Farewell to An English Garden

Dear Reader:

I defy anyone to move to England and not succumb to the craze for gardening. A far cry from US suburban yards, the English garden is the zeitgeist of a nation with a stiff upper lip and a hopelessly romantic heart. If you want to understand the subtext of the English, you can do no better than to take one look at a cottage garden - a riot of colourful fancy dressing up a relentless practicality. No French excess of flounciness for flounciness' sake or the stark continental formality born in the courts of megalomaniacal emperors; the English garden has a self-assuredness to it that is a common link between the high and low. Impressive, beautiful, eccentric, and deceptively uncontrolled - those with less discerning eyes underestimate the discipline and social compact behind English gardening to their own peril.

English gardeners have the blood of the ancient Bretwalda coursing through their veins. Their patch of the street might as well be England in its entirety. Its care and management is a matter of ancestral honour; even the humblest of sorts rises to the call of dutiful oversight. Less about style than making an effort, the horticultural Highness of a Kennsington courtyard is no more a credit to his or her lineage than the green-fingered governor of a flower bed filled with gnomes. Each is giving it some welly.  Gardeners in this green and pleasant land do so with an assurance that the Italians must feel with opera: talent has very little to do with it. It is a birthright.

This assurance translates into a passion that transcends smugness. Most of the gardeners I have met here are eager to share with non-native novices. When I immigrated from New York, I had little to no confidence that I could offer anything other than the kiss of death to plants, based on a rather sad history with an indoor ficus. With the wisdom of Gandalf, my first landlady in London entrusted me with her shrub garden, companioning me as I fumbled with Latin taxonomy; overcame my terror at the thought of pruning; and had my first successes in planting perennials by applying the principle: 'right plant, right place.'  A few noble flora sacrificed their lives on my learning curve, but others survived and through their responses schooled me in their needs. Little by little, I became as rooted in the soil I fed and tended as the plants, mini-beasts and animals that lived there. My landlady had shared more than gardening tips, she had taught me how to be at home and grounded in this new land. Nearly ten years on, and I still think that the title 'Landlady,' when applied to her, is a mystical moniker.

And make no mistake, gardening here is a mystical endeavour, though you will find few who own up to it publicly. Each time a hawthorn or holly; birch or oak; bramble or elder is planted or allowed to grow if self-seeded, the gardener behind the choice knows that each one brings more to the garden than what meets the eye. Their medicinal properties and use in conjurations have been passed down in song, folklore and religion for millenia on this island. While one may be dazzled by the mass of foreign specimens in the English garden today (by which the history of the Empire may well be traced) look closely: more often than not it is the persistent ivy growing up the wall behind that will be valued most by locals for its traditional gravitas and value to native wildlife.

Reader, this appreciation for the indigenous is a sensibility that I hope I have the sense to carry with me as I relocate back to the US this month. I will miss my English garden that I have come to love and know so well. It would be impossible to recreate it elsewhere. But a beautiful American expression of the values I have learned here is just waiting to burst forth when I get my hands in the soil of my native land. And I will be grounded again.

Glad you are there,
P

Let dreamers dream

What worlds they please

Those Edens can't be found.

The sweetest flowers,

The fairest trees

Are grown in solid ground.

We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good,

We'll do the best we know.

We'll build our house and chop our wood

And make our garden grow.

And make our garden grow!

                                      -("Make our Garden Grow" Candide)

Rainy Days and Red Underpants

Dear Reader:

For folks like me of the Jesus ilk, this week is the annual remembrance of an archetypal story of all too common events with a whopper of a supernatural finale. It’s not too difficult to believe the first events of the week: it seems to me that there have been very few people who have tried to change the unholy trinity of religion, state and commerce without ending up walking a very thin plank or being nailed to one. We are a frightening, predictable species – couch any issue as an all or nothing struggle between beliefs and surely teeth will be gnashing and all will end in tears.

It strikes me as odd that we spend a lot of time rallying around what we believe rather than wondering what we are doing when we believe in something in the first place. When we believe in something, we probably function on at least two levels: we accept ‘something’ as true; and we actively commit to investing ourselves and our future outcomes on the magic of this believing, with either preventative or proactive outcomes.

A case in point: When I was a young child, I was convinced that when my grandfather would look out the window and say, “It looks like it's going to rain today,” (which he seemed to do often) that it inevitably would. I believed that if he would just stop predicting it, the rain would probably not come.  With indignation at the possibility of losing another day of playing in the sunshine, I would shout at him as one in-the-know about such mystical things, “Papaw, stop talking up the rain!”  It seemed simple to me: Don’t say it; don’t believe it; it won’t happen. Magic 101. I also seem to remember my grandfather grinning like the Cheshire Cat as he easily got my goat again.

