I am so aware that I’ve not written anything here for some time! I’ve finished classes last week and now back in the States for the BuildaBridge Institute—so I’ve been quite busy and will post an update next week when I have some moments to reflect on the past several weeks.
Though there is so much despair and sadness in the world and I have seen some part of it, I know there is life and hope; what else can be said?
Nantes
I am mesmerised by this fellow’s voice:
Colours
Somebody explained a phenomena to me recently that I just cannot comprehend. There is widespread harassment of red-haired people in the UK; it’s called gingerism. (When this term was mentioned, I thought the person saying it was making it up…even halfway into the conversation I thought she must be exaggerating. But, alas, no.) She is a red-head who, whist walking down the street has had random strangers yell, “Hey, ginger…you’re ugly!” and some other, more pointed words. This apparently happens frequently without much recourse. One can enter into a legal process if someone calls you a racial epithet at work; however, if you are called a “pale worthless ginger” there is not much one can do. It’s just accepted as normal.
I’m not sure why this is (there are various theories about discrimination toward indiginous Celtic blood and so on). I had never considered red hair as a marker for such abuse—I personally think red hair is beautiful and just assumed that most people do (I know several red-headed men and women and they are all comely to me). But this belief is based on some cultural assumptions—and this makes me wonder about something ugly in humans. Discrimination is a completely cultural construct. In the same way someone from here cannot understand the racial discrimination in America, I cannot understand gingerism—because I have not been educated to discriminate against them.
It’s absurd. It’s so clearly hatred based on an arbitrary assessment; one that no party involved can alter in any way. It’s a discrimination that has no basis in who a person is or what they believe; it is ignorance amplified. It makes me want to stop the next red-head I see and just tell them they are beautiful (though I’d best not try that with some of the burly red-headed guys here; I somehow think they won’t readily grasp what I’m attempting to communicate).
How blind we are to our faults in this; a couple months ago, I was speaking to someone about staying on here in Scotland after finishing my MSc. This fellow said something to the extent of, “Ah, that’s all right and well then for you to stay on…it’s just all these damn immigrants coming in.” I was dumbstruck at this; I honestly think this fellow did not realise that I would be an immigrant—and that what he was saying was that it’s okay for me to be part of this society because I’m white and look like I should be. The problem is those other people who are black, or have red hair, or don’t have the right accent, believe in that other god, don’t support the right football team, or live on the wrong street. I sometimes mourn how pathetic we are.
Osmosis
I went on Tuesday and Wednesday to help an elderly professor and his wife in their garden (I’m using the term elderly here reservedly. They are both springing up and down ladders renovating a derelict part of their home in an old stable). Their garden has the richest soil I think I’ve ever seen; they’ve carefully tended it for years and it is a deep cool black colour—one can feel the life in it. I spent most of the time shifting compost and turning the piles from last year. The kitchen compost was especially lovely; it was packed with earthworms (so many that, when I turned it over, I could clearly hear them working through the soil).
I slept Tuesday night under their ancient yew tree (at least 700 years old, but possibly much older; yew trees are difficult to date properly; they regenerate themselves in a way by shooting under the soil and bringing up new trunks nearby. So, in a sense, they could hypothetically live forever. They are among the oldest living beings on the planet). Yews are eerily beautiful; mature trees spread out into a cluster and form an “outdoor room”; one walks in under a canopy into a densely covered cove. Yews are also highly toxic; nothing grows underneath them. This is partially because the light is cut off, but they give off a potent toxin as well. Apparently the only part of the tree that is not poisonous is the outer fleshy part of their berries (the inner seed is deadly though). Whilst I was obviously not munching down on the leaves, I did accidently step in a pool of sap in the middle of the night…which then stuck to my foot for the rest of the night. I came back Wednesday afternoon and felt strangely tired so I took a nap…which ended up lasting three hours; I woke up from that rather disoriented. Last night, I had fantastic vivid dreams; this morning and most of the day, I’ve just been really lethargic (like the flu with no other symptoms). I’m finally, this evening, clearing up a bit and am able to focus on doing anything (after several litres of water and tea through the day).
Not entirely sure that it was the yew sap; however, it seems a likely explanation (as shamans will sit under the tree and meditate in hot weather to have visions from the tree’s vapours, it would seem possible that direct dermal contact with the sap might have similar effects). Will be more careful on future midnight pee breaks round the yew.
Community
I’m a few days back now from the Isle of Eigg (one of the small Hebridean Islands; 7,400 acres with about 80 people—and a stunningly beautiful landscape). We were there for a core course on the MSc.
There is a lot I could (and probably should) write concerning our visit there; one of the primary reasons we visit Eigg is to observe the workings of a small community—how they interact with each other and their environment. I’m supposed to be able to parse this all out and write about it; however, as I’m becoming more aware of issues of legitimacy (the “who am I to come in here and think I can tell these people anything” question) and just generally sensitive to the spirit of a place, I feel less inclined to write (probably not the best reaction on an academic course!). I think I’m better able to experience a place and appreciate it than I’ve ever been before (and keep in mind that I’ve now had a lot of training to do this). But am I competent to tell someone else’s story; this is the question I am working through. (This is one of my learning edges for the course.)
I can, however, make a comment on my story. Or, perhaps enlarge it a bit and comment on the story of my group in the MSc. We are a community of sorts; granted it is a completely self-selected community and we are gathered around a generally common cause (though that cause is amorphously defined). This is a very different course than most academic ventures; it’s purposefully designed to delve right into the “deep stuff” in our lives and in the wider world. To do this, we’ve had to open up ourselves to each other and have built a good sense of camaraderie and trust. Yet, we are not superhuman [ecologists], we are still just people in a community. And, like people on an isolated island, we can celebrate the closeness of our group but also have to deal with the occasional fistfight in the pub.
