Autumn Cottage Diarist

A Strange Sort of Solstice

It's a strange year right to the end. Here are some thoughts on these particular 2020 Solstice days - and (as always!) a look around the garden as She rests and the year turns.

 

 

I Guess We'd better Talk About....Him.

The inevitable 'Vlad' souvenirs - actually rather good likenesses of the known portrait

I was delighted to discover, when I started my MA in Death Studies that it was permitted to incorporate a module from another department in the selection of studies for the course - even happier to discover that it was possible to take the 'Fairytale and Gothic Horror' module from the MA course in Film Studies - and so it was that my knowledge of the two genres of storytelling took a great leap, from the simplistic tales of my childhood into the depths and convolutions of themes that run deep in all our psyches - explanations of the mysterious world in which we live and the journey-quest we make as we travel in the world through life.

On my vast experience (gained as the result of just a few days visit to Romania!), it seems to me that these questions are still very present - whether explored and explained through the rituals of the church and organised religion, or through the experience of both the understandable and the inexplicable which is still able to be encountered in this land of forest and valley, fortified church and castle, roaming wild beasts and the historical memory of marauding and conquering strangers (something which we have not experienced here in the UK, by and large for over a thousand years). That one difference makes our whole historical experience very different and it is something which I constantly try to keep in mind as I learn more about this fascinating land.

Long before my older son met the woman who is now our dear daughter in law, my younger son was an enthusiastic participant in 'Larping' Live Action Role Play - and one of his LARPing groups just happens to be 'Vampire'. So it was that, at his instigation, after a couple of days in Bucharest, we were lucky enough to be able to make a pilgrimage (having made a special request to our new 'in-laws') over the plain, flat agricultural landscape and up onto the mountains and forests of  Transylvania, en route to an afternoon at Castle Bran -'Dracula's Castle',   … who signed himself 'Vlad Dragulya' (his father having been awarded the Order of the Dragon) and who became notorious as Vlad Tepes - 'Vlad the Impaler'. The castle is actually thought not to actually have any connection to withVlad other than that it had been one of a multitude of fortified dwellings owned by the rulers of Romania, of which Vlad was - in the fifteenth century - just one.

The Royal Succession

It is not thought that he did ever visit Bran - but the castle was indeed, apparently, part of the inspiration for Bram Stoker to create his enormously evocative (and future money-spinning ) book 'Dracula'- a book that taps in to some of our most fundamental fears (whatever our religious beliefs) of 'what REALLY happens to us when we die - and how, exactly, is this tied in with how good or bad a life we have lived?

At the foot of Bran Castle

Well, like millions of others, I have read the book, and seen many of the films on the theme, and all I will say from experiencing the visit to the castle, after the drive through the woods and a stay overnight in a forest cabin is that it is ENTIRELY  possible to believe that 'there are more things in heaven and earth….than are dreamt of in your philosophy'. It is, to me, a land of mystery, of enchantment, and of imagination, where one can still truly experience closeness to nature - not  pretty, Disneyfied nature but 'nature red in tooth and claw', which makes the immediacy of life - and death - very present.

It is suggested that this cross, at the foot of the Castle, was the inspiration for the 'Bleeding Cross' at the beginning of Francis Ford Coppola's 'Dracula'

I was expecting (and fearing!) just such a Disneyfication of the Castle and the 'Dracula' story, but in fact, I was both surprised and highly impressed by the fact that - so far - The Count has not overwhelmed  the Castle. There were one or two allusions to him - fair enough - and, I believe, a room dedicated to the novel and the legend at the top of the Castle (which I did not visit) - apart from that - almost nothing.

OK - maybe there were just a few rather deliciously naff touches of popularisation!

The story that was much more in evidence was, in fact, the much more recent and very heart touching story of the real life Queen Marie and her children. The princesses of Romania called this castle home, and one of them, Princess Ileana (a great granddaughter of Queen Victoria) was forced into exile after World War 2, when all of Europe was divided up - to the victors the spoils.