We have this extraordinary capacity to believe in almost anything, if we lean into it with the force of our convictions. Belief straddles time: many of the things we believe in have experiential antecedents (I wore red underpants to my last interview and got the job. I believe they are my lucky drawers! ); and we count on their magical influence on the future (I have an important job interview Friday: better make sure to wear my lucky Underoos.) In a quixotic way, believing in something shapes our character, rightly or wrongly, (when I am wearing my rouge undies, I can take on the world!)  Find someone who does not believe in anything, and you will probably find someone as dull as dishwater. I don't know if this rings true with you, but for my money, I believe that belief, with awareness, is a rather special part of being an imaginative Homo sapiens.  

Speaking of dishwater: when I lived in South Africa, many traditional leaders, including President Mandela, respected the people’s belief in the last of the Modjadji, the Rain Queen of the Balobedu in Limpopo, even though there had often been droughts historically. Belief in her did not seem to depend on whether she produced results or not. There was a deeper magic happening: by believing in the Rain Queen, one belonged and was connected to generations past. In a scientific age, parts of our brain may be perfectly aware that weather is caused by an interplay of environmental forces; yet there is another part of us that delights in believing that something extraordinary might still happen – that the ol’ gal might just have one more inexplicable cloudburst up her sleeve. 

Reader, I wonder if we were to scratch the surface of any of our suited and booted contemporaries, would we find underneath a chanting, fully functioning shaman/ mystic/ conjurer/ Rain Queen? We probably do rituals more times than we can imagine in a day, based on our beliefs. Maybe to be human is to be a magical being. Perhaps we refuse to believe that we could be here and not be able to affect the odds of things happening or not happening. The alternative is an acceptance that rain falls on the magical and not-so-magical regardless of our beliefs, a lesson often learned in the hardest of ways as we are forced by life and losses to re-examine certain beliefs. But this might not be the worst that can happen; this acceptance levels the playing field and reminds us that we are all in the same boat, here in this perfect storm. Maybe then, as we gain clearer perspectives on what we are hoping for when we are believing, further crucifixions and surf and turf wars can be exposed for what they are: the sad irony of a common species doing a common thing (believing), yet killing one another in the misguided hope of controlling the rain.   

Glad you are there,

P

Sunny intervals. 52% Humidity.

BBC London Weather Forecast, 6 April 2012

Lavender Uncles and Acid Green Aunties

Dear Reader:

It is a time-honoured role in families that are not up-their-own-cabooses: the gay uncle or lesbian auntie. If you are lucky enough to be one, and I am, then you will know that our nieces and nephews (n&ns) notice more than we may realise; unless, of course, we remember our own childhood and adolescence. Our aunts and uncles gave us alternative possibilities for our future through their choices, even as we recognised familial characteristics only once-removed from our parents' versions. Children may not want to be raised by their whiskey-drinking, blues-singing auntie who smokes Havana cigars and gives their father hell; but you can bet that they have filed away her sassiness and uncompromising wit as traits that they may legitimately adopt someday. Uncles and aunts are to parents as Warhol was to the Queen: while our sisters and brothers try to be traditional role models for their children, we silkscreen the family archetypes in acid green and lipstick pink.

And you never know what will stick. On one of her earliest visits with us in New York, my oldest niece, R, now in her twenties, brought a friend along to celebrate her eleventh birthday. We still remember how much we laughed as I taught them "weird is good" in response to the friend calling New Yorkers weird for the umpteenth time. "Weird is good" gave us humorous shorthand for dealing with their first experiences of rough-sleepers; 9th Avenue working girls; panhandling saxophonists; and anything or anyone that they would not normally come across in their day-to-day lives in Virginia - including, for the friend, R's gay uncle and his partner. By coining "weird is good" I hoped that the friend would take R's uncles in stride and not view us as something that made R weird, in a bad way. Fortunately, all went well, and more than a decade later, our family still wears the motto "weird is good" as a badge of honour. (Before someone comments, I know that weird is not always good in NYC; take Donald Trump's hair - need I say more.)

Like most rainbow uncles and aunties, I  have worried, at times, about my n&ns and the knocks they may take for loving me. I would like to shield them from the excesses of others' prejudices, but that is neither possible nor prudent. When we love someone, and they have loved us well, then there is no finer place to learn that the amount of courage we bring to loving them is a defining quality of our character. A key adolescent rite of passage is accomplished when we decide that the possibility of teasing from our peers is less important than our refusal to be embarrassed for loving our touchstone people.

