13.08.2018

On Saturday I went for a run, after not getting tickets to the proms and feeling a little worried about how the rest of the day would unfold. 'Take it slow, it's a beautiful day,' I told myself, and turned right into the hedge path away from the road.

After going round the playing field and heading back, I noticed -blackberries. Bushes laden with them, and I stopped and picked and ate and (most of them) were so sweet. In my head was the music I'd been listening to in the morning 'Divinely beautiful, you came into my world. You are the lifter of my head, now my heart will follow.'

From Blossoms
(Li Young Lee)

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward 
signs painted Peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into 
the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.

After a train ride, many tube rides and lots of lifting big suitcases up stairs, I did manage to get a ticket and so at 7, Jacob and I (despite being in 2 separate queues) got into the Royal Albert Hall, and sat on the floor of the gallery (the gods, as Grandma called it) and ate dinner with makeshift spoons, and then listened to the orchestra play the music of West Side Story. I watched the strings players move with the music like water, and remembered Grandma's way of moving her hands to flowing music.

The next day, Jacob and I went for a run and stopped on the way back because - more blackberries. There has been almost too much sweetness in these last few days for me to bear (thankfully I've got to share most of it with him).

Pebbles, Perfection and swimming in the nude

On the second day of working in the New Hall Art Collection, I was sent to Kettle’s Yard to deliver a package. Kettle’s Yard was the former home of Jim Ede, an art collector and friend of artists, who wove art into his home. And art to him wasn’t confined to the conventional definitions of painting, sculpture, print, drawing etc., but included things like pebbles, shells and selected drawings of his daughters. After delivering the package, I was brought round the house before it opened for the day’s viewings.

I’d been into the house before, and I remember thinking how peaceful it would be, to one day come back in the morning when people were at school or work, and pick up a book, sit in one of his armchairs surrounded by Arthur Wallis ship paintings, and just read. Being there so early that day meant it was largely empty aside from the two Andrews who were setting it up, the curator, and me, and so it felt less like a house for viewing and more like a house for living. The beauty of the house is that it feels private (even when filled with people looking at it) and like it’s breathing, particularly with its airy light colour scheme and minimalist furniture.

On one off the tables, there is a spiral of pebbles. Each was close to spherical, but not quite, just as the spiral is comprised of almost circles. In an essay (unpublished, but a photocopy of it in his handwriting can be found in the house), Ede mused about pebbles and perfection. To find the perfect pebble, he writes, is a once in a century, a once in a continent matter. He then asks: if perfection is so rarely found in nature why do we expect – demand- perfection in art? Why must art be first-rate, or ‘the best and the brightest’ as Matthew Arnold once put it. The detail and particular beauty in the imperfections of nature are miracles, in Ede’s eyes, and no less worthy of being seen as art than the most perfect Michaelangelo. (Although, of course, even Michaelangelo’s David is literally riddled with imperfection.)

Later that evening, I cycled down to the Riverbank Club. As I walked through the leafy footpath to ‘Heaven’s Door’, the first drops of light rain began to fall after a scorching weekend. Not the perfect weather for a swim, but I was there, and the river was inviting. A few people were under a tent, sheltering from the rain, and seeing me pick up my towel they realized I was going for a swim.

‘Can’t swim with your clothes on love!’ One lady joked, and, suddenly conscious of how fully clothed I was in front of their nakedness (the riverbank club is costumes optional) I sort of stammered a ‘Oh, I’m just going to change over there,’ and scurried away to the changing hut.

It is dim and slightly musty in there, and on the wall there are newspaper articles, quotes and a board detailing kingfisher sightings hung up. One of the pieces of paper reads ‘It is entirely good and full of grace to be here’, which I feel describes the riverbank club well – a place where all are welcome, all are worthy, nothing is required of you except to savour the moment. It is (and has been for me) a sort of Eden in Cambridge, a place where I feel good and, particularly in the water, full of grace.
But as I got out of my clothes I wondered, what had made me so bashful in front of those lovely, naked people? Part of me felt rude just being clothed before them, and yet part of me was terrified of the act of unclothing before them. I’ve often looked at the bodies of the people there, sun blushed and bearing the kind marks of age that makes the body so interesting, and felt embarrassed at my young body, smooth and exposed. Like a pebble that has no beautiful imperfections, just a plane of skin. How silly, I thought, when society elevates that sort of beauty, the untrialled and uncut. And yet when I’m wearing clothes in society, bearing a body close to conventional standards of ‘beauty’, I don’t feel confident in it either.

