tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191910022024-03-07T19:11:45.442+00:00blethers"Blether - n. foolish chatter. - v.intr. chatter foolishly [ME blather, f. ON blathra talk nonsense f. blathr nonsense]" - Concise Oxford Dictionary.Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.comBlogger1341125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-30788228579282127632020-06-19T12:47:00.001+01:002020-06-19T12:58:44.224+01:00Grace<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="375" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q4GBBzew_jU/Xuu5MZK3ERI/AAAAAAAAD9o/2EaKhMVPKdoEPMCLiwVKSkmaOpyze45XgCK4BGAsYHg/w500-h375/2011-08-23%2540143256_SAM_0665.JPG" width="500" /></div></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>This week, Dunoon lost a warrior. Grace Page - or Dr Grace Dunlop, to give her her maiden name - died peacefully in the local hospital after a fall in her house. She was a week short of her 91st birthday. She had lived in Hunter's Quay as a child, an evacuee during the war, and as a frequent visitor during the years she lived in London with her husband Charles. But latterly, as travel became difficult, it was in the house in Hunter's Quay, with its view over her beloved Firth of Clyde, that she chose to live permanently, and, fiercely independent to the last, lived there until a few days before her death.</div><div><br /></div><div>She became a part of my life, of our lives, through Holy Trinity Episcopal Church. That is where I first became aware of her as the most marvellous reader of lessons at the big brass eagle lectern. It was far too big for Grace's diminutive form to look over the top, so she would peep round the side of it as she read with enormous vigour, giving every character a different voice or adopting the persona of a prophet or St Paul as the reading demanded. It was obvious that she was completely unintimidated by an audience, this former University don, and had a firm grasp of the subject matter in hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>For years she organised the Christian Aid collection for our congregation, challenging us to take whole areas as she did when she was well past the age when putting your feet up might be an acceptable option. When I took over her round with a friend, we were asked at every door what had happened to "the usual lady" - this in an area of hills and driveways, strenuous to visit. She cycled everywhere - though I do recall her driving and having an altercation with a fence beside a parking bay - and would appear at the top of Holy Trinity's hill with bike and wooly hat in all kinds of weather. In fact many of us will always think of her clad in the kilt, the wooly hat and her cagoule - prepared for Argyll weather at all times.</div><div><br /></div><div>However it was through the music of the church that we really got to know Grace. Right up until the time when the church closed for the Covid_19 pandemic, she could be heard vigorously singing the hymns, especially the traditional ones, dropping - still perfectly in tune - to the tenor register when the melody went too high. Sometimes when she was very old she would confide to me "I really only come for the music, you know", and it was clear that the organist was the important one of the two of us. In the early years of this millennium, she paid for a new electronic organ, the old one (also electric) having gone up in smoke during a service one Sunday. Only last year, when this organ in its turn was showing its age (computers really don't last for ever, especially not in damp churches), she gave a generous sum towards replacing it. By now her memory was failing, and she would ask anxiously if she had indeed given the money, and if it was safe. We were glad she was able to be there to hear the new instrument and know that she was part of its story.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is always sad to see someone of formidable intellect suffer the ravages of old age, and Grace knew what was happening to her. If anyone raged against the dying of the light, it was Grace. She became furious with herself, and those of us who had known her well knew the struggle this fury represented. She had never suffered fools gladly, and with the loss of memory came a loss of inhibition in letting us all know what she thought. But on the better days, she would tell us of her childhood, of her research work, of her days sailing on the Firth of Clyde, around Arran, all the wonderful places to which she was so attached.</div><div><br /></div><div>In recent years, Grace longed for death, and her prayers for this mercy were audible. Now she is gone, and we have lost a formidable presence. Her legacy lives on, it is hoped, in the continuing presence of the PS Waverley on the Clyde, and, most poignantly, in the music of the church to which she had become so attached. May flights of angels sing her to her rest, and may she rise in glory.</div>Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com2United Kingdom55.378051 -3.43597338.016943303229091 -38.592223 72.739158696770915 31.720277tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-48710682257219603542020-01-29T11:10:00.000+00:002020-01-29T11:10:57.896+00:00Mopping upI don't blog much these days, and to find myself doing it twice in quick succession is quite a thing. I feel, however, that I need to clarify my own position after the comments that were left about the Translation of Bishop Kevin, and it's better done here, on a fresh page as it were.<br />
<br />
My first point concerns the etiquette of online discourse. There are a couple of anonymous comments on the previous post, of varying degrees of bitterness and hostility, which digitally competent friends suggested were attempting to hijack my post for their own ends and which should therefore be deleted. And yes, I considered this course. Although I know who wrote one of these comments, it is nevertheless cowardly to refuse to identify oneself with one's point of view. It may be incompetence that makes someone unable to pin an identity to a response, but nothing stops anyone from saying in the body of their reply who they are and what their interest is.<br />
<br />
My reason for leaving these replies is that they show what the church is up against. The diocese of Argyll and The Isles covers not only a huge geographical area but also a vast range of different attitudes, some of which belong firmly in the mid-20th century. They also show, I am afraid, another face of what puts people off the church - the all-too-human side of the church.<br />
<br />
There have been moments in the past week when I have felt like chucking it all in - but have been so supported by the clearly Christ-filled responses on various media and in private messages that I know giving up is not the answer.<br />
<br />
Please note that there will be no more bitter ripostes published on this or the last post.Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-200818901471658802020-01-21T14:45:00.000+00:002020-01-21T14:45:55.768+00:00Bottom, thou art translated ...or Bishop's MoveThere are so many temptations to play with the title of this post that it could almost divert me from the purpose of writing it. Almost, but not quite. The news broke on Saturday that the Bishop of Argyll and The Isles was to become the Bishop of Glasgow and Galloway. Two dioceses, the same small denomination. Two dioceses, one populous, the other scattered and sparsely populated over a massive area. This process is not common in the Scottish Episcopal Church - apparently it last occurred almost 100 years ago - and so was not something that even the knowledgable person in the pew would think possible. And the process is called, would you believe, "translation".<br />
<br />
I learned of our bishop's translation on Facebook before elevenses on the Saturday when, we had been told, the appointment of the Bishops' choice for Glasgow would be announced. No longer an election because the electors of the diocese had been unable to find a suitable candidate, this was to be a choice, as happened to the Diocese of Argyll some nine years or so ago. Presumably the College of Bishops knew how they were heading before Saturday's meeting - I cannot for a moment imagine it was a Spirit-driven spur of the moment thing. And I learned of it on Facebook. And on Twitter. And then there were the photos on Instagram. And great was the rejoicing thereof, and not a word about the Diocese of Argyll and The Isles.<br />
<br />
The announcement was in the pew sheet the next day - the same announcement people like me had seen online. It came as no surprise to me, but in my generation I am known as a social media peculiarity. I could hear the indrawn breaths. And people felt bereft, and just a tad let down. Our last incumbent left to become a bishop - but that, to be honest, was not unexpected. Bishops tend merely to retire, and retirement, like old age, does not come as a surprise.<br />
<br />
At this point, I need to make one notable exception to the torrent of well-meaning explanation as to why this was really needed for Glasgow diocese - as if I needed told. One Glasgow priest had the pastoral sensitivity to respond to my early shocked reaction, not with explanation but with an expression of sympathy and concern, and the assurance of prayer. It is a sad reflection on the church as an organisation that this simple, priestly act brought a tearful response.<br />
<br />
There needs to be a serious look at how these things are managed in this era of instant communication. We are no longer waiting for the white smoke, for the revelation of who the latest bishop is to be. Someone gets carried away - for whatever reason - and posts online. Happens in politics all the time. But this is the church. We are supposed to think of our bishop as our Father in God. This is like telling a family that actually the family across the water - for that is where the receiving diocese is for us here - can't stop bickering and so your father is being sent to look after them. You're a sensible lot, they say - you can manage on your own. And they tell you, not even in a private message or a text, but on social media. A done deal.<br />
<br />
The truth is that yes, we can manage. As long as we feel loved, and cherished, and valued for our contribution to the church - not financial, but because we're faithful. But take that for granted, forget to include us in your thinking - no. The College of Bishops, which includes some perfectly savvy media operators, needs to think about the effect of their decisions and the pastoral care of the people without whom there would be no church. It is not the Bishop that keeps going an individual charge like the one in which I participate. It's the passion of the laity, kept aflame, if we're lucky, by the ministrations of our clergy. My church is in a good place just now, spiritually and organisationally. But some of us today are feeling let down by the very people who should be caring for us all.<br />
<br />
As I write this, I've found that some people in Glasgow diocese have become aware that there have been failings. I've had two series of supportive messages and an apology, and I appreciate them all. But none of them came from the source that should have managed the whole situation, and none of them has been directed to the people of Argyll and The Isles. For the sake of the diocese and the sake of the Church, I hope it's not too late.Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-44314719417540479512019-07-16T12:10:00.001+01:002019-07-16T12:10:13.273+01:00One retreat, two poemsI was on retreat on the Island of Lewis last month with three friends, directed by a fourth friend who lives on the island in a community of two Anglican religious. We four stayed in a self-catering house in Back; Sister Clare came over from Gress - though one day we walked there for the Evening Office. It was memorable in several ways, which I don't intend to go into here, and produced two poems.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>OUTBURST</b><br />
<br />
