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I
have some friends who, some years ago, were expounding their own attitudes
to religion, and who came out with a memorable statement, that "Christianity
would be all right if it wasn't for Jesus!". Jesus was perceived
as some sort of wimpish adjunct that could be dispensed with, leaving
the rest - a way of life. In some ways, you cannot blame them, for that
is often the way religious art has portrayed Him and His family, and the
whole of the apostle band. Dramatised with no doubt the best of intentions,
but, more often than not, a set of ethereal wimps. I have had no personal
visions or revelations on the matter, but recollect this - they were the
working people of their day, and I see shepherds and craftsmen virtually
every day that I live here. I also remember a fisherman.
I have mentioned already the time when my ship came to be tied up in the
little harbour of Famagusta in Cyprus for the regular boiler clean, and
watch and watch we had a week's leave. The first part was spent in tents
beside a lagoon where the local fishing boats beached. A friend and I
had a keen interest in fishing, and indeed had some tackle that we had
bought in Malta to fish from the ship's side. But this was the real
stuff, and we went to see what the form was. We watched and chatted as
the long-lines were prepared for that night's fishing, and soon we were
invited to go along. Thus it was that in the early evening we went down
to the shore with our little packs of NAAFI sandwiches, and were soon
afloat. The boat was typically Mediterranean, double ended and rowed facing
forward. In the stern deck was a round hole, and in it sat our fisherman
friend - yes, his name was Peter, believe it or not - baiting the myriad
hooks that hung over the edges of a number of round baskets, each basket
containing about half a mile of line. But this wasn't the fisherman who
was so memorable; it was the one who rowed. His bare feet on the deck
of the open cockpit were spread from years of thrusting at the oars -
would ever shoes fit them? - and they were the roots of a veritable tree
that sprang from them, a tree that spread as it rose through huge leg
muscles to a torso that would have a sculptor reaching for clay or stone,
and upwards to shoulders so broad and to arms that made the stout branches;
and all so effortlessly swaying as the oars swung and the boat thrust
through the reef and out into the sea. Hardly a wimp.
And shepherds - what wimp would spend his days, made easier admittedly
since the advent of the 'quad' bike, going up and down the fell-side tending
hundreds of sheep - not now and then, but constantly, day in and day out?
Atrocious weather, snow drifts, sheep that seem to be prone to a multitude
of ailments - scrapie, louping ill, gid, sturdy, foot rot and maggots,
to name but one or two -and predators such as foxes or vagrant dogs. I
see them, the sheep that is, being gathered and brought down from the
fell-top to be dosed or shorn or tupped or to lamb, returning to the fell
between-times. I have, myself, helped at times, at gathering and shearing,
and sorting the lambs, male and female, each to a different future, and
corralled the tups in my fields as they waited for the autumn 'off' -
and been rewarded with huge meals in the family kitchen - "Reach
up" is the welcome command. Wimps? No, real people. I could
go on, drawing examples from my carpenter and metalworking friends, but
I hope that I have already made my point.
It has only come to me over the years, this brilliant concept of a family
- the Holy Family, so called, - a family with which, and with whom anyone,
whatever their rôle or status in life, could identify. Mother, sister,
female friend or confidante; brother, exemplar and rôle model -
hero, even; and then the father figure, the universal worker, craftsman,
home-maker.
So many individuals over the centuries have tried to convey their inner
reactions and feelings as they have responded to the realisation of the
core message of Christianity. The ecstatics such as Teresa of Avila, John
of the Cross, Julian of Norwich, Hildegard of Bingen, have used language
of the deepest love as they have tried to express the inexpressible -
the language of the heart and viscera. Heroic was the language of a hero,
Edmund Campion, as he uttered his famous 'Brag' from the scaffold at Tyburn
as he was imminently, and literally, about to lose his heart and viscera
to the executioners' knives. How can one compete if one wants to express
one's own inner state? And yet, there is the desire both to shout from
the housetops and at the same time to hug one's joy to oneself.
Can you recollect the first time that you were in love? Really
in love; when you walked on air, unable to believe that this was really
you that this was happening to? The sheer disbelief that this divine creature
could actually love you in return? Recall that desire to go to the steeple
top, ring the bells and tell the world "She (he) loves me" -
yet at the same time, recall the great desire to hold on to this wonderful
secret and, as with a jewel in your hand, contemplate the thought and
the revelation just for one's private self, for surely, no one
had ever been in love quite like you before in the history of time.
Recollect the words of Julian Jaynes that I quoted earlier:
O,
What a world of unseen visions and heard silences, this
insubstantial country of the mind! What ineffable essences,
these touchless rememberings and unshowable reveries!
And the privacy of it all!
Yes, the
privacy of it all. For what is visible of the mental processes and inner
core feelings as one goes about the daily doing, of living, of performing
the humdrum?