I slipped into the river, and swam towards Grantchester, feeling the cool water on my skin and the occasional river weed across my belly. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Arms, legs, dunk-head-in. Gradually my body became in my mind not an appraisable object but was seal-like, moving me through the water. No wondering if my appearance was worthy of being an art object, if my perfections and imperfections affected my worth. Just a miracle, a girl-seal, swimming naked at 8pm in the drizzle, fearfully and wonderfully made.

02/08/2018

I woke up today from a nightmare that shocked me at how violent my brain could be against - itself? The sort of dream where there's a frightening person threatening you (and unlike usual dreams where you're sort of omniscient and pre-empt what is about to come next, the threat arrives unexpectedly) and you try to scream to get help but you can't and you can't move either.

But like that funny saying 'red sky at night, shepherd's delight' and the night's terror was the beginning of a incredible day. Having worked in the kitchen here for 5 days now, everything has become a process that I feel I know my role in. It's still tiring and frantic in that one hour before we serve up (not helped by the fact that we are a team of 5 where in previous years there have always been six in the catering team) but it's punctuated by a morning prayer, tea breaks that break out in laughter, fun chat, and occasional kitchen singing.

At the beginning of the week I was worried that I wouldn't be able to connect with women of such a different age group and stage in life, but although I'm the age of their children (or possibly grandchildren in a couple of cases) we've grown to really appreciate and have fun with each other.

It's incredible how a shared faith transcends boundaries of age and situation. We're all vastly different, and yet today one woman shared with the rest of us how one of the biggest things she'd noticed about being a Christian was just how liberating it was to have you identity rooted in Christ. How you no longer needed to worry about approval from others or showing and working for your worth, since you have been redeemed and therefore deemed worthy of love and forgiveness and grace by Jesus. And I thought - yes! yes, that's something I'm definitely still learning but which has become so apparent to me in the recent years in Cambridge where to compete against others is futile and you have to examine why you do what you do - is it simply to prove to some arbitrary authority that you can, or a reflection of joy at the gifts God has give you and the context He has blessed you with?

During my afternoon break I took a walk to the Base Camp, had a nice conversation with a policeman (who I asked for directions from) on the way over, got a complimentary coffee and some non-complimentary but very exciting books, and then walked back via the Keswick Market. I stopped by a shop selling muesli (how can I not stop when I see toasted oats and nuts) and spoke with the man selling the muesli. He let me try some, and gave sympathy when he found out our team are cooking 70-90 people three meals a day, and told me about how he'd decided to start this muesli business with a friend after university. I told him my sort-of (day) dream I have of starting a cafe and selling granola, and he laughed and said he'd consider making granola to sell alongside his muesli.

(sorry I've just gone on a ramble about muesli of all things - but it was such a lovely passing conversation)

After the dinner shift I went to the main tent to listen to the talk. It was incredibly inspiring, given by two missionaries in Egypt who work in a poor village, spreading God's word, helping the local people improve their social and living conditions, and providing a service to the special needs children of the village too. At one point, the man speaking choked up as he talked about his wife's work with the special needs children, and I saw just how much he respected her and loved the children, and at the same time how much his heart broke for them and for her as her heart is broken by the difficulty and discrimination they face. He didn't try to restrain the tremble in his voice or the tears in his eyes, but spoke through it before he became composed again and spoke with a bright intensity about why it is all worth it - why they do what they do when it is so hard. And that is simply because Jesus is worth it all, is the ultimate healer of heartbreak and mender of bodies and minds, and his salvation is the greatest treasure they could give to anyone, a treasure that would mean even someone living in the poorest, most decrepit of conditions would be the richest person in the world.

After the talk they called for people who had felt any inclination or calling to work in the mission field to come to the front if they wanted to be prayed for - and as we sang the final song I was moved as I saw so many going forward. Young, old, men, women - to share what has given them joy and peace and life to the full.