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">O, be silent when the God speaks - </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">do not blurt your blunted vision</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">to distort or seek to bend</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">the flow of love and pain.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Listen. Open. Feel the keenness</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">of the shaft that wounds the soul;</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">feel the way you change, but quiet</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">like a child that hears a call.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Only then, within that silence</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">can the music truly sing,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">make the wordless song of heaven</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">sweep you up until your tongue</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">is freed from all the weight of language</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"> - free to wonder, free to cease -</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">and your soul can shed what has been, </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">free to wander heaven’s peace.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">© C.M.M. Back, Lewis, June 2019</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b>JORDAN</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">The burden of that sudden light</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Overwhelms my shrinking self</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">As I step into the surge</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of life and what will come.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The holy dove, its wings outspread,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Hovers close. No comfort there.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I see the darkness pressing back</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Around the edges of my world</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Through eyes half closed,</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Through lash and hair</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">That covers my defenceless face.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">The water swirls. I feel the tug</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Of forces far beyond my reach.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I will obey. God, I accept</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">- will lift this burden that is Light.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">© C.M.M.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">
</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Back, Lewis, June 19.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">This second poem was inspired by a painting by Daniel Bonnell of the Baptism of the Christ, which you can see here:<a href="http://www.bonnellart.com/2012-2015.html"> http://www.bonnellart.com/2012-2015.html</a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><a href="http://www.bonnellart.com/2012-2015.html">(The Baptism of the Christ II, 42x68", oil on canvas, Sold)</a></span></div>
<div style="font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-20854554586993472672019-03-26T14:01:00.001+00:002019-03-26T14:01:23.120+00:00Words, words, words ...I've been reading. Of course, there's never a time when I don't have a book on the go, but that's fiction. As it's Lent I've tried to be a tad more disciplined, and to that end saved up a book that I bought some months ago. At the time, I posted online that it had been a bargain - and it was: it cost me about £70 less than its published price.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8YsrA0kDAdeVYYga68H51JbR2JNjMoNcA0DkZxDVQTp1c0AfiR-e9yu1AUgTqcRYNJCaGDjx5UW9Nz-4sjE5XO-PssA-XCoAbPGbUd8QGSQiELVqLNGkWdNIRk_r63tvGF8f/s1600/IMG_0274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8YsrA0kDAdeVYYga68H51JbR2JNjMoNcA0DkZxDVQTp1c0AfiR-e9yu1AUgTqcRYNJCaGDjx5UW9Nz-4sjE5XO-PssA-XCoAbPGbUd8QGSQiELVqLNGkWdNIRk_r63tvGF8f/s320/IMG_0274.jpg" width="240" /></a><br />
<b>Saturday's Silence</b> is an academic study of my favourite poet's work with reference to Holy Saturday, the day between Good Friday and Easter Day. And when I embarked on the introduction, I found myself nodding in agreement with much that the author had to say, about poetry in general and Thomas in particular. And it's not that I've stopped agreeing as I move through the body of the argument - quite the reverse.<br />
<br />
I'm struck by how intense, line-by-line scrutiny of a poem kills that poem stone dead. This isn't a new thing floating into my consciousness - it's something I was terribly aware of when I was teaching English lit, and especially teaching poetry. But in my latter, more experienced days, I had learned the trick of teaching the "how" rather than the "what" - teaching the basics of poetic understanding* via snippets of examination so that the individual pupils could do it for themselves, and reach the point where it would be in the first instance instinctive, even if further study produced deeper and more detailed appreciation. It was that approach, I believe, that had S4 boys (15-16 years old) learning and loving poems by not only Thomas but also John Donne, reciting them off by heart and lovingly examining what it was that had so attracted them.<br />
<br />
I've never really stated all this on paper before. Perhaps it's struck me as blindingly obvious without my labouring the point. But why I'm doing it now is because I've linked it in my mind, thanks to Richard McLauchlan, with religion, with faith itself and the nature of faith.<br />
<br />
Think of all the tedious sermons you've listened to in your day. (Obviously, I'm addressing a somewhat targeted audience here - you know who you are...) Do you ever consider, perhaps when you give up actually paying attention, what's wrong with them? I bet some of them at least were lectures, telling you what words in the bible signify in terms of what you, the punter, ought to believe. Lectures, instead of actual communication, kill faith as dead as academic study kills a poem.<br />
<br />
I'm not going to chase this further. I want to emerge with today's little epiphany which is probably more of a realisation of something I've known for decades.<br />
<br />
Prose can kill.<br />
<br />
Which is why poetry is important, why the practice needs to be done to acquire the eyes with which to grasp it.<br />
Which is why I approach faith as the poet, or as the lover of poetry who spots symbolism at a hundred paces.<br />
Which is why music is so important.<br />
Which is why it was a combination of music and poetry that brought me to faith.<br />
<br />
I'll finish the book. It's had the merit of taking me to revisit some dearly loved poems, to feel once again the sudden stab of recognition that Thomas's last lines can so often create. But it's the poetry that matters.<br />
<br />
Always.<br />
<br />
<br />
*<i>I'm talking here about such technical features as caesura, enjambement - all the stuff you make a part of your perception so that you don't need to think about it.</i>Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-72195362360812810572018-09-05T18:59:00.001+01:002018-09-05T18:59:45.885+01:00An icon evolvesA couple of weeks ago, I went on an icon workshop. I spent four nights in one of my most familiar places, the Cathedral of The Isles on Cumbrae, doing something completely new; something that feels as life-changing as that January day in 1973 when I sang at the funeral of a friend who was also a priest and a mentor and came away changed for ever.<br />
<br />
The first milestone was choosing my icon. Tatiana, our teacher, had brought some illustrations for those of us who had not already decided what they wanted to copy. I had downloaded a few versions of the Christ Pantocrator icon, as well as a photo of one I'd loved when I saw it but felt unequal to trying - one of the Noli me tangere moment, all facial expressions and sweeping robes. But when I saw the A4 sheet with a totally striking Pantocrator image, I was captured. Tatiana saw my face. "That is your icon," she said.<br />
<br />
She explained that it was very old - probably 7th Century - and came from St Catherine's Monastery in Sinai. And right now the less ignorant reader will visualise what I'm talking about, because it's famous. But I didn't know this. I only knew that the face was really two faces - one the stern judge, one empathetic, looking right at ME. I took the sheet away to my room. By the time I went to bed, I was aghast at what I'd taken on.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GxGIXytP-ds/W5AV2b1DWqI/AAAAAAAADkE/d2Y-WKLxeDo_kuckAaB28F0RZRLOejBtgCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GxGIXytP-ds/W5AV2b1DWqI/AAAAAAAADkE/d2Y-WKLxeDo_kuckAaB28F0RZRLOejBtgCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_8608.jpg" width="200" /></a>Work on an icon begins with tracing - at least, that's the way I took. Another person at my table, an artist in a way I could never claim to be, drew hers freehand with her original only for inspiration. Me, I was out with the carbon paper, trying to trace significant lines from an icon that was far more naturalistic than any I'd ever seen. And I didn't make very many lines.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4NqAlV_lx-8/W5AWXK0bA7I/AAAAAAAADkU/froL78jgaCYsI56BVbNPielksJZFIwWiACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4NqAlV_lx-8/W5AWXK0bA7I/AAAAAAAADkU/froL78jgaCYsI56BVbNPielksJZFIwWiACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_8621.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7QYw5n-b9K0/W5AV2F5wI5I/AAAAAAAADkA/fHSVEYTF_Jkq2rO1KpRm1UG3O2PPRKpLQCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7QYw5n-b9K0/W5AV2F5wI5I/AAAAAAAADkA/fHSVEYTF_Jkq2rO1KpRm1UG3O2PPRKpLQCLcBGAs/s200/IMG_8610.jpg" width="150" /></a>Then we had to etch the lines onto the white surface of the prepared board. Hindsight tells me I didn't etch enough - too few lines, too lightly scored. By the time I'd done the gold leaf halo and bible cover and "puddled" paint onto the garment and the face, I couldn't see any of the facial features. At all. "Leave it to dry,"said Tatiana. It'll probably be clearer in the morning - and the light will be better..."<br />
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<br />
I spent that evening chatting to an old friend who'd turned up - a musician, from my other life as a singer. I told him how Tatiana had brought 3 eggs in a bowl for us to paint with - she broke them, separated yolk from white, took the whites back to the kitchen and left us the yolk with which to mix our pigment. I told him about the pipettes, the brushes, the feeling of being 14 again. Jonathan took my mind off my impending struggles, made me laugh - and I went to bed much later than I'd intended.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6vYNST5yTgc/W5AXCIFG5lI/AAAAAAAADko/rKb1gFM_jmgD7H0iKKwYqFXL8VXcKpkFACLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_8634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6vYNST5yTgc/W5AXCIFG5lI/AAAAAAAADko/rKb1gFM_jmgD7H0iKKwYqFXL8VXcKpkFACLcBGAs/s200/IMG_8634.jpg" width="150" /></a>The second full day began with rain, less sunshine than I felt I needed - and only an eye visible on the face of my icon. By some miracle I managed to draw more or less freehand, with a hard pencil, the lines I was going to need to guide me. Then I returned to a more orthodox way of icon-writing, with brush and egg tempera and a plate to mix my pigment on. I felt like a real artist, in a terrified sort of way. But I was on my way, and during that day, and evening - for some of us returned to the studio to continue painting after dinner - I began to see the face of Christ emerging under my hands.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t1AqyJ2weew/W5AXgAM9wlI/AAAAAAAADlA/8d8wTkzoeLcq6NfLZY5bF2AkL6ug9VpRACEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_8646.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-t1AqyJ2weew/W5AXgAM9wlI/AAAAAAAADlA/8d8wTkzoeLcq6NfLZY5bF2AkL6ug9VpRACEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_8646.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nch9hgCTTSs/W5AXf4eN27I/AAAAAAAADk8/M92sbLgTz5UcgU5icVAY-5L7HLAipebxgCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_8643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nch9hgCTTSs/W5AXf4eN27I/AAAAAAAADk8/M92sbLgTz5UcgU5icVAY-5L7HLAipebxgCEwYBhgL/s200/IMG_8643.jpg" width="150" /></a>And it was that last realisation that grew throughout the third full day, by the end of which Titus, Tatiana's partner, had sprayed two of the necessary three coats of varnish - outside, in the gathering dusk, because of the fumes - on my icon, and it was almost finished. That day was spent on the background - which further research on YouTube has taught me shows the domes of the monastery of St Catherine, but which I modelled on the honey-coloured stone of an Italian town as I tried to realise what on the original was too blurred to be distinct - and on painting the border, and the sides and back of the board. Every now and then, as I'd been warned I would, I wailed for Tatiana to come and help me with an intransigent line, or the miraculous effect of painting a wash of unadulterated egg yolk over a whole area of my icon and leaving it to dry. And all that time I felt those eyes on me, boring into me as I stroked pigment over the cheeks, highlights on the sleeves, shadows under the palm of the raised hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
