, he is perhaps an older new Pope than many of us expected. He was actually the runner-up of the last Conclave in 2005, with the second highest number of votes in all four ballots at that time. He became Archbishop of Buenos Aires in 1998: his role there has often involved speaking publicly about economic and social distress. Although not overtly political, he hasn't hidden the social and political impact of the Gospel in a large country rocked by economic crisis and with a history of social injustice. He studied Liberal Arts in Chile and has a degree in philosophy and a master's in chemistry. In 1973 he was elected Superior of the Jesuit Province of Argentina.
The Jesuits are traditionally "God's Marines": an evangelical, apostolic ministry which today spans more than a hundred countries across six continents. Spanish-born missionary St Francis Xavier was one of seven men along with founder St Ignatius Loyola who pioneered the Jesuit way. In 1534, they professed their vows of poverty and chastity and a special vow of devotion to the Pope. The new pontiff's break with tradition in choosing to become the first Pope Francis may reflect this Jesuit background. Alternatively, he may have chosen the name in honour of St Francis De Sales, the mystic and educator; or of course St Francis of Assisi,  the gentle patron of animals and the environment. What has become clear is that this Pope is a grounded man of humility and a pastor at heart: truly what the Catholic Church has called for at this time.

"Lord, make me an instrument of Your peace.

Where there is hatred let me sow love; 

Where there is injury, pardon;

Where there is doubt, faith;

Where there is despair, hope;

Where there is darkness, light;

Where there is sadness, joy."

(St Francis of Assisi)

Cat'licks

The Mother

A great deal has been written about the circle of life and dependency; how with age the parent becomes the child and the child the parent. I wrote this poem a couple of years ago, when my mother was still alive but increasingly frail. My sister and I were worried that she wasn't the woman she had been, her fragility was unfamiliar and even alien to us. But no lapse of memory or loss of capability dilutes parenthood. I realised you can never truly lose that sense of having been carried or nurtured; of having been mothered, or fathered. We really are all somebody's baby, no matter how old. It makes some sense that when you look into a very aged face you may glimpse the infant within us all.

I was very upset when I wrote this poem, but now I find it comforting. I know I disappointed my mother in many ways; now I understand that every obstacle I overcome, every sadness I comprehend and every joy I appreciate is as much a tribute to my mother and father as my first steps.

"Mother"

There's a weakness within,

almost malignantly foetal;

it rips us at the middle.

Mother I am so much yours, 

more than flesh and blood;

my thumb-print is on the photo

you signed to my father as "sweetheart".

I kick at your sides even now,

your labour is long overdue;

now my kisses unsettle your hairspray,

but you birth me everyday.

                                                Gigi