I walked back from the evening meeting and though the mist covered most of the fells, in a little break between the clouds I glimpsed a salmon-red sky.

Sydney and the Sabbath

At one point this year I talked to Jacob about something and found out he didn't work on a Sunday, devoting it to God as the Sabbath - the day of rest. Intrigued and inspired (and maybe slightly competitive) I decided to see what it would be like, to give a whole day to God and not getting ahead with my own life. And so it was that Sundays begun being devoted to rest. It's funny, I remember reading about a dull way of spending a Sabbath resting in Laura Ingalls Wilder's series

They must walk slowly and solemnly, looking straight ahead.  They must not joke or laugh, or even smile.  Grandpa and his two brothers walked ahead, and their father and mother walked behind them.

In church, Grandpa and his brothers must sit perfectly still for two long hours and listen to the sermon.  They dared not fidget on the hard bench.  They dared not swing their feet.  They dared not turn their heads to look at the windows or the walls or the ceiling of the church.  They must sit perfectly motionless, and never for one instant take their eyes from the preacher.

When church was over, they walked slowly home.  They might talk on the way, but they must not talk loudly and they must never laugh or smile.  At home they ate a cold dinner which had been cooked the day before.  Then all the long afternoon they must sit in a row on a bench and study their catechism, until at least the sun went down and Sunday was over. (Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little House in the Big Woods)

But rest is not literal stasis. Rest can be a joyful cartwheel on a winter's morning walk at the white snowy world God has created. Rest can be making a hot bowl of porridge, or a cold bowl of nice cream and granola and eating it with thanks for nourishment and the day and a person you love to share breakfast with. Rest can be laughing till tears come to your eyes at the tipsy antics of choir post evensong.

Even before learning about Jacob's Sabbath, I'd begun thinking about rest. In summer 2017 I went to Sydney to see my dear friend Ellis, and in Sydney she taught me the Australian art of chilling. There were no formal lessons - that, I think, would be antithetical to the spirit of chill in the first place, but she showed me, by contrast and direct calling out, how prone to activity I am. Not simply activity for joy and fulfilment but activity just to fill - an escape from not having anything to do, to be, to distract myself with. Often I had spans of time in Sydney with nothing particularly pressing to do, and instead of trying to find yet another thing, I'd find myself. I remember clearly lying under a bridge, listening to the metallic echo and roar as cars went over head, focusing my entire mind on the single simple thought of gratefulness for shade from the head. On another occasion I walked from Manly to Spit, and felt thankful for silence. At one point the trees became dappled and I stopped and took a photo of myself hiding in the leaves so I could see how much I could camouflage myself. (It is not a photo to put on the world wide interweb, not just because it isn't particularly good but because it wasn't taken for exposure but for exploration.)

I've realised that when you rest your mind has more space to find pathways of its own. It's the sort of contemplative suspension you allow yourself to have in an art gallery, lavishing time over individual paintings, gazing, wondering - and finally creating a certain idea or conclusion. In the Gallery of New South Wales, I stopped in front of this painting for a long time. Because it is abstract, I couldn't accept it as something and then move on in the way one can with realist paintings if in a hurry. No, this is beautiful - but why? Why is it called Joie de Vivre, and what is the joy of life? Is it flowers, a sunset, or the tulle swirl of a dancer's skirt? Perhaps it is just colour, or maybe emotion expressed as colour - exhilaration, love, happiness, the feeling of a kiss - 

Where does joy come from? Why do I deserve joy? What sort of joy is lasting?

'Joie de Vivre' (1958, Mary Webb)

It makes sense that galleries have their roots in churches, then, because of the contemplative mind that both encourage and thrive off. But why do we contain this restful mindset to 'hallowed' walls? This Sabbath attitude of thinking deeply and unhurriedly (in other words, restful but meaningful thought) and taking joy in the process and the conclusion (which is, to me at least, more often than not God) is transformative. If we took it outside the physical walls of a gallery or church and outside the ideological walls of art and religiosity, then it would transform the ordinary and make every breath on Sunday a Sabbath rest.