The final morning was busy with varnish, photographs of each other's work, packing, paying - and praying. We took our finished icons into the cathedral, where they they were individually blessed with holy water before we took them up to the altar and left them there during the Eucharist. <br />
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One of my fellow-iconographers presided; others served and read; my friend Jonathan played the organ for us. It was over. I have never felt more exhausted, physically and emotionally. I wanted it to go on, but I knew I was too tired to do another brush-stroke.<br />
<br />
Now my icon sits in an alcove in my house. I look at it every day. It has become a part of my life. And I can't wait to do another one.<br />
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<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-76174090902091454312018-02-07T18:08:00.000+00:002018-02-07T18:08:51.409+00:00Springing thoughts<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zz-rxdDrs0M/WntAKiiQw8I/AAAAAAAADbk/ICVaRzaoA5gOvQSHCGQkoHNi4Qjs5cL3wCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_5092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zz-rxdDrs0M/WntAKiiQw8I/AAAAAAAADbk/ICVaRzaoA5gOvQSHCGQkoHNi4Qjs5cL3wCKgBGAs/s320/IMG_5092.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">Two days after the last snow left</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I saw the tiny hint of life</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">in colour, purple, on the mud</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">which rain had flooded winter-long,</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">and thought of Spring.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">Encouraged by the silent sun</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">the lack of wind, the sudden song</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">- a blackbird sitting on a pole -</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">in air so silent I could hear</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">the rush of wings above my head </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">as pigeons - should I call them doves?</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> - set off briskly over roofs</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">and gardens, sodden mossy lawns</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">and foodless shrubs where dunnocks live</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">I stopped, for long enough to feel.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">But what I felt was not the joy</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">that children feel when freedom calls</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">but rather that nostalgic pain</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">more keen with every passing year</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">that tells me each Spring takes us up</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">the path towards that distant peak</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;">where only faith says flowers will bloom.</span></div>
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; min-height: 16px;">
<span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Palatino; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">C.M.M 02/18</span></div>
Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-84040006361214402672017-12-12T13:20:00.000+00:002017-12-12T13:21:31.068+00:00Another Advent<br />
<b>Another Advent</b><br />
<br />
<i>For Andy, who suggested the possibility.</i><br />
<br />
From the darkness that returns<br />
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qndw3So45As/Wi_XB5uQTiI/AAAAAAAADZQ/R6eAiDepvkE77fzGdNn1wStOx11tOM5EwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4076.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qndw3So45As/Wi_XB5uQTiI/AAAAAAAADZQ/R6eAiDepvkE77fzGdNn1wStOx11tOM5EwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_4076.JPG" width="320" /></a>each year we sing our plaintive song<br />
and ask that God will come again<br />
and fill our lives with what we know<br />
and hardly know is all we need.<br />
The fire burns low, the night is long,<br />
and yet we feel in some way held<br />
within the circle of this flame<br />
that still we tend with anxious care<br />
in some place hidden from the eyes<br />
that mock and laugh and turn away<br />
with restless ease towards their end.<br />
The world too turns, and we await<br />
the power that fills our life with light<br />
and let our alleluias ring<br />
within the darkness of the earth.<br />
<br />
C.M.M. 12/17Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-70509977709762851622017-12-06T18:14:00.001+00:002017-12-06T18:26:14.508+00:00Dreich weather and a sonnet: Argyll WeatherI haven't written a sonnet for 37 years. At that time, I thought I might be halfway through my allotted life span and wrote my first attempt at a sonnet about being at "life's watershed". You can hear the iambic feet, can't you? This afternoon, it being utterly miserable outside, and dark by 3.30pm, I thought I'd make my Christmas puddings and then - maybe - write some cards. Then I got a message from a good friend that he'd been shown a poem of mine on a window of St Andrew's bus station. In St Andrews. There was a photo - it's there, right enough, in black letters on the glass. Extraordinary.<br />
<br />
In the comment thread that followed, others joined in. One of them threw down a challenge. "Write a sonnet about Argyll weather. Walking in the rain". This wasn't an entirely random challenge - I'd pointed out that I didn't participate as much as I might in the poetry scene because I was always walking about in the rain in Argyll.<br />
<br />
Reader, I tried. Once the puddings were burbling and the (extensive) washing up done, I sat down with my preferred poetry-writing tools (the back of an envelope and a biro) and a copy of Edwin Morgan's Glasgow Sonnets for inspiration.<br />
<br />
This is the result. I've dedicated it to my friend <a href="http://livingwittily.typepad.com/">Jim Gordon</a>, whose fault it was.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
<b>Argyll Weather</b><br />
<br />
<i>A Sonnet for Jim</i><br />
<br />
The rain drifts in grey curtains from the hills<br />
and turns the loch’s black surface into lace<br />
before a random wind takes up the chase<br />
that now obliterates the day it kills.<br />
The burn beside me gurgles as it fills<br />
and overflows. There’s water on my face,<br />
the path I followed gone without a trace,<br />
enthusiasm drowned in sudden chills.<br />
<br />
But as I turn to make my sodden way<br />
to shelter, warmth …dry feet … a sudden gleam<br />
appears. It’s like another day.<br />
The wet rock all around me starts to steam<br />
and birdsong cuts the air as if to say<br />
This is Argyll. Things are not what they seem.<br />
<br />
C.M.M. 12/17Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-4161997901482550222017-10-16T17:54:00.001+01:002017-10-16T17:59:08.336+01:00The way we wereI've held off from saying much online about the latest celebrity-outing as a sexual predator, but the Harvey Weinstein furore has got me thinking about the past - my past. Interestingly enough, my first reaction was to reflect how it's always the really ugly, unattractive guys - just run over in your mind the names that surface and see if you agree. I can recall that time in the 1960s when I asked my mother how a man like Robert Boothby could attract anyone; I seem also to recall that her answer contained a reference to the aphrodisiac of power - the idea that a powerful man could always have his way with a younger partner. Clearly I was not entirely convinced of that; I do recall my 20-something self finding him utterly repulsive.<br />
<br />
But actually that's not the whole story. The thing is, when we were young we were expected to be grateful to be fancied by ... well, by anyone. That's part of the sad truth. When I was in Primary 7 - that is, 11-12 years old - we read comics like Romeo (always had the lyrics of a current pop song on the back) and Valentine (had photo-serials instead of comic strip ones - I never liked it as much). The stories were always about a girl attracting some personable bloke by changing her hair or removing her specs, thereby looking more appealing and less brainy. There were columns devoted to pleasing a boy by allowing him to talk about himself - even down to the questions to ask him. And the girl always, always had to wait to be asked.<br />
<br />
We joked about it too. There was a teacher in my secondary school whom we avoided as having "wandering hands". Remember that one? But then I remind myself that he was deeply unattractive. Would we have made the jokes about him if he'd been fanciable? There was the unknown man who chased me and two pals along the road, exposing himself as he did. We could hardly run for laughing - though the fact that we were encumbered with violins and (god help us) a cello didn't help. We were interviewed by a policewoman after that; one of my pals was the daughter of a high-ranking policeman. So they took it seriously - we didn't. Why was this?<br />
<br />
Remember the cattle-market dances? Girls down one wall, boys facing? And then waiting to see if some pimply youth would ask you to dance, thereby sealing your fate? I went to about two of these: that was enough. And I was lucky. I had a very strict father who had been a secondary teacher all his life, and I'm eternally grateful for the way in which he restricted me and what I did. "Use me as an excuse if you like, he would say - you're not going." Until I was 18 and had passed all the Highers I needed for Uni, I wasn't allowed out to random parties. Imagine how much I hated him at the time, and how thankful I was each time I heard of what had happened at the parties I missed. I wasn't allowed to go hitch-hiking with my pals, nor on cheap, vaguely-planned holidays in Greece. So actually I was never assaulted on the deck of a Greek steamer in the middle of the night, nor on a hotel roof where it was cooler to sleep. And yes, these things happened.<br />
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<br />