So there are tensions and conflicts that are difficult to deal with; of course, that’s what we studying, how to help other groups recognise and work through these things. Yet, when it comes to our own group dynamics, it seems we forget important bits of information. I think it is easier to save the world than any one of us. The world is over there, off the island, we can see their problems and comment on them from a distance. But it is also easy to dwell on them and forget to nurture the community right here. (I suppose it could be equally possible to forget the rest of the world and focus completely on ourselves—like everything, it’s about finding balance.)
Thankfully, we are a resilient bunch and will work through these things; I think there is great care and love between us. However, though I’m wary of this “let’s look in upon ourselves” kind of language (too much introspection), I’m learning that it’s necessary to take the time and energy to do so or we’ll end up with things to “fix” rather than working through a smooth process from the start. I think most of these sorts of “issues” would be resolved if each of us were open to positive criticism and we were willing to speak it without fear of hurt feelings.
(I now feel qualified to write an episode of Lost.)
Staring
I am just no good for working this week; ever since returning from the wilderness, I’ve wanted to be back there. I’m sitting here zoning out at my computer…supposed to be writing. Going to the Isle of Eigg this weekend for several days; a trip none too soon.
A few days ago, I wrote this to one of my classmates:
It’s a long way to the wilderness…it’s
Such a short
And jolting
Journey
Back.
Need more quiet
Days…and
Nights where the sea spirits
Blow by
In the darkness.
I didn’t quite know what to write after coming back from Knoydart; it’s not that there was some extraordinary life-changing experience there. It was just a pleasant several days in many ways (physically and spiritually refreshing). It’s more that it was not a word experience. We spent a day in silence; I could have spent the several days in silence altogether. I came on this course to sharpen my skills for speaking and writing. But I am learning more about quiet than anything. I begin to wonder if the human experience is not well suited to words; if our spirits can’t be contained by the languages we’ve made. I wonder if the frustrations and violence of the world is not half caused by our inability to express ourselves.
When I returned to the city, I hit the ground running. I’ve been going with school, meetings, and visiting with guests from the States. However, on a day I had to somewhat relax, I was aiming to write on the sundry projects for school quietly here at home. But I found myself just staring at the keyboard, wishing I was in the wilderness. It’s not that I especially dislike Glasgow. As cities go, it’s been one of the better ones I’ve lived in. But I think I am more suited to the countryside.
So how does one make that transition; or, perhaps more importantly, how does one continue on in an environment one is not especially suited to? I suppose this is the question of all modern existence. We may not be living in the proper fitting shells; and, for many, those shells are cracking under pressure.
Between this man and Mecca
A few weeks ago, I was walking along a Glasgow street and saw a Moslem man praying in his shop; it was a small electronics store and, incongruously, the qibla had him facing toward a wall of cell phones and various gadgets. I wonder if there is some thought to all the “stuff” (physical and cultural) in between wherever one is and Mecca? I was slightly taken aback by seeing this; it was as if I was intruding on a private moment. Also, the sight of someone in prayer in the midst of a “consumer environment” was disconcerting. So, a haiku.
The open window
Between this man and Mecca,
Such a long journey.
To listen
Somehow I never noticed that the first part of “heart” is “hear.”
Meeting with Friends
I have a Quaker ancestor on my mother’s side; as I am studying a good deal about peace and justice issues, Quakerism keeps popping up (and, as the Society of Friends is quite alive and well here in the UK, I keep meeting Quakers). This morning, I decided to stop by the local Meeting House and see if I could look up my ancestor in their library. He was easily found (Quakers are meticulous record keepers) in a volume entitled The History of Friends in America published in 1854. (This was a lovely book with engravings of historical sights and short biographies of those involved in the early days.)
Cuthbert Hayhurst (or Hairst it’s sometimes spelled). Was an English dissenter who was basically exiled to the Colonies. He came with William Penn in the 1600’s to found Pennsylvania and establish The Society of Friends in America. The History has this to say of him:
Cuthbert Hayhurst was born in Yorkshire about the year 1632. He was among the earliest of those who professed our principles in that county, and soon after attaining the age of manhood, he came forth as a minister of the gospel. As early as 1654, he suffered imprisonment in Yorkshire for preaching the truths of religion, and in 1666, whilst on a gospel visit to some of the southern counties of England, he was taken from a meeting at Oxford and committed to a gaol. He was also at other times deprived of his liberty for the faithful maintenance of our religious principles.
Cuthbert Hayhurst proceeded to Pennsylvania with William Penn in 1682, and proved an instrument, in the Divine Hand, of comfort and consolation to his brethren under their new circumstances. He appears to have been a very devoted minister, and to have given up much of his time to promoting the kingdom of his Redeemer: in the minutes of London Yearly Meeting, he is referred to as a great traveller in the cause of truth. “He was,” says Nicholas Wain, who knew him well both in England and America, “of great service to me and many others, being instrumental in bringing us near unto the Lord, and is at rest with Him for ever.” He ended his course at his residence in Bucks county, Pennsylvania, in the First Month, 1683, about the fiftieth year of his age.
There are several other volumes referenced for specific incidents and the quote there. I’m told that the Mitchell Library (which is a huge reference library here in Glasgow) has the Friends’ older volumes, letters, and manuscripts. Cuthbert was in the thick of things when the dissenters were under great persecution, so there should be much more material on him.
I was expecting to just pop in for some information; however, as it happened, they were preparing to have the mid-week meeting and invited me to sit in. Having never attended a Quaker meeting, I didn’t quite know what to expect. It’s very simple. We sat quietly for some time—at the end of which, two of the elders shake hands, then we all shake hands. And that’s it. If someone feels so led, they might speak; otherwise, it’s just a time of quiet meditation.
And then we had lunch…we could talk during lunch.