Reader, when my partner and I had our wedding in New York in 1997 (long before it was legally recognised) one of my warmest memories is of dancing with R during the reception. She had chosen to stand with us as our ring-bearer during the blessing. And as much as I was moved by my parents' participation and that of other friends and family, there was a specialness in seeing the next generation choosing to be courageous in love - a lesson colourful families have been teaching one another for a long, long time.

Glad you are there,
P

Supposing everyone lived at one time what would they say. 

They would observe that stringing string beans is universal. 

-Gertrude Stein

Who Moved My Nuts?

Dear Reader:


The lexicon of change is ubiquitous these days. From boardroom to vestry, we are expected to be fluent in Change Management theory. I must admit that I am hopelessly silly when it comes to the jargon, even as I know that CM is serious business.

I think I have an inherent disorder that makes me giggle at corporate-speak. The typical motivational phrase has me imagining its speaker in a tiara and swimsuit, regardless of his or her gender. I put it down to an association with a certain Miss South Carolina whom I knew at university: when asked her finalists' question in the Miss America pageant - "If you could say one thing to inspire other young women, what would it be?" - she replied in a honeyed drawl, "If you can dream it, you can be it." And that about sums up most motivational axioms for me.

I still chuckle when I hear someone say, "Who moved my cheese?"  A little more than a decade ago, Change Managers were captivated by Spencer Johnson's business fable, Who Moved My Cheese?  The title of the book became a catchphrase for the need to embrace change. If you haven't read it, let's just say that it is probably best appreciated after a long, slow toke on a hookah pipe. It goes something like this: a group of people discuss change; someone tells a parable about strange little guys and mice running around in a maze trying to find cheese while writing inspirational graffiti; then, the group discusses the parable, at a depth similar to a memory I have of contemplating the universe with slightly stoned college friends lying on the band-practice field in the wee hours of a Carolina night. (Please repeat after me, "Drugs are bad.")

To give Change Managers their due, there is no denying that a well-chosen mantra can help us stay focussed during transitional periods, and it does not need to be particularly original. During the college-year referenced above, while celebrating the New Year with these same friends and singing along to Karma Chameleon, I remember resolving "to be real" in 1984. There are worse mantras for a 19-year-old, and it served me well as I began to be more honest about what I wanted out of life rather than what was expected of me. A good idea, all in all.

So I have decided to take inspiration from my younger self and revive the practice of finding an annual motivational catchphrase. A friend from Texas once had the most creative catchphrase that I have ever heard: "This is my year of fancifying [sic]," he declared to our astonishment; a great one for sure, but utterly untouchable. Recently, I thought the Bard had given me my new phrase as I watched Vanessa Redgrave rebuff a dinner invitation in Coriolanus  - "Anger is my meat; I sup upon myself, and so shall starve with feeding." - a brilliant mantra for a crotchety vegetarian who needs to lose a few pounds; but I am not particularly angry this year, so no dice, Shakespeare. What I am feeling most these days is consternation at being less intrepid than I was in my earlier days; yet the kind of midlife restructuring that I am eyeing requires leaps and bounds of faith.

You may be attempting similar restructuring this year, whatever your age. If so, good on you. Risking major change requires a kind of courage that only comes from having a rather sizeable pair of cojones, regardless of one's gender. In such times, a bracing word goes a long way. Therefore, I am going to don a tiara and swimsuit; bastardise Johnson's fable; and ask this motivational question of myself whenever I become timid in the face of present challenges: "Who moved my nuts?" The unspoken answer of course is: no one. I still have 'em; we all still have 'em; so, viva el cambio, mi compadres con los cojones grandes. Fresh reserves of gumption are waiting to be tapped, and the ability to motivate oneself is ageless.

Reader, a perk of becoming older is learning that our ambitions only serve us well if they bring us closer to genuine fulfilment within our capacities.  Mourning the loss of earlier ambitions and unmet career goals may be a defining characteristic of the middle years, but something more subtle and sustaining is being gained as a fresh source of motivation: the emerging awareness that time is too precious to spend worrying about climbing someone else's ladder when you are purposed to be the architect of your own dwelling instead.  Does that make sense? If not, maybe we should just stick that thought in our pipes and smoke it for awhile. I'll meet you on the practice field after midnight.