But what of the life of a woman after she's left the protection of her family? (and I know some women aren't protected at all - I'm talking about myself, really) Someone else mentioned the oft-heard question: "Is he bothering you?" And we had to devise ways to avoid being "bothered". Remember, this can include a whole range of behaviours - the sudden hand on the thigh, the tongue down the throat when even a peck felt offensive, the lascivious wolf-whistle from some bloke down a hole in the road. And in the 60s we were never told that it was fine to tell the man what we really felt - rather the reverse. It was regarded as perverse to object to any of it. You made some excuse and wriggled out of the situation, or you let it go on and ended up raped. I was never raped, but I know people who were. They didn't call it rape; they euphemised the whole situation.<br />
<br />
Where on earth am I going with all this? I think I'm looking at the sense of entitlement that men have had since time immemorial, and which the women of my generation hadn't climbed sufficiently out of the pit of submission that women had always lived in. So when I hear the current stories about the way famous men have been exposed for the promiscuous predators they are (and it's only famous men - the ordinary tosser in the street just goes on his ghastly way, presumably) - when I hear these, it's like hearing of people waking from a centuries'-long sleep and talking about their nightmares. But they are the nightmares on whose fringes I lived in my youth, and they feel familiar.<br />
<br />
Even the best of men - and I'm fortunate: I know many such men - can't know this past as <strike>people</strike> women my age do. Can't know the present hell that too many women still inhabit. But it's not going to improve unless women occupy the confident upper ground that men have walked since they emerged from the slime; until all women feel the equal of any man they meet and bring up their sons to know this truth; until every girl is imbued with the powerful sense of self that circles her with the armour of confidence; until the Harvey Weinsteins of this world are slapped down the moment they show their true colours.<br />
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And until we can be sure that such men will never, ever, become the president of the most powerful nation in the world.<br />
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<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-91953984097525671242017-07-29T12:47:00.000+01:002017-07-29T12:50:01.884+01:00Defective articles and the Love of GodI've been catching up on an unread bit of a Sunday paper, and found an interview with actor James McCardle. In the light of what I've been involved in recently, this struck me:<br />
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People who live a heteronormative life might feel they are free but until we life a life that includes equality of sexuality, gender, equality of class, equality of race then no-one is free.</blockquote>
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There's no freedom at all unless there is freedom for all. I understand there have to be labels when there is still a fight to be had, but that shift has to be cultural and it's never going to work if you keep dividing people.</blockquote>
Yes, you say - or do you? Not yet, it seems, if you're a certain kind of church member. And it pains me, as a member of the church for the past 44 years, to have to say that. Especially after the relief many of us felt when my own denomination (and yes - that's another division) decided at last to remove the barriers to equal marriage in our churches. And then it came to deciding where these marriages would be celebrated.<br />
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I don't want to go into agonising detail of my latest discoveries - the how, the when. But I want to ask a question. What in God's name is going on in the minds of the people - and I think and pray that indeed they are a minority - who stand, grimly or miserably, in the way, barring the use of "their" church buildings for the celebration of a same-sex marriage?<br />
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"It's the word 'marriage'" they insist. It means a man and a woman."<br />
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I can think, as my mind flounders in the face of their intransigence, of two things that I didn't get the chance adequately to point out. The first is that such a meaning of the word is but one of four in the quite elderly Concise Oxford that I consulted. The second is that it's a word. Not the Word of God, whatever I believe that to be, just a word. A different word in all the languages of the world, from the close relations of the Latin languages to the intricacies of Russian ... and take a look at this, from <a href="http://blogs.transparent.com/russian/there-is-more-to-marriage-than-%D0%B1%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BA/">an excellent blog:</a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The word «брак», of course, has another meaning in addition to “marriage”. Its second meaning is “defective articles, discards”. While some marriages do end up discarded, the two «брак»s are not linguistically related.</blockquote>
Language is fascinating, but if I were to enter into any such detail in conversation I'd be accused of being intimidatingly clever, far too fluent for my own good. But for anyone to bar the way to an equal sharing in the love of God in the poor house that we humans have built to gather so that we can feel we are together in sharing that love, for anyone to use a pathetic, human concept, expressed in language that humans have made in order to communicate with each other as an excuse to reserve that space for their own selfish use - is that of God? We don't even need to use language in our deepest communication with what we call God - God who knows the secret of our hearts...<br />
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So I'll put it simply:<br />
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Language is not of God.<br />
Love is of God.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
</blockquote>
Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-75029442684723158252017-07-04T15:44:00.000+01:002017-07-04T15:46:43.186+01:00Memories of a Hillhead infant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It was this picture that started it. I've been rummaging among my old teaching materials and came upon a small buff book, with cartridge-paper pages that are half blank, half ruled in light and heavier red. This pre-dates all the other stuff I found, as it comes from my childhood. From 1952, I would say, when I was in Infants 2 in Hillhead Primary School in Glasgow. A chance remark on the Facebook conversation that followed its publication there brought memories flooding back - far too many for that medium. And it struck me that this is social history as well as my history, and I find it fascinating. That's what brings me back to Blethers after so many months. I want to write it down before I forget, or before no-one who was there is around to remember with me.<br />
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Let's begin with Christine Findlay, pigtailed in Primary 2. By this time she will be almost 7, because her birthday is in September. This meant that she started school in January, already 5 years and 3 months old and able to read. She is no longer playing with Plasticene and lacing cards (the latter, for some reason, a great thrill; something never seen at home). <br />
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Presumably for reasons connected with accommodation - and perhaps staffing - her class was called 1e and the school day began at 1pm and ended at 4pm. She travelled by tram from her top-flat home in Hyndland along Great Western Road to the foot of Cecil Street, where she crossed the main road with the help of a traffic warden. (He was once knocked down while she waited beside the road - perhaps this story will reappear). The lunchtime journey cost a ha'penny - the "Ha'penny Special" for school children; the return a whole penny. A yellow ticket at lunchtime, a blue to go home. Six months later her class became 1a and attended school in the morning. I cannot recall - see: it's going already - if the beloved Miss Buchanan survived the transition to morning class or if it was then that Mrs Reilly appeared, a red-haired, vivacious woman confusingly addressed by older pupils as Miss Forrester.<br />
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It is her class that provides this book, and some of my clearest memories. I can actually remember writing some of the legends in it, drawing the pictures to go with the writing exercise. In the course of it, we moved on to joined-up writing, copperplate. But before I go there, a vivid, stressful moment...<br />
We were writing the letter l, lower-case, on the same kind of ruled paper as is above. And I couldn't work out how long the letter l (lower case) should go on. How many lines? Two thick and two thin? It looked far too long and wavering. I was distraught. We were forbidden erasers. Even when I saw a friend - was she a friend? - doing what looked a more correct version, there was no way I could hide my shame. I was a fool, and I blushed. That perky child in the picture - wearing, I notice, the regulation school winter jersey with the collar (striped in school colours) through which one threaded the school tie under the gym-slip - was feeling anything but perky.<br />
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But I progressed. My writing became fairly spectacularly neat copperplate - an example occurring in the day we learned about Diogenes. There is a wonderful picture of someone else's vision of how he might live <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Diogenes">here,</a> but this is what I drew.<br />
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On other days we drew such things as the Glasgow coat of arms (so hard, these fish!) and a cuckoo which still looks quite convincing. All with this amazing writing underneath. Of other learning I remember less; I was bored much of the time during reading lessons because I was already a fluent reader and became cross at people who read aloud each individual word. Clearly, I was not destined to be a patient person.</div>
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I think there were forty children in my class, boys and girls equally distributed. The "a" designation referred to our birth dates, and all of us had our birthdays between September and December. We were the oldest class in the year group, we had had two terms of education more than the rest of the year. We felt superior, and no doubt we acted that way. We had embarked on our Hillhead journey. And the next time it's raining and I have little more to do, I'll regale the waiting world with a few memories of the next stage of that journey ...</div>
Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-91158630946590873772017-02-28T13:30:00.000+00:002017-02-28T13:30:37.982+00:00Not easy on a busI was reflecting the other day how much more difficult simple faith (in God, mostly, on this occasion, but not exclusively) has become in the past century or so. And I think I was ruminating ruefully - do you have a vision of a sad cow? Trouble is, we know too much. All of us, in varying degrees, are equipped with more awareness of what constitutes our surroundings than were our forebears.<br />
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Start with something non-religious. Think of these medical dramas which show even the time of my own childhood, the documentaries which show doctors as white-coated invincibles, the patients as wide-eyed innocents ready to believe that all will be well as they descend into what <a href="http://www.shmoop.com/out-out-robert-frost/poem-text.html">Robert Frost called "the dark of ether".</a> Nowadays fully-fledged hypochondriacs like me can look up procedures, statistics, symptoms, photos (God preserve us from the photos) and learn doubt. We realise when we are being soothed, and the best that can happen is that when we're actually in extremis we feel soothed. It's when normality returns that the doubt arrives.<br />