Here is the story of Ileana -  a rather wonky shot of an explanatory poster in the castle (sorry!)

The diary entries of Ileana are some of the saddest I have ever read. She was clearly devastated at having to leave her beloved home behind - not knowing if she would ever see it again. (In 1950, in her journal, she records that 'On 7th January 1948 I left Bran castle and my beloved homeland in heartbreak') But even in this story, there is something of a 'happily ever after', as the family had the castle restored to them in the early years of this century - and it is through their generosity that the castle is now open for us all to visit.

It really was quite an experience to walk the cold, dark corridors of that castle; together with the experience of the wild and beautiful but threatening forest, my interpretation of European folktales has been transformed forever.

Wild forest and fairytale Castle - what more could an Old Romantic want?!

*** Stop Press - BBC is apparently screening a 'lavish, new adaptation' of 'Dracula' this autumn, complete with Bisexual Count. Should be interesting.

A Short Walk Through the Sea of Faith

The Anunciation Church of St Anthony, Lipscani, Bucharest

As a graduate of religious studies, founded on a lifelong fascination with comparative religions, I am always drawn with great interest to the religious practices and material culture of any place that I visit. This interest manifests itself in my compulsion, both here and abroad, to visit churches and cemeteries (my university studies were focussed on the rituals and rhetoric of death) - so it was with a great deal of delight that I approached my visit to Romania; I am particularly drawn to the theatricality of religious ritual - both in the actual practice of those rituals, and also the visual depictions of ritual and the religious texts upon which those rituals are founded. The Romanian Orthodox church has both in abundance; I was expecting this, getting excited over it and planning 'study visits' to several churches and cathedrals (one reason for my choice of hotel location - many old churches were within walking distance!)

What I did not quite expect, throughout the whole week, was to see so much 'faith in action'. A broad cross section of the population seemed to be actively practising their faith in a very matter of fact, en passant 'pop in and kiss an icon' way, integrated into their lives rather than set apart as a special event. Communism indeed laid its cold hand on this country in more ways than one, but it does not seem to have choked religious belief or  practice from at least a part of the body of the population.

Icon of the Theotokos, Church of St Paraskeva, Brasov

We were extremely fortunate to arrive in Bucharest the day before a major festival of the Orthodox Church. The Protection of the Theotokos (The Mother of God) commemorates and celebrates an apparition of Mary at a church in Blachernae (Constantinople) in the 10th century, at which, it is told, She removed her veil (the festival is also known as 'The Feast of the Protecting Veil') and placed it over the attending congregation. The festival celebrates the protection offered both by the Mother of God in her acts of intercession between Humanity and her Son, and the protection of the Christian Church.

Icons of this event often depict Mary with her cloak/veil held out with many people sheltering beneath it. (A convert to Orthodox Christianity, Sir John Tavener wrote one of his best known pieces 'The Protecting Veil' in honour of the belief).

Thus we ventured forth on Tuesday 1st October, intending a quiet wander around a few churches before a more active week got underway. Instead we were met, at every church we visited, by choral services attended by worshippers filling each interior, and in one church (The Annunciation church of St Anthony), streaming out of the doors, down steps and queuing in the surrounding passageways to light handfuls of votive candles in the twinkling shadows of the Pangaria (candle stations), to both the beloved living and the dead. Even many of those who were just passing by did not omit to vigorously cross themselves as they entered the environs of the church.

Candles - and prayers - for the Beloved Dead

Orthodox worship is a full-on experience. Even when no services are in progress, I am always drawn in to the vividly coloured events depicted in the frescoes and the glittering images on the icons (which are not in themselves intended to be worshipped, as is sometimes thought, but are seen as a 'channel' between the Human and the Divine - a 'focussing' mechanism  to aid the possibility of a moment of transcendence). Add to this background imagery the shimmer of candlelight on precious metals & stones, the smell of incense, the chant of the priest (and possibly choir) - it can be - and was - quite mesmerising.