Glad you are there,
P

"Let's give a cheer, Carolina is here; 

The Fighting Gamecocks lead the way

Who gives a care, if the going is tough, 

And when it gets rough, that's when the 'Cocks get going."

from the University of South Carolina Fight Song,
Sung to the tune of Step to the Rear

Talking Turkey in the New Year

Dear Reader:

Here we are at the beginning of another ride on this big blue Tilt-A-Whirl, and, partly prompted by a friend's passing, I find myself pondering if I will leave anything of enduring value when I am dead and gone. Sorry to drop the "D" word on you in the first sentence. But I do not mind telling you that I am trying my darnedest to outfox the Grim Reaper so that at least some part of me will remain evergreen beyond the ashes. Maybe you are devising your own schemes, too. If so, take heart. We are not alone.


Entire societies have been plotting to avoid obscurity. For awhile, nations thought that the surest way to secure their place in posterity was by emulating the ancient Romans.  For a case in point, think back to the usually confident Benjamin Franklin arguing for the turkey to be the heraldic bird of the US instead of the eagle, the preferred choice of Roman-wannabes for centuries prior. It seems he had the courage to do so only in a letter to his daughter. "Oh, puh-leease, Dad," Sally must have responded while rolling her eyes. Nope. A bird that could be farmed and eaten was unsuitable. The humble turkey was just too, too mortal for neoclassical aspirations. "To make a lasting impression, to reach the heights of cultural immortality, one must be at the top of the food chain," the founding fellows probably thought, which explains why the world today does not quake with fear as the Flying Turkeys swoop in with their smart bombs. I side with Mr. Franklin on this one, as I reckon that the American quest for an enduring legacy would be more grounded if, when the President arrived, his or her operatives had to whisper, "The Turkey has landed. I repeat. The Turkey has landed." 

Truth is, I am furious at being the equivalent of a gobbler by design. Yes, a big part of me is unwilling to accept that I am, by virtue of mortal birth, a middling in some cosmic food chain. Trapped within this too, too solid flesh, I aspire to 'sing in my chains' so unforgettably that I will achieve immortality through the memories of others. Surely then, this fowl will be turkey no more, as I earn my eagles' wings by cheating death and staying among the mortals. Cunning plan, eh? Then again, there is that tiny difference to consider between being a memory and actually being sentient. I guess no matter how one slices it, death comes; memories fade; and we all give way to tomorrow's poults.

So, as the new year begins, I leave my cunning schemes and return for assurance to my core beliefs: namely, that loving others well in the here and now creates ripples that will matter in the future; and that my essence will remain a part of something more ancient and enduring than eagles or empires when it is time for this turkey to call it a day. 

Reader, I want to give the final word to Mr. Franklin: of the turkey, he penned, "He is besides, though a little vain and silly, a Bird of Courage." And I cannot think of a better way to remind each of us that we are well equipped to look mortality square in the eyes, regardless of our fears.


Glad you are there,
P

"Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, 
Time held me green and dying

Though I sang in my chains like the sea." 

Dylan Thomas, Fern Hill

It's the Most Otiose Time of the Year

Dear Reader:

It is Boxing Day in London, a British holiday with a name for which there is no convincing explanation, which is fine by me. During this tradition-laden Yuletide, when forward planning, scheduling, precision and execution reign like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, there is comfort in celebrating a holiday for which there are few expectations and no raison d'être. Boxing Day is the reefer smoking dude of annual holidays; it still lives at home in Father Christmas' basement and just wants to chill.

And Boxing Day is otiose, just ask our twelve-year-old son Julian who is visiting from New York, along with his Moms, O and P, for the holidays. Jules and I are sitting at the table writing his homework assignment and my blog entry with Gregorian plainchant playing in the background for inspiration. Julian's task is to write a story incorporating fifteen key vocabulary words, and he has decided to set his narrative within the World of Warcraft video game. Evidently, the soundtrack to WoW is majorly modal, in a kick-ass sort of way. Who knew that singing celibates could fuel so much testosterone? While he has been explaining this to me, I have secretly nicked 'otiose' from his word list and am feeling like a clever cheat during a pop quiz. "I shall atone by using 'otiose' at least five times," I silently vow, as the friars tuck into a lusty version of Salve Regina.

Whilst Jules and I are rockin' to the really oldies,  O and P are out on a post-gluttony virtue walk through the climes of Tottenham. My mind wanders from the task at hand, and I imagine them strolling past riot-looted shops on their way to the River Lea towpath. There, swans glide by, navigating through the floating lager bottles and crisp packets like little Titanics on a good day. The few Type A people left in town bicycle wildly down the path toward the City with bloodlust in their eyes, hoping against hope to knock over at least one striking tube driver. O and P jump aside, teetering on the concrete edge of the waterway, as a crazed careerist careens by.  They tumble back from the river onto the grass and cigarette butts, laughing and smiling in a can-you-believe-these-kooky-Brits sort of way. There is something about being in England that turns most of us Americans into the tourist equivalents of pet shop patrons. We allow locals to do the most appalling things to us while swearing that they are the cutest creatures ever. Well, I am glad that O and P are the sorts to make the most of it all, and I sigh contentedly, fading away from this pastoral scene just as they are about to discover the mystical ruins of the sewage facility in Springfield Park.