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And I think it's much the same with religion. All the old certainties - from hell to heaven and places in between - are now subject to the scrutiny of science and knowledge. We know what's up there, out there, beyond ... it's not a mystery any more. We can no longer feel sure that God's in his (note - <i>his</i>) heaven, which is up there in the sky. I remember wrestling at University with the <a href="http://www.iep.utm.edu/design/">teleological</a> and <a href="http://www.iep.utm.edu/ont-arg/">ontological </a>proofs of the existence of God, at a time when I didn't believe in anything. It was a struggle, but not a spiritual one. It changed nothing; it was easier than Formal Logic; I passed the exam.<br />
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All this conspires to make me increasingly irritated at people who assume that if you adhere to a faith you are either "throwing reason out of the window" (what my father said when I announced I was going to be confirmed at the age of 28) or are somehow sufficiently ill-informed to accept a child's version of religion. (I also become irritated at Christians who insist that that's the only way, but that's another story). Someone who thinks and challenges and argues is going to bring that attitude to what they call God - and if having done so they can find themselves happy with the language and attitudes of a faith system, that is where they will exercise their minds as well as their souls.<br />
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God - that word we use to describe the indescribable, remember? - God hasn't shrunk because we know the workings of the world that we used to consider a sacred mystery. God isn't the little shrivelled creature of some celebrated fiction. My understanding of this word, this concept, is of something at once all-encompassing and omnipresent and at the same time tiny enough to be within every mind that allows itself to wonder, every heart that allows itself to melt. God is in every moment of thankfulness; still there when the heart hardens and shuts God out.<br />
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When a faith-structure allows for this kind of vision, provides the framework of beauty and wonder and loss of the self-consciousness that inhibits, gives space for sorrow and joy and the tears of both, that is what I call Church. When I find myself in it, I am grateful. When it is threatened - and it can so easily be threatened - it is like an impending death. When it solidifies into something else, I'm better off without it, sad though that feels.<br />
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But try explaining that over the dinner-table. Or on a bus.Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-62118726521140286632017-02-23T17:28:00.000+00:002017-02-23T17:28:08.329+00:00Rummaging in the cyber past<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I retired over 11 years ago. After all these years of teaching English I found I was missing the discipline of writing - for when I set essays, particularly to senior classes, I tended to write one myself. It was something I liked to do, to contribute to the discussion, as well as believing you shouldn't ask people to do something you weren't prepared to do yourself. At the time, blogging was pretty new - and it was really the only shared form of communication, the first step in what we learned to call Social Media. My sons were already blogging. I was seduced.<br />
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And it was in that first year of blogging that I began to meet people outwith my own circle (there - Blogger doesn't like "outwith" any more than it ever did), several of whom were (another new word at the time) edubloggers. Some of them were Scots, so that I met them physically in Glasgow ("You're Blethers, aren't you?"); some were much further away. And one of the more distant edubloggers I also met, and it's a good story.<br />
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I can't remember the exact sequence of events, but it was in November 2006 that <a href="http://blethers.blogspot.co.uk/2006/11/interaction-online.html">I blogged</a> about my input into the classroom work of Anne Davis - allowing her to use my photos as a classroom resource for creative writing, commenting on some of the pupils' work, thoroughly enjoying that little bit of teaching again. Three months later, we met - in San Francisco - thanks to <a href="http://www.edu.blogs.com/">Ewan's</a> social engineering. We were on a month's tour of our American friends, one of whom had just dropped us off at our SF hotel. The cases had just appeared, when the phone rang. You don't expect anyone to phone you in a strange city - but it was Anne, also in town for a conference. Could we meet for dinner? And we did, and you can read a <a href="http://blethers.blogspot.co.uk/2007/02/san-francisco-hookup.html">short blog post</a> about it, though it doesn't mention my recording <a href="http://itc.blogs.com/minds/files/ContinentAway.MP3">a podcast</a> for her pupils.<br />
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But I must tear myself away from this nostalgic wandering among the archives. The reason I'm doing it appears in the photo at the top: Anne sent me this book that she and a colleague, Ewa McGrail, have written (and it costs <i>a fortune</i> to send a book from the USA) and it has the most lovely dedication on the front page and several references to me, all wonderfully flattering, scattered throughout the text. I'm delighted to get it, and to relive that time - which in many ways feels like another life. Even this blog post, full of links that take ages to find because I keep reading what I'm rummaging among, reminds me of that era.<br />
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Now, of course, it's all short-form communications. Social media rules, and the most unlikely people turn up on Facebook. Blogging is much less of a thing. And yet ... I find myself returning to <b>blethers</b> when I want to say something longer than a sentence, or something that I haven't got a proper photo for (because <a href="https://www.blipfoto.com/entry/2281146282892331026">Blipfoto</a> seems to have turned into my regular blog spot, in a strange way - maybe because of the interest of photographers). And when I was reading the book this morning, and reflecting on how I'd celebrate its arrival, I thought about children's writing and the joy of having it read by more than just the classroom teacher - to say nothing about having comments added by outsiders.<br />
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Children - and we've been talking primary school pupils throughout this - still love to have their best work displayed on the classroom wall. There is a place for this sort of controlled online interaction - on the much bigger wall, as it were, of the internet. This book, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Student-Blogs-Writing-Transform-Classroom/dp/1475831714/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1487870747&sr=1-1&keywords=anne+davis+Student+Blogs"><b>Student Blogs</b>,</a> seems to me to cover so many of the areas that might worry the cautious teacher - everything from accessing photos to Creative Commons and beyond - as to encourage any teacher to have a go.<br />
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Unless, of course, no-one can write more than 140 characters at a time these days. Just like The President ...<br />
<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-91046141616045605262017-02-06T17:38:00.000+00:002017-02-06T17:38:42.239+00:00A Treaty with metaphor <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I've been listening quite a bit to Leonard Cohen's final album - <b>You want it darker</b> - and in particular to one song that many, including me, regard as his last. <b><a href="https://www.google.co.uk/?gfe_rd=cr&ei=sqmYWLkNtNLwB5moj5gH#q=cohen+treaty+lyrics">Treaty</a></b>, a song which is reprised by a string quartet as the final track on the disc, has provoked several thoughtful responses, ranging from questions about its meaning to personal accounts of how it has come to symbolise and to soothe at this particular time in the writers' lives.<br />
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It's got me thinking too. Cohen was "a Sabbath-observant Jew", we are told, and his language reflects that background - but not only that. In <b>Treaty,</b> some of the symbolism comes from Jewish tradition - the fields rejoicing at Jubilee; some that is as familiar to Christian as to Jew - the serpent in the Garden; reference to changing the water into wine sounds like the marriage at Cana, in the Christian canon. Elsewhere on the album there is the juxtaposition of Jewish prayer with reference to the Crucifixion - and to me the effect is of a seamless blending of imagery which has a profound effect.<br />
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But then, I'm a Christian - I belong within a certain tradition, just as Cohen belonged in his. The joy for me is that the imagery works, so that without spelling it out I gain an insight into the regrets and compromises that we recognise as we grow old, and claim them as my own. But when I say that, am I asserting the rightness of my interpretation? Am I succeeding in what, to the best of my remembrance, Matthew Arnold demanded - <i>to see the object as in itself it really is</i>? I had to write an essay on this, the first essay set in the Ordinary English Class at Glasgow University in October 1964; I wish I could rewrite it now, when I have so much more to bring to it than the frantic garnering of other people's ideas that my essay amounted to then. But I digress.<br />
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What I'm trying to say is this: because I have access to a wide-ranging framework of imagery gained through several decades of worshipping and reading in a Christian context, I feel a resonance with Cohen's song. But if I were to attempt to explain it to a completely non-religious person, someone who has not grown up with the language, someone who has resolutely turned their back on such nebulous superstition, I would find it much harder - or at least, I would have to find another set of metaphors and different imagery to lay out that which I have a shorthand for.<br />
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So is all religion, in the end, set out in metaphor? My hero, the poet-priest R.S.Thomas, thought so. In a video clip the interviewer John Osmond asks RS Thomas whether his rôles as poet and priest conflict. No, he replies, because poetry is metaphor, and religion is also metaphor. He sees no conflict between administering the Christian sacraments, which are metaphor, and administering the metaphor of poetry. I have that video somewhere, though for want of a suitable connection to my TV I can no longer play it. But the memory of that interview sticks in my mind, and points to what I now recognise as my own position.<br />
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We use language to describe our experience. When we experience something new, we describe it in terms of the familiar, the known. When we continue to experience this, we perhaps change our similes into metaphor - so, God is no longer "like" something else (or like nothing we've ever experienced at all), God "is" something else. And then the attributes of the original something else become God's also, and the metaphor hardens with each accretion. Before you know where you are, God (or any other spiritual experience for which you originally had no words) has become solid, fixed, immutable - and lost something in the process.<br />
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I fear I'm drifting into territory where others, much more learned than I, already hold sway. Bear with me, folks - I'm doing this for myself. But the wonderful thing about Leonard Cohen's song - and about many, many more that he wrote in a lifelong pursuit of what he called "blackening pages" - is that he never himself explained what he meant. He left it to us to respond. And that, now that he's gone, is what people are doing in droves.<br />