And yes, the humdrum. For revelation does not produce instant everything,
like winning a lottery. Life still has to be lived in all its never-ending
detail; yet it was through this humdrum side of living that the 'magic'
started to appear. There can be little doubt if you have kept in touch
with my day to day living through all that I have written, that my home
lacked a certain order and deep-down cleanliness. Unlikely though it may
seem, this is where I first became aware of what was 'on offer'…
If you had been in this room with me now, you would have seen me gaze
unseeing for some little time, almost oblivious of the brilliance of the
orange of the sunset to my left, and very nearly 'unmanned' as I recollect
that time.
In spite of the fact that I had very good friends on whom I could draw
whenever I had need; in spite of the fact that I had been shown the wonderful
actuality of what having a brother really meant; in spite of all
that, I was at core so very alone, so deeply lonely, isolated by my experiences
and a new knowledge that I was finding difficult to understand myself,
let alone to share. And it was a recollection of that loneliness that
swept over me now as I drew from my memory - but more than that, for there
also came a recollection of a total spiritual ambience that began
to be generated around me, and the warmth as from a deep and all-pervading
friendship - memories that time certainly cannot erase and which are as
potent now as they were immediate then.
I think that if one could see at the outset, or in any way catch an inkling
of the potential, the reality, the knowledge and available power, one
would be so overwhelmed as to be rendered overawed and impotent. And so
it was that, little by little, virtually by infusion, the practical results
of a new collaboration began to appear within or through me, at a pace
and level with which I could cope. It might be assumed that with such
strong spiritual association developing, all power would have been drained
from the adverse spiritual intruders and that they would have been
rendered impotent. Had this been so, I would have become totally reliant
upon the cocooning and protection and would have learned nothing. I certainly
would never have been able to write this account.
No: what I was being given were the means by which things could
be accomplished, goals could be reached. When, on joining the Navy, I
had begun to learn the skills of seamanship and all that that entails,
I found that suddenly I was able to tie the most complicated of knots,
knots that I had seen in diagram often before, but which had defied all
my efforts of interpretation. Indeed, it is hard to forget the first time
that I had a complete and neat Turk's-head at the end of my practice piece
of rope; give me a rope now and well over fifty years later I will tie
you one with no effort - because I was well taught. Stage by simple stage
the knot had developed under the tuition of someone skilled and patient,
himself the product of a long tradition of skilled and patient instruction
and practice, for the result, the product of the teaching, had to be someone
upon whom others could put their trust, and upon whom others might have
to rely for their very lives. Even if it was done by rote or by simple
mnemonics, or by repeated practice or 'evolutions', it was done, and skilled
individuals, part of a greater whole, gradually developed and integrated
into a single acting body with a common purpose - the crew, the ship's
company. It is unlikely that I shall again have to protect a rope from
being chafed, but I know still how to do it, and that I "worm and
parcel with the lay, and serve the rope the other way", or that when
meeting another ship at sea at night, if it's "green to green or
red to red, then perfect safety, go ahead".
Subtly and without fuss my new 'instructors' got to work. It is difficult
now to recall that I, then aged fifty-five, should have needed instruction
in life skills, but when I also recall how undermined and demoralised
I was, then my appreciation, even now, is boundless. Although some of
this may sound so banal or trite, it wasn't a game that was being played.
My mind was very, very vulnerable, as I was, and I was then facing real
and exceedingly potent and cunning adversaries.
Take a simple activity such as shopping, involving a round trip of twenty
miles to my nearest 'metropolis'. My mind had to be collected positively,
and lists and memory pads became the order of the day. In the car, before
setting out, I was worked through a 'drill' that was aimed at focussing
myself and my faculties. In the town, I had two or three 'stability' points
where I knew that I could collect my wits before the next sortie- the
library; a friend's men's' outfitters, and so on. Thus, slowly and imperceptibly,
my confidence and my horizon both enlarged.
Or returning to the mundane, the domestic, the cleaning. Consider
the small conservatory attached to the back of the house. The floor had
become a depository for all sorts of bits and pieces, items in transit,
in or out, with only a narrow 'trod' enabling me to pass through to the
back door. It was a clutter and scrow that I didn't see any more; I simply
walked through it. Then, one morning, the 'day dawned', the sun shone,
and imperceptibly I was guided. The junk from this side all over
to that side. Scrub the exposed floor. Everything from that
side over to this side, taking the opportunity to 'skop' (lovely
northern word, full of meaning) anything that was dispensable. Scrub exposed
tiles. Re-examine all items, and continue the 'skopping' process - I learned
the importance and joy of a large waste bin (essential for skopping).
Result: one clean and usable conservatory. By extension, the process
began to become part of my personal repertory, and the orderliness of
domestic work and an understanding and acceptance of its inevitability
conspired to remove much of the attendant tedium, making what followed
so much easier and even pleasurable. For the reality of the concept of
a 'Holy Family' whom one desired to take up residence and for whom the
house, and by extension, one's personal life and thought, must be immaculate,
was particularly potent.
It is difficult, virtually impossible without resorting to what could
be construed as hyperbole, to describe this developing reality: so please
accept that for me this is what was happening. However, just as in most
normal families individuals don't live in each other's pockets, but are
'there' for each other, so it became the case then, with the core knowledge
that love and support were unquestionably available, and prayer became
as normal and acceptable as everyday conversation.