The Interior of the church, following day

I rarely enter a place of worship when services are in progress - though it seemed acceptable to do so if one stood right at the back of the church (just inside the door, in the narthex) and behaved respectfully. On the 1st October, it was not possible so to do. Participants  were queuing to get in , and were pouring out in equal measure. The doors were blocked and it would have been impertinent to push through.

I did not need to - instead, I sat on a step and just looked…and listened.

Take just a minute to do so alongside me.

 

Send the Bloody Politicians to Fight the Bloody Wars!

Boxing Day, 1908. In front of the beautiful, Georgian, Henry Holland designed façade of Berrington Hall, surrounded by gardens landscaped by Capability Brown, Sir Frederick Cawley sits astride his hunter, his four sons at his side.

They are masters of all they survey. En-titled, privileged, wealthy, secure. Sir Fred has already made his fortune as a Lancashire mill owner and now sits in the House of Commons - and here he looks upon the fruits of his labours. The world is their oyster. In the background, their mother looks on, with what must be burgeoning pride and satisfaction. Four fine sons at the top of their game.

A month short of ten years later, as the Armistice Treaty is signed, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, 1918, three of those sons do not sit astride their equines - they lie buried in the blood and ordure filled battlefield earth of France and the Dardanelles. John, a Hussar died in the first few months of the war, ambushed at dawn while endeavouring to calm his stampeding horses. Harold fell in the disastrous campaign in Gallipoli, and Oswald died at Merville in France, just three months before the war ended.

It is said that their mother never recovered. Neither would any mother, I think. Father expressed his grief as men often do…with rage. Winston Churchill felt the full force of his anger, hushing him only (and probably temporarily) by 'kicking him upstairs' to the House of Lords.

I often hear the comment that 'the politicians should send THEIR sons to do the fighting'…well, this one did. In fact, Sir Fred, himself a Member of Parliament, sent two of those sons as politicians - here is the 'Recording Angel' memorial bearing their names (on Panel 2 and Panel 8) which stands in St Stephen's Porch, Westminster Hall. (There is also a heraldic shield to Oswald behind the Speaker's Chair in the House of Commons).

And so it has been, forever, both before and after the great conflict of World War One, that young men and women from all backgrounds, of all classes, colours and creeds, have gone off to 'do their duty'; to be wounded or die for their country, and for causes which we so easily criticise with the glorious benefit of hindsight and broader information, but causes in which many (if not most) of them believed at the time. How else could they have endured what they did?

However we feel about War and the responsibilities of those in power, let us not take away from these individuals the fact that sacrifice was made at all levels, by all sorts of people (A subaltern's life - many of whom came from public schools, averaged six weeks at The Front) Their deaths and injuries always left (and still leave) not just one tragedy, but the many tragedies of bereaved and traumatised mothers & fathers, parentless children and both selves and families wracked with grief - one emotion which knows no boundaries of any kind.

Whether rich or poor, all of our mortal remains, in the end, occupy the same space. For those left behind, a broken heart cannot be mended by pound notes or privilege…just by the love, support and understanding of others. Perhaps cultivation of that understanding and support is one way, even 100 years later, in which we can help fulfil their 'bright Promise' to change the world that they so wanted to make better for us all?

...Victor and vanquished are a-one in death:

Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say,

“Come, what was your record when you drew breath?”

But a big blot has hid each yesterday

So poor, so manifestly incomplete.

And your bright Promise, withered long and sped,

Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet

And blossoms and is you, when you are dead.