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And this, I offer, is the antithesis of what I hate about organised religion. There is plenty to love, but rigid fundamentalism isn't part of that. Let's hear it for metaphor, and the freedom to respond: <i>I do not care who takes this bloody hill.</i>Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-31176080500117210942017-01-06T19:26:00.000+00:002017-01-06T19:26:22.495+00:00At the year's turning ...NHS magicA brief appreciation, on the Feast of the Epiphany, of an experience at the year's end. The year's end, when nothing is quite as normal, when people and institutions are not working at all, or on a shoestring before the next holiday, when the nights are long and dark and when often - as was the case last Thursday - the sun never really puts in an appearance and life seems suspended. It was on the evening of such a day, two days before Hogmanay, that I had occasion to make use of the Ambulance service and the A&E department in Dunoon's hospital. And before I get carried away, let me say one thing: they were wonderful.<br />
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A persistent cold virus has had every second person I know struggling over December, and it had caught me up over Christmas, so the day has been quiet, boring even, in a pleasant sort of way. This all changes when I am assailed by a searing pain that feels as if I'd been stabbed under the ribs (I haven't.) As it is actually the worst pain I've felt - even more so than childbirth - Mr B ends up dialling 999. It quickly becomes apparent, even to me, that people think I might be having a heart attack. (I'm not. I'm pretty sure of this, for some reason. Can one tell?) I think that when they hear my date of birth these days alarm bells ring. Besides, I am dripping in sweat, freezing to the touch, unable to stop trembling - you know the kind of thing. Quite dramatic.<br />
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I find myself being assisted downstairs by a large man in green. He is making soothing remarks. There is another big man in the hall. Soon our sitting-room is full of green - uniforms, bags - tubes, paper things, a white oxygen cylinder, needles. They take an ECG, despite the contacts' sliding off periodically. Morphine. Anti-emetic. "Don't go to sleep on me!" Fascinated - even in this state - to realise that though the pain is still there I don't care so much. And I don't really care about anything but the pain in the first place.<br />
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Seventeen steps between our front door and the gate. Swaying down on a small chair to which I am strapped, worrying that the man behind me will have a hernia by the time he reaches the gate, realising that the gate is not held back by the big chuckie I've used since I was pulling a pram up and down, noting dispassionately that the lead paramedic is having to hold it open with one foot in order to get me through it. The blue light on the ambulance is flashing, as it has presumably flashed for the past 45 minutes. Oh, Lord - the neighbours. It is strangely difficult to transfer from seat to bed, but I get there somehow. The ambulance has rock-hard suspension and I hear myself groaning. And all the time the lead paramedic is telling me I'll be all right and not to worry, and somehow I am comforted and simply give up.<br />
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It's the same in A&E. One nurse, one doctor. The paramedics are there doing the handover and then they're gone. More stabs. A cannula. Somewhere along the line the pain recedes and I fall asleep. The whatever-it-is you lie on in A&E seems sublimely comfortable. I don't know what I dream and what is real.<br />
<br />
I'm allowed to go home at 4am. Mr B is roused by a phone call, having been sent home before midnight, and I march out across the car park unaided. I am incredibly grateful for these people who rescued me, looked after me, restored me to myself. My own bed beckons. There is only one thing that perturbs me in this euphoric state ...<br />
<br />
I have been wearing my EastEnders dressing gown. Vulgar and totally risible. Warm, comforting - yes, but not what one's mother would have tolerated. Perhaps I should buy a more decent one ... just in case?Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-4430694697807730012016-12-14T13:22:00.000+00:002016-12-14T13:22:55.111+00:00How the NHS lost my man ...Here's a wee NHS story with a personal twist. I've been married to a non-person for the past 12 years - or is it 11? We did wonder, a month or so ago, when the man on the other end of the NHS24 line turned savage (or at least peremptory) and refused, "in the interests of security", to speak further with Mr B because, according to Mr NHS24, there was no-one with his details registered at our address. A tad Orwellian, huh? And strange, as we've lived here for over 40 years and Mr B has seen quite a few decades under the NHS. But we had other things on our mind, no-one was dying - he was only trying to make a physiotherapy appointment - and we let it go.<br />
<br />
Until yesterday. Yesterday, in the hospital On The Other Side - in Gourock, not in Heaven - the discovery was made that Mr B had the Wrong Number. This is the CHI Number, defined thus:<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red;">Definition</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: red;">The Community Health Index (CHI) is a population register, which is used in Scotland for health care purposes. The CHI number uniquely identifies a person on the index.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: red;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: red;">CHI is mandatory on all clinical communications.</span></b><br />
<br />
- according to the NHS site. It is a 10 digit number, the first part of which is one's date of birth. And some sharp-eyed person in Inverclyde noticed that Mr B's number didn't tally with the DoB he'd just given. There was, apparently, a great flurry of concern. And this is why ...<br />
<br />
Had Mr B been wheeled into A&E on a trolley after something horrid like a car crash, someone would presumably have retrieved his driving licence, found his name and DoB, and called up his medical records electronically. Only they might well not have been his records - or they would perhaps be unable to find them, because they'd be under another birth date. Luckily, he's not been in such a trauma, so the problem hasn't arisen, and yesterday he was perfectly compos mentis and able to speak up for himself. But don't forget the NHS24 man - he refused to speak to someone whose records didn't match what the person on the phone was telling him.<br />
<br />
A bit of digging at the local GP surgery - where he's been a patient since the 70s - revealed that the error happened some 11 years ago, when handwritten records were digitised. Someone changed a 0 to a 1, and the real Mr B disappeared, replaced by an imposter 10 days younger. And we've only just found out.<br />
<br />
I don't know what would have been the final outcome had this not been discovered. I hate to think. As it is, it's almost amusing - sufficiently so for me to blog with a relatively light heart. It might have been very different. I've just checked my CHI number, and it seems to be correct.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Is yours?</div>
<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-27042401456331220502016-11-07T18:25:00.000+00:002016-11-07T23:10:27.776+00:00Tolerant no moreI haven't been blogging much recently - short form social media has been bad for me; it makes communication easy and brief. But I've been driven back here by a meeting at the weekend, and the memories it stirred. The meeting was about Mission, and the memories involved me, blogging when it was The Thing, and the scorn heaped on any such thing by most of the church people outside the orbit of the <a href="http://thurible.net/">Provost of St Mary's Glasgow.</a><br />
<br />
I exaggerate, of course - always one for the soundbite. However, I'm not about to exaggerate now. We'd been discussing Mission - the hows, the who, the strategies. We'd argued the finer points of pew-removal, and whether this was A Good Thing. We'd talked about town-centre churches and churches stuck up a hill in the back of beyond; we'd pondered the desirability of holding discussions in a pub rather than in church after a service. It had been borne in on me anew that if the committed in any congregation are unable to demonstrate why they go to church by the way they refer to it, to what goes on there, and make it sound fun, frankly, then I wouldn't be tempted to visit. (I use the word "fun" loosely, you understand, for "fun" can encompass much - but it involves a spark however you find it).<br />
<br />
There was also this business of language. (I'll get on to the blogging connection, I promise, but I'm started now ...) I suspect we're all a bit different in our reactions to the different language we use to discuss our religious experience. I'm turned off by a great deal of traditional evangelical terminology myself; I can see it's helpful to other people but it makes me run a mile. So we have to gauge our audience and communicate accordingly - and if that means I often speak about religion in rather unexpected language then that's fine. I've spent my working life sizing up my audiences (classes, if you didn't know - classes of adolescents) and making my subject matter accessible and interesting, and I've transferred that to any sharing of religious experience now. I reckon self-awareness is tied up with that - do we ever objectively consider how we come across to people?<br />
<br />
And then there's social media. (Told you I'd get here). There are still people who "don't do social media" - and they say it as if there was a bad smell under their noses. Most of them are not exactly young, but it's surely more important to be youthful in our willingness to use whatever is available to make life easier? How on earth do you share anything with people who are (a) under 60 (b)total strangers (c)not exactly strangers but not intimate acquaintances, if you refuse to have anything to do with the vehicle through which they conduct an increasing amount of their social life?<br />
<br />
And do you know something? I'm no longer prepared to allow that the people who react like this have a right to their own opinions. If that's how they feel about it, perhaps they ought to consider themselves out of the game, as far as Mission is concerned. If that's how our church is seen, it will die.<br />
<br />
Happily, there are people who are not leaving the table (I'm hooked on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vbjRTN3-jCg">Leonard Cohen's latest album</a> just now, and it's supplying a soundtrack to this) - and some of them have been running the church, and some of them are prominent social media figures, and the interaction they engender by online discussion in popular forums (or should I stick to fora?) involves far more than just the members of the club. Now, at Synod, people are reminded of the power of social media and asked to tweet civilly - a change from the days when it was <i>de rigeur</i> to scoff at the silly names of the platforms instead. I've been scoffed at publicly in the past - but not any more.<br />
<br />
So can we have the next generation of missionaries (shall I call them that?) who will incorporate the use of social media into their talk as naturally as they used to talk about coffee mornings? And maybe, for the people who would prefer the latter, a deliberate policy of education to enable them to continue to be effective?<br />
<br />
But why bother writing all this? If you read it, you're using social media anyway. I'm preaching to the choir. But maybe it's just because I want to be less tolerant, and my own blog is a place to do it...Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-34336420711819448842016-08-12T16:54:00.002+01:002016-08-12T16:54:34.646+01:00Hoolies I have known ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This startling photo was taken by Karen Brodie last Saturday as the participants in the Festal Evensong that had just celebrated 140 years of the Cathedral of The Isles poured out in a swish of red and gold onto the steps and stopped to pose. Small people to the front, they said, and some of us obliged. Far be it from me to lurk in the shadow of a mitre ...<br />