And so it came about that, after about twelve years absence, I began to
go to church again. I had thought about it generally at Ash Wednesday;
much more actively at Easter; then finally, on a bright Sunday in the
spring of 1980, I was there, to a liturgy that had become even more open
than the one that I had left, to the voices raised in 'Morning has broken'
and, at the (to me) newly instituted exchange of a 'sign of peace', the
firm handshake and welcoming look of the man standing next to me. A new
communion and a sense of homecoming. Yet, it was not the presence and
participation in the Mass that was so important as what was released,
what flowed from it all, and what I became involved with as a result.
Thence, life began to flow with an increasing force and into several widening
channels, although, just as a rope is the sum of its strands, each interdependent,
so it was that the total flow of my life became the sum of the seemingly
independent channels.
Inevitably, the house became the centre and focus of much of my activity,
although it would be tedious for you to have to read through an inventory
of everything that was attempted and achieved. I shall confine myself
to the developments and achievements that are germane in the rest of my
tale, or in the ways that they relate to the flow in the other channels.
Essentially, my first moves were triggered by the consideration of the
plight of a friend of my daughter, and one of my regular visitors. She
had been crippled whilst in a psychiatric hospital. Confined in a first-floor
ward, disturbed by the sudden change in her drug regime and wanting 'out',
she had chosen the first available route, namely a window that was in
process of being repaired. A broken spine, severely damaged feet and legs,
left her wheelchair bound, and with limited social outlets. Conscious
of the lack of holiday accommodation specifically adapted for disabled
people, I began the process of creating on my ground floor, facilities
suitable for the ambulant disabled.
Anyone who has become seriously involved in DIY will recognise what I
have discovered over the years, namely that it moves on from being a chore,
a necessity, and becomes more of a hobby. I need no excuse to buy a new
tool or piece of equipment, particularly when I soon realised how life
could be eased, and jobs speeded up and completed more professionally,
by using the specialist devices, and whereas in the past a lady might
buy herself a new hat to give her spirits a lift, I buy a new tool. I
frequently ponder upon the honesty of tools. They are inanimate
but not soulless. Each is the result of years, centuries even, of pragmatic
evolution, and provides a link within one's hand to countless generations
of craftsmen long gone. I recently made on my lathe a couple of carvers'
mallets, each of subtly different design, but in all respects replicas
of a design that was old when the Romans ruled. No one has ever bettered
it. How could they, for the mallets sit in one's hand in perfect balance;
left or right hand it doesn't matter, and always presenting a correctly
angled face to the butt of the chisel or gouge. A masterpiece of simplicity
and suitability.
The earliest records relating to my house that I have seen date back to
1715 - annual letting agreements as a small holding - and there can be
no doubt that it existed for an unquantifiable time before that. It is
of random 'cobble' construction - an outer and inner wall linked by 'throughs'
and resulting in walls at least two feet thick. A construction that requires
the skill of a 'native' to modify. Fortunately I have had the ready help
of two such craftsmen, Bob and Oliver, without whom, over the years, I
could not have made progress. Times I have viewed with trepidation the
enlarging hole, as cobble after cobble was removed and the remainder subtly
propped, then gradually breathed again as the lintel was worked into place,
window sides rebuilt and sill constructed - and a wonderful view was opened
up and light allowed to stream in.
Internal development has been made even more 'interesting' by virtue of
the fact that there never seemed to be a true vertical or horizontal,
nor a corner that met at ninety degrees. But I learned, and as my skill
and confidence grew, enjoyed the learning and doing. Carpentry, plumbing,
central heating, additional wiring, tiling have all come together into
a home that affords me much delight, and in which I take immense pride.
Purists and fundamentalists will tell you that pride is a sin. Poppycock!
Pride in achievement is natural, justifiable and healthy, and not just
in one's own successes, for I am equally proud of the accomplishments
and association of all who have contributed over the span of twenty years.
I have mentioned already Bob and Oliver, whose skills ranged well beyond
the manipulation of stone (Oliver is as fine an amateur plantsman as you
could wish to meet). Then Klaus, and sons Patrick and Jason, can be seen
in different metals, from the beautiful copper hood over my fireplace,
to specialist brackets spread through the premises. Alec and son James
figure in wood everywhere, in pieces that they have made, or in the raw
materials for my own handiwork. The Two Geordies come to life in many
places - porch, garage, sunroom, stable, which all rest on the foundations
created by the 'heavy gang' - Graham, Andrew, Joe and Ian, who also reside
in memory in the paths in the garden and in the structure of ponds. Myles,
Jack, Peter, Bill and his grandson, Des, all have a real presence throughout
the house and workshop in a variety of artefacts and constructions.
And the ladies; who could ignore or forget the ladies? The results of
their skill with needle, paintbrush and trowel are everywhere in house
and garden. I hope that I remember to include them all. The two Jeans,
the several Margarets, Annes and Marys; Stephanie, Brenda, Diane, Edna.
Not to mention washing and ironing and mending and cleaning, and lots
of lovely, lovely grub!
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