(From 'Such, Such is Death' - Charles Hamilton Sorley)

 

 

The Veil is Thin…Honouring Those Who Have Gone Before

Early days - Dad's ex-RAF German Shepherds were my earliest friends

It's Halloween and in many places, little folk will be carving pumpkins, dressing up in spooky costumes, having fun parties and 'trick or treating' their way around neighbourhood houses. Maybe others will be following the Latino/Catholic traditions of the Days of the Dead, when the spirits of the Ancestors are thought to pay a return visit to their homes. Offerings and memorabilia are set out on home altars - both to 'greet the Spirits' - and to act as aids to remembering the dead.

Those - like myself - to whom the concept of the Pagan 'wheel of the year' makes sense - the cyclical travelling of the natural world (of which we are all part) through both summer and winter, through life, death and many forms of re-birth/re-emergence/resurrection, mark and celebrate this time of the year as the Quarter day of Samhain; it is an acknowledgement of the declining part of the cycle into the breakdown and decay of all that has grown - but a breakdown into components that will contribute to the cycle by providing the resources for future regrowth. All is as it should be.

The Ancestors and departed loved ones and their importance are also an important focus of contemplation and honouring at this time of the year - those that have grown, flourished, died and decayed in bodily terms before us - (both in our own family lines, but also in our wider communities). But they have left important nutrients to our own identities - the nutrients of memories, shared through story, which can feed us so vigorously , individually and communally, if we are prepared to engage with them.

They can feed our understanding of  ourselves by understanding our context - our place in the world, where we 'fit in' in the long, often fragmented and convoluted line of both our personal and community histories. They also contribute to who we have become by just being present at a particular time, in a particular place. I believe that this learning and this understanding can contribute to us a sense of  stability in what often seems a constantly more unstable world. 

My Mother - my human most Loved One of all and 'Weekie' the Westie

However…it is not only Human beings of whom I speak. You may notice in many of my posts the affinity I also  feel for non-human beings. To me, companion and other animals are as much a part of our communities as are our humans - they have contributed greatly to my life, made a difference to it, have shaped and influenced it, and have, in part, made me who I am.

So on this Samhain 2017, when the veil between me and the Others is thin and their presence - as memories  - is close, I share with you just a few images of the other Dear Ones that have been meaningful to my life. I would love it if you wanted to share some memories of your own non-human loved ones as well.

Feeding time on my Uncle's farm, a place and creatures that played a huge part in my childhood and love of the natural world

All creatures, great and small, are my companions at Autumn Cottage

My darling Lissie - 3 months old. As in this picture, never far from my heart.

Each one departed now - but they have all helped to make me who I am. Today, as the Great Wheel turns once more, I honour and thank them all.

It All Started with the Angels ...

St Bride - John Duncan - 1913

A chance posting of a favourite painting of mine opened up a very heartfelt conversation with some online friends yesterday. The beautiful painting is that of the death of St Bride  by John Duncan - pertinent because Monday was the Feast Day of St Brigid of Kildare, the Christian personification/adaptation of the Celtic Goddess Brigid. In Celtic spirituality, Brigid is associated with Imbolc, the festival between the Winter Solstice and the Spring Equinox, when the return of the light and the stirrings of fertility is celebrated, but the presence of Winter is also still acknowledged and gratitude given for the warmth of hearth and home. But the image of the death of the Christian Saint was an image which led to a discussion of mortality and, amongst other topics, to the growing movement of Soul Midwives, tutored and encouraged by the founder of the movement, Felicity Warner. 

Many readers will know that I spent a few years studying and obtaining a Master's degree in Death Studies at the University of Winchester (a course now available online, entitled Death, Religion and Culture). One of the many blessings of engaging in such a course was to meet a number of very exceptional people; Felicity is just one of those individuals, an immensely warm and gentle soul, who is the very embodiment of Metta - loving-kindness.

In a Western world which has become ever more 'hospitalisation-oriented' for those reaching the end of their lives, Felicity has (building upon her own personal experiences with death) grown an ever increasing band of people who do just what it says on the tin; they partner and 'midwife' the transition of individuals through death, giving them gentle and compassionate physical (non-medical) and spiritual support in both Hospices and at home; they help to take the fear out of dying.