<br />
It's been a long time since my first posing on these steps as part of an ecclesiastical extravaganza - the picture below was taken in the summer of 1973, when I have to say I felt as if I had a bit part in a Fellini film. It wasn't long after that that I was confirmed in the Episcopal Church, and another 6 months would see me uprooting myself from Glasgow and moving to Dunoon on the back of an invitation from the priest whose institution as priest-in-charge of Cumbrae as well as of Holy Trinity Dunoon was the occasion for that bit of finery. You can see that in those days we were soberly dressed in black (I think they were our MA gowns, and cassocks for the boys) whereas nowadays we are more Whoopie Goldbergish in red (donated by an American church). The red gowns used to have dreadful white polyester scarves, but we managed over time to lose these ...<br />
<br />
And if you look closely at the two photos, you should recognise one constant - or rather, four constants: the four members of the St Maura Singers, a relatively new group back then; a somewhat older one now. Two men, two women. We (the women) were both pregnant in the first photo; decidedly not so last weekend. So it's been a while, and we've seen a great many hoolies in this lovely place.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2q5V75Ke9_s/V63sSzzqm9I/AAAAAAAADKI/RioGO71OrocLUNXhSoTE-NQqrm5k-8hJwCLcB/s1600/775270_453945257992035_696373652_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2q5V75Ke9_s/V63sSzzqm9I/AAAAAAAADKI/RioGO71OrocLUNXhSoTE-NQqrm5k-8hJwCLcB/s400/775270_453945257992035_696373652_o.jpg" width="275" /></a>There's nothing quite like a full house to boost the spirits; nothing quite like a good choir to sing with to make the spirits soar. I reckon I've been lucky to have my faith journey as well as a chunk of my musical life linked into the Cathedral on Cumbrae - or the Cathedral of the Holy Spirit, or the Cathedral of The Isles, if you prefer - for it remains special, full of benevolent spirits and still numinous in the incense-remembering silence of an evening alone in the Butterfield building. I've shared it with musicians, with retreat groups, with a Cursillo weekend, with a preaching workshop, and simply with our friend Alastair who is the organist there. But no matter when I go or with whom, this is <i>my</i> place* - which may explain why I look so pleased with myself in Saturday's photo.<br />
<br />
That said, it was a crazy weekend. Many of us who made up the choir had arrived on the Friday for dinner and had rehearsed until 10pm; the following day we began at 10am and went on till 1pm with a 15 minute break; the Evensong - an enormous sing - took up the afternoon; we rehearsed till 10pm in the evening. On Sunday, we began at 9.45am to practise for the Eucharist (a Mass setting we'd never seen before); when that was over and we'd grabbed a salad it was back to get ready for a concert at 3pm. I haven't worked so hard in years, and neither has my voice.<br />
<br />
I attribute its surprising resilience to a summer spent singing along to Leonard Cohen, actually - it's fair ironed out the break around Middle C that used to cause me such bother, and in a summer of builders and no choir it's been good to have something to sing with. How long, O Lord ...?<br />
<br />
A final thought: I have no idea what anyone not involved in this kind of thing makes of it. It's clearly formed a big part of my life, and I've had a lot of fun. But normal? I don't think so ...<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-size: x-small;">*This is not strictly true, you understand: there are probably hundreds of people who'd say the same, but ...</span>Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-64434027738944855872016-07-28T13:14:00.000+01:002016-07-28T13:14:59.337+01:00Cross-Pollination I haven't posted for a bit. It's not that I haven't been sitting at my desktop: far from it. But from being someone who rarely uses earphones (they were so uncomfortable) and hasn't listened to much of what might loosely be termed popular music since the age of 18 (a while, then) I've spent most of the time doing just these two things. I always did love a good love song, back in the day, and I've always preferred what might be termed music to slit your wrists to ... And now I've rediscovered both, and as Facebook friends will hardly have failed to realise, I've been listening to Leonard Cohen.<br />
<br />
I specified a sort of cut-off date for my interest in pop; it coincided with the rise of the Beatles and my discovery of Palestrina and Byrd and these two geniuses shaped my musical tastes for the rest of my life, I thought. Yes, there were other passions - Tippet, Tchaikovsky, Sibelius, to name the composers on some of my early LPs - but the music I loved to sing, and to sing along with, belonged to the Renaissance. I developed a voice as similar to the counter tenor as I could, and my reading abilities flourished as I sang in an octet (The New Consort of Voices, for anyone who was around Glasgow Uni circles in the late 60s/early 70s) and the quartet that still performs today with only a change in the soprano line, the St Maura Singers. We started a larger choir when we moved to Dunoon - The Hesperians, from the women of which group the current 8+1 choir was born. There was a church choir, intermittently - it tended to suffer from church politics and eventually vanished.<br />
<br />
All this was made easier, of course, by the fact that I'd married a musician who works magic with choirs. But living with a musician also tends to influence some - not all - of the music played at home. Because of that influence, I've learned almost all I know. But because the current choir, 8+1, sings everything from Ah Robyn to Mamma Mia, there's been a shift in my earworm availability, and one of our repertoire got stuck that way: Leonard Cohen's Halleluia. And it was seeing <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q">a video </a>on Facebook/YouTube of a live performance by him, a recent live performance, that started me on the online trawl for other songs of this performer who was in his mid-70s at the time the recordings were made - and that's what I've been singing along with for the last two months.<br />
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<br />
So what made me want to reflect on this? Here's a thing. For the whole of July until today, we've had work going on in our dining room. The painter finished only this morning. The floor is varnished, the room is clean - and empty. It has a wonderful acoustic. So yesterday the two of us, Mr B and I, sang and recorded <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIFTeh7lsRc">St Magnus' Hymn</a> - the two-part 12th Century piece that begins "nobilis, humilis...". And after the first go, when I was singing at my usual mezzo pitch and straining slightly on the high E, I went down an octave and immediately sounded - and felt - better. This is an area of my voice that I've been unhappy with recently; helping out on the second soprano part has led to the neglect of the lower end of my voice, with the break at Middle C becoming more troublesome than it has been since I was in my early 20s. But yesterday it was fine, with an equal resonance taking me down to F.<br />
<br />
Why? Presumably because the ageing voice of Leonard Cohen means he now sings in his boots, and that's what I've been singing along with. I've not been belting it out, just crooning, but that gentle exercise has been enough to make the difference. I feel somehow vindicated - that I've not wasted the tradesmen-minding hours listening on headphones, but have done something my laziness has too often stopped me doing when I've not practised vocal exercises. And I've learned some cracking new songs ...Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-17790323378152962972016-06-24T19:31:00.000+01:002016-06-24T19:31:24.455+01:00A song for a sad day.Brain keeps singing songs - even today, when the news is so bad and the country has gone crazy. Scotland votes to stay in Europe? No matter. We don't have the say. But the songs keep coming, and maybe it makes me feel better to let them. I'm not up to more cerebral poems anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Unity no more</b><br />
<br />
I woke up this morning<br />
with the sun on my face<br />
for a moment lay peaceful<br />
just a moment of grace<br />
<br />
till the memory roused me<br />
of the graphs and the polls<br />
and I reached to discover<br />
that we’d traded our souls.<br />
<br />
The country had chosen<br />
to be duped in their choice,<br />
to reclaim some lost freedom<br />
to follow the voice<br />
<br />
of those who shout hatred<br />
for the lost and the strange<br />
who would make us a fortress<br />
put up barriers to change.<br />
<br />
But the sun is still shining<br />
and the birds sing in tune<br />
and it’s only the people<br />
who will recognise soon<br />
<br />
That it’s too late for thinking<br />
and it’s too late for love<br />
and the voices have drowned out<br />
the song of the dove<br />
<br />
And the magpies are fighting on the grass<br />
And the magpies are fighting on the grass.<br />
<br />
C.M.M. 24/06/16<br />
<br />
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<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-42532257187396356722016-06-20T17:57:00.001+01:002016-06-20T17:57:52.673+01:00SongIt's strange how one can be so influenced in one's writing by what's going in - visually, through reading the work of other writers, or - as in this case - audibly. I've recently been listening to a good bit of Leonard Cohen's music - realise I enjoy it far more now than when he and I were both much younger, when he had the kind of voice I didn't care for at the time. But what interests me now is that with that rhythm in my brain, I've found myself thinking in a lyric metre - and that the journey there was far more seductive than the suggestion made over the years by one critic of my work that I should discipline my writing in this way.<br />
<br />
Not that this is disciplined - and not that I took much time over it. It's a song looking for a tune, and it's a song for now, for me now and in this time, when I know that all over Britain people of my generation are going to vote to leave Europe and I feel ashamed, when politics are vile, when my friends seem self-selecting and everyone else is lost. <br />
<br />
I also feel furious - but all that happens is a song without a melody.<br />
<br />
But for what it's worth ...<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
SONG<br />
<br />
When I think about today<br />
and what I am and where<br />
and the world keeps crashing in<br />
with anger - do I care?<br />
<br />
Well yes, I find I’m thinking,<br />
though nothing seems to move<br />
in the world that I inhabit<br />
in the people that I love -<br />
<br />
but the violence and sorrow<br />
and the voices screaming hate<br />
cut across my passive questions<br />
take me out beyond my gate<br />
<br />
to the people sunk in apathy<br />
to the old and the unwise,<br />
drive me far beyond the safety zone<br />
to where the world cries.<br />
<br />
And though I’m growing older<br />
and common sense says fear<br />
in my heart I’m still protesting<br />
in my head it still seems clear<br />
<br />
that we cannot stand and wonder<br />
while the world dissolves in flame -<br />
we must fight to save the future<br />
not live content with shame.<br />
<br />
C.M.M. 06/16<br />
<br />Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-70321358811534875302016-04-13T13:25:00.000+01:002016-04-13T13:25:53.320+01:00Unpredictable - a poem revisited.I've finally got round to some revising - a poem I wrote in Vietnam, in the heat and humidity of our first days there, before I'd settled into accepting it all. I was put off by the comments of someone I'd considered a sympathetic critic - made the mistake of letting him see the raw first draft. However, re-reading it and changing the structure more than the content, I find it recreates the moment, the strangeness, the otherness. So here it is, more than I year after I first wrote it.<br />