Back from my reverie, I decide that it is time for a snack. I interrupt Julian's concentration to send him to the kitchen for oat cakes and cashew butter under the guise that he probably needs a break. I am intuitive in that way. It takes a borderline ADD creative to know one. Soon, we are happily chatting and munching away. Julian has used three of his fifteen words so far, and I am still contemplating my 'otiose' quota. The doorbell chimes, O and P return with nary a grass stain in sight, and the teakettle beckons once again. Perfection.

Reader, I hope that you and yours found something pointless to do together this holiday season. In the grand scheme of things, these are the salad days. So, lie back and relax with the people you love and the things that make you smile for no reason.

All hail Boxing Day, the one holiday that gets it right without even trying.


Glad you are there,
Pressley

Crow Town

Dear Reader:

A couple of years ago, the 'me' I thought I knew lost 'it.' I cannot tell you what 'it' is, but you know it when you lose 'it.' And if 'it' is the proverbial plot, then I lost most of the main characters as well. Deaths of bodies, deaths in heart and psyche. I may share more about these warm-up events at another time, but for now, I want to tell you about the crows. 

One day, it seemed that I was at the centre of a comprehensible life; the next, a trapdoor opened and I was falling at warp speed toward God-knows-where. Some call this psychological falling a midlife crisis. I call it landing in Crow Town, because counting crows seemed as good a science as any in this grave new world without 'it' anymore.

Picture me as a crone within an ancient grove of yew trees chanting to the circling crows:
 
 "One for sorrow,
         Two for mirth,
              Three for a wedding,
                  And four for death." (cackle, cackle, cackle)

Well, this was not quite how it went. I am not superstitious, but I am also not one to dismiss the ways that Spirit signposts our journeys. When your Rational Guy skips town in midlife, you work with who is left. And for the second time in my life, at a crucial juncture, the Spirit gave me a vision of a crow to contemplate when confidence in my own ability to know much was gone. Then, carrion crows began nesting in the trees at the back of our garden for the first time in six years. Coincidence? Maybe. But this was one of the only places where Spirit and I could meet after the fall, everywhere else was off limits to her as I struggled with anger, disappointment and breathtaking moments of panic. Sitting together watching and listening to these beautiful clever birds, we found a language that did not require much clarity from me: flight patterns, calls and pair bonding; a wing feather left by the door in the morning; a fledgling hiding in the ivy through the night. Due attention was paid, and it helped.

There was nothing overtly portentous in Crow Town, and lest you think me a Cretan or the high priest of the Diggory Druids, it is probably a good time to tell you that I am a clergyperson within a progressive christian fellowship, not that this disqualifies me from Cretan status. I am also gay, have been all my life, and the way of Christ still works for me. But maybe you are anxious as you read about visions of crows and such, especially if you think of them as ill omens. If so, may I suggest that you regard them as I do, with gratefulness, more like a St. Benedict's crow helping me out during a frightening time.

Here is the story of Ben's crow:

Legend has it that a jealous rival in the church poisoned the bread St. Benedict was to be served. Benedict intuited that the bread was lethal, and he asked a wild corvid, with whom he shared his daily bread, to take the poisoned bread and hide it where it would harm no one. The bird seemed upset at first and frightened to carry the lethal loaf, but eventually he took it into his beak when Benedict assured him it would not hurt him. The corvid flew for three hours, hiding the poisoned bread safely away, returning unharmed, as promised, to enjoy a fresh piece of new bread which the holy man had saved for him. 

Reader, I guess we all experience times in life when we have to work intuitively with what we have been given, even when it does not feel rational or familiar. There is plenty of science documenting the ways our subverbal brain remains a powerful survival resource, especially when our cognitive faculties need refreshing. So, it seems that archetypal crows flew into town from subverbia to become my point of connection and a needed benevolence during an existential crisis. It is good to have a shorthand explanation---but the alchemy remains in the counting, bird by bird.

Glad you are there,
P

  

Midway between the journey of our life

     I found myself within a forest dark

          For the straightforward pathway had been lost.

               Ah me! How hard a thing it is to say... 

                                                                              Dante Alighieri, Inferno, Canto I