As an ageing population, many of us are now experiencing the death of loved ones and contemplating our own mortality. One of the most frequently expressed fears in our Western societies is the fear of the unknown nature of the death experience. As in all other areas of life, knowledge can be powerful. Death is the one thing guaranteed to us all - so if it still holds unspeakable fears for you then I encourage you to empower yourselves by at last putting those fears into words, person-to-person or written on the page.

I know many people who are ready and willing to talk about death - what you think about it, what you may fear about it - what you might hope for yourself and your loved ones. There are many of us out here, nowadays - people from many different backgrounds, offering many different pathways, who will help you to talk. Look out for Death Cafés near you - forums where you can chat about mortality over coffee and cake. They are held in  congenial places and give time for thinking and deciding what is wanted for  the final days of your loved ones and yourself. And discover more about Soul Midwives and how you can incorporate their approach to death in your own wishes and desires.

Also - don't forget - there is always my own listening ear here as well. If you want to talk…I'm just on the other side of this blog-page.

The Sadnesses and Jollities of Death

Having recently been more than a little under the weather, today I escaped the confines of the house for pleasure for the first time in about a month. I expect you can guess where I escaped to…

The owners of The Junk Shop in Hungerford Antiques Arcade were unpacking the products of a house clearance that they had done - so much new 'stuff' to browse through and I was fortunate enough to see the first pickings as the boxes were emptied. Yet, along with the thrill of the chase, I was also left thinking 'there is someone's life in a few cardboard boxes'.

All the little treasures that the last owners of these items had collected over the years, mixed up with what others of us would consider trash - all gathered together as a mere collection of artefacts - items without their stories, just pieces of copper, brass, china, glass; no inkling of where they came from, who bought them, or why. No idea of the effect that their purchase had - a surprise gift for a mother? a get-well gift for a friend?…a tea-set given to help set up home? all of them, story-less, identity-less,  probably 'cleared' as the result of a death and a closing up of a home.

It left me thinking, yet again, of how we have rituals for most events in life; we celebrate  and commemorate a birth or a marriage, we gather to mourn and say farewell to a person at a death - but we do not seem, as a society, to have a ritual for closing a house and saying farewell to the more material components of a person - even though those treasured (or even despised) items and that place we call 'home' will have played a significant role in their lives.

I am not quite correct when I say that I am not aware of any rituals for such an event - as usual, if you need a ritual, it is often a Jewish person who will be wonderfully competent at  coming up with one! Several years ago, I came across a ritual which had been specifically written by Rabbi Richard Hirsh, as a farewell and thanksgiving to his parents' home, which was about to be sold, but which had played  a hugely significant part in all their lives.

He wanted to acknowledge this, give thanks and create closure. I think it is a lovely idea and I have shared the concept with more than one person who was struggling to come to terms with both the loss of a parent and the home which they had created. Perhaps it is something more of us could create and put out into the world as and when the need is felt.

But I was at the Arcade to seek treasure for myself and happily I met there my long time book dealer friend, Martin, who runs what must be one of the most enticing of old book shops (Countryside Books) in the Arcade as well as a monthly book sale in his home village (which I simply *cannot* allow myself to attend these days!!). He was on hand to give me a good deal on the framed print from 1829 upon which my eye had fallen, principally because the topic was a funeral in a graveyard full of very merry mourners, all apparently singing the farewell song to 'Tom Moody' the 'whipper in' of the local hunt, who, as star of the show, is presumably already at the bottom of the very fine grave at the centre of the picture. The words and music to said song are set out for participants' use at the bottom of the print (and can be read here if you click on the print to enlarge it).

The scene is anything but morbid; on the contrary it is all rather jolly - added to which are some rather interesting depictions of Georgian costume. Tally Ho, Tally Ho - in the grave he shall go! Meanwhile, the print will become another pleasing addition to my rapidly expanding  Museum of Mortality.