<br />
<b>Unpredictable</b><br />
<br />
The lawns of rice deceive the eye<br />
until one sees unwillingly<br />
the ditches and the depth<br />
and something strange and out of place<br />
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like graves or shrines in centre-field<br />
and recognises foreign-ness<br />
as tangled in this alien world<br />
as mats of green inexorably<br />
drifting on the muddy tide, which<br />
people eat, like snakes in wine<br />
and scorpions, and spiders piled<br />
in glistening heaps to tempt the eye.<br />
And flowing round the air’s embrace<br />
is heavy with the drifting smoke<br />
of stubble burning in the fields<br />
beyond the river’s parapet where<br />
sunset comes before its hour.<br />
A song comes from a hidden bank<br />
and cattle, golden in the light<br />
descend to drink and all is strange<br />
and lushly vibrant in the dusk.<br />
<br />
C.M.M. Vietnam 03/15Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-55539822321079731012016-03-14T18:59:00.000+00:002016-03-14T19:02:53.895+00:00Fair buzzing in Oban<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Victorious table at dinner</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've mulled it over for the past five days, but now I realise that Synod reports are being demanded - not, happily, from me - right left and centre and it's time I put down my take on the Argyll and The Isles Diocesan Synod. The main impetus, to be honest, came from two online sources: the <a href="http://www.bishopdavid.net/2016/03/5687/">Primus' blog,</a> in which he said his synod had 'a buzz', and the commiserations of friends on Facebook that I should be enduring this thing.<br />
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I'll deal with the latter first. The only commiserations I might have deserved lay in the fact that the Synod itself was held in (yet another) windowless room on a gloriously sunny day in a location next to a sea loch and an attractively wooded shore line: I did get stir crazy, and spent the lunch break picking my way down to a beach and over dub and mire as the birds sang round me. The rest of the time I was really enjoying myself, both on the pre-Synod day (it's hardly worth it to bring people from such a far-flung area unless they get a decent shot at socialising) and during Synod itself.<br />
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And that brings me to the former stimulus: I don't know what caused the buzz at the St Andrew's Synod, but I have a good idea of what contributed to our buzz. (I'd really like to know, by the way, what manner of buzzing goes on elsewhere ...) First of all, of course, we have an extraordinary bishop who could cause a buzz in a morgue. He delivered an ode, for Heaven's sake. But actually it was more than this. I am convinced that the excitement arose from the fact that instead of sitting in stupor listening to presentation after presentation we were allowed to talk to each other, about everything from the balance sheets to the first time we'd encountered the Holy Spirit.<br />
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This was achieved by a variety of methods, but primarily by the fact that on the Pre-Synod day, reviewing our progress with Building the Vision, we had two facilitators making us mix - moving people from one table to another after the manner of a Snowball waltz, for instance. At Synod, each table had a facilitator (I was one) to get people talking, as at General Synod a couple of years ago. And yes, we talked about the accounts and as a result made demands for more detail, clarification, amplification ... Before anyone asks, I had a plant at my table, an accountant who could make more sense of a balance sheet than I care to, so that I could merely render into words the data he fed me.<br />
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By the end of the two days, I came to this conclusion: people are excited by what brings them together in a situation like this. They become animated by the chance to share it with others whom they don't really know - because this unlocks the kind of honesty you sometimes find in a hospital ward, the honesty of strangers, when inhibition and fear of something you say coming back to bite you can be cast aside. So that is what lay behind the astonishment of the imported facilitator when she remarked on the alacrity with which pairs and groups got to grips with the Big Questions - she couldn't believe how little fencing she met as she moved round.<br />
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I have to confess that I enjoy facilitating a group. I love being able to make people feel at ease with one another and with the topics they've been asked to consider. I love realising I've managed to break the ice without losing anyone under it. It feeds all sorts of my own needs for interaction - and that's before we get on to the subject matter under discussion.<br />
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I haven't mentioned the other aspects of this meeting, that had me and others in Oban from late on Monday afternoon till late afternoon on Wednesday. I've not talked about a riotous dinner after the Synod Eucharist, nor about the quiz that my table won and the Bishop's Easter Egg (our prize) that I suspect may have vanished to Cumbrae. I've not mentioned the Monday night, the dinner on the pier with old and new friends, nor the delight of watching a first-time visitor grow in confidence as the days went on. I can't tell you how much I laughed, nor how much I was laughed at. It was all part of the whole.<br />
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So yes: there was an enormous buzz at the Argyll Synod. There was laughter, there were tears, there was pastoral work being done over lunch breaks, there was kindness, there were friendships rekindled. For me, there was also the knowledge that it was my last: I've served on General Synod for the past 10 years as alternate or elected representative, and it's time to step down. I'm not a committee person, and I hate being trapped indoors. But even with all that, I'm sure of one thing. I'll miss it.Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19191002.post-29739506487924499392016-02-01T18:55:00.000+00:002016-02-01T18:55:53.797+00:00Of urban open spaces and a post-war childhoodI was reading the other day about a dispute over an area of land in the West of Glasgow which is currently used as a (relatively) wild place for children to play, for people to grow things, to be free, and which is threatened by proposed housing development. The writer went on to enlarge on the features that make it so important to retain its use for recreation, particularly the benefits to children's health and wellbeing of such unstructured play in a traffic-free area in a city.<br />
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It had me thinking of my own childhood freedoms, also in the West End of Glasgow - freedoms positively enhanced by the relatively recent World War 2. I'm sure I've mentioned much of this before - the place where the land-mine demolished a bit of Polwarth Gardens' tenements, and the huge blocks of red sandstone that still littered the site sticks in my mind, although as a Novar Drive kid I didn't stray there often; we were very territorial in these days. My usual companions lived in the next close and we barely tolerated strangers ...<br />
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My usual playground was an open space in Novar Drive where the end of Lauderdale Gardens didn't reach as far as the Novar and was linked to it by a muddy track over empty, hilly ground. On the lower side, which has now been built on, there was a rubbish dump, an infill site, I suppose, where building debris (a result of bombing?) shared the space with more mundane litter like soot left by chimney sweeps (great face-paint) and at the top of which was the underground air-raid shelter in which we sometimes lit illicit fires. To the far side of the dump were two brick-built shelters with thick concrete roofs; we rarely went inside (too smelly) but played Kingball, precariously, on the roof of one.<br />
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When it snowed, I borrowed a sledge from a neighbour whose daughter was a good 6 years older than me - she would be at school and I'd be hurtling down the sloping field, often alone, for hours. I have a feeling that the winter I'm recalling was my first at school, when Hillhead Primary had an intake in January; some primary teacher must have doubled up and taken my class in the afternoon after her morning class had gone home. My mother, already having to attend to my 2 year old sister, would despair at converting my wet, grubby morning self into a schoolgirl in time for the 1pm start. (Crazy idea, now I think of it again.)<br />
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When the days grew longer, we spent hours climbing the stunted hawthorn trees on the hillier side of this area; swinging from branches and making dens under - or on top - of them. And then there were the marathons, when we ran round and round a small path that cut through the long grass until we were gasping and scarlet in the face ... and the hiding places in the grass where we used sticks for rifles ... to say nothing of playing chase the arrows all over Hyndland, all the way to Clarence Drive ...<br />
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I was always grubby, always scratched, always exhausted by the time our parents summoned us all from the windows of our flats. When we left Hyndland for a "low door" in Broomhill I was devastated. At the age of 10, my life outwith school had been changed for ever. Shades of the prison house ...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uaxqEK24zn4/Vq-liZ51jKI/AAAAAAAADD8/rgjz00Bowko/s1600/Novar%2BDr%2Bjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uaxqEK24zn4/Vq-liZ51jKI/AAAAAAAADD8/rgjz00Bowko/s320/Novar%2BDr%2Bjpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I looked up my old haunts on Google Earth. They're barely recognisable, though "my" tenements haven't changed. This first picture is of the play area I've described in such tedious detail. The whole tenement block on the right is new - that's where the rubbish and the overground air raid shelters were. The trees are new - though clearly they've been growing for a while. The play-park just visible on the left is new, and I would have scorned it as tame and at the same time treacherous (I always got sick on swings). <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4Um1i09WVsM/Vq-mLI2OxCI/AAAAAAAADEE/YtcVW3xCkq4/s1600/66%2BNovar%2Bjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4Um1i09WVsM/Vq-mLI2OxCI/AAAAAAAADEE/YtcVW3xCkq4/s320/66%2BNovar%2Bjpg.jpg" width="320" /></a> The second picture looks from the same place as the first, down Novar Drive. New tenements on the left - but you can make out where the old ones begin, with a lane in between which was always there. The top flat we lived in has the bay window just before that tall chimney head on the right of the road. It all looks very crowded, with the cars on either side. We played in the street and in our wilderness, and no-one worried. (Actually, children don't know the secret worries of the mother marooned with a baby in a top flat who suddenly can't see her firstborn and wonders where it might be ...).<br />
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What I'd actually like to know is how my own offspring would have fared in this environment, instead of the seaside town we brought them up in - and even how their children would cope with a top flat. What I do know for myself is that I couldn't return.<br />
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It was good, though, back then ...Christine McIntoshhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198224025775398453noreply@blogger.com2