Showing posts with label aunt Mary. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aunt Mary. Show all posts

20200623

I'm a wimp


12 year old Christian Li with his violin

I’m so excited to have signed to Decca Classics just after my 12th birthday, and to be releasing my very first recording! I love playing the violin, and really hope you enjoy listening.

When I read about a 12 year old like this I realise that I am a wimp. I aspire to musical heights but hardly lift a hand to reach them. Likewise in other areas of my life. I aspire to being an expert in my field, but I am not even sure what my field is. Jack of a few trades, master of none. I've highlighted several other musical prodigies recently. What more can I say? For time would fail me to tell of...

This two weeks chez great-grandma: the early mornings are mine as neither she nor Ali surface until after 9am. So I've listened to some music. This morning it was Tchaikovsky's 5th conducted by Manfred Honeck, a symphony I have not listened to for many years. And yet in it are themes that have infiltrated my being since my youth, so that I find myself humming them whilst running, or picking them out when I sit at the piano...


The french horn solo in the 2nd movement - way back in time when I had that reel-to-reel tape recorder I recorded this excerpt onto a small tape reel and mailed it to my Aunty Mary. Now-a-days you would just attach a clip to an email or chat but such things hadn't been invented back then. I wanted to reach out and share my enjoyment and hoped that she would respond appropriately. But there was no response and later, when I asked her, it seemed as though she hadn't even played the tape. Which saddened me.

Accepting that I am a wimp I long, at least, to in some way inspire the youngsters at home to excel, particularly but not necessarily in music. I see much potential for talent, even some desire to do well but, as a community, I think we shy away from excellence and competition perhaps because it is seen to exalt the creature rather than the creator. I wonder - what would we do with a 12 year old that wanted to practice 6 hours a day? The nearest we've had to this is when my daughter was learning to fly: a seeming impossibility at the time but it happened and this ought to encourage me to push others, but there's got to be something to push...

20180805

On the fringe - or - never able to arrive at the truth

It is a universal truth - though largely ignored by some die-hard archaeologists - that there is no known culture in the world without religious beliefs (Terence Meaden, Archaeologist, Oxon). An interesting observation - some would say it is because there is a "God shaped hole" in everyone.

I have a rich Christian heritage but more to the point where am I now? Like in "But whom do you say that I am?".

I remember cringing when someone we used to visit would ask me "and what has God being doing in your life?" - because I could never think that there was anything in particular.

My earliest church memories were of Alresford Congregational church. Later we went by train to Winchester Baptist Church where I, tacet, would sometimes sit beside my father on the polished organ bench. His own folk were at various times nonconformist evangelical, Baptist and Peculiar and his father was at one time a reverend.

Winchester Baptist Church
Speaking of which, the ‘The Peculiar People’ were initially quite a fiery bunch but, doubtless after a generation, their zeal diminished. They later changed their name to the ‘Union of Evangelical Churches’ and their web site now says "divine healing does not now have such prominence..." If folk really were healed once, this seems a strange statement to make. Like, we don't want any of this getting better stuff.

My parents then joined NFC from whence stem most of my childhood church memories. Here I went to Sunday School and later the Adventurer's Club, was baptised, and first spoke (briefly and timidly) in public. Open Brethren based, I am thankful for the good knowledge of the Bible that NFC instilled in me, but I must have been suitably indoctrinated because, when I left home for college, I naively considered all other churches inferior and probably heretical and was surprised when I discovered committed Christians from other persuasions. In my final year I agreed to become the OICCU "Rep" for my college and, under considerable duress, was obliged to sign a statement of doctrine. It wasn't that I had a problem with anything there but I disagreed strongly (and still do) with the need to sign.

Whilst in Oxford I tried various church flavours including the James Street brethren assembly (now re-branded "evangelical") - the folk there were very friendly but I didn't fit in. Plain contrary to my upbringing I ended up most at home in the reasonably high Anglican college chapel - because the chaplain cared about my well being, because it was local and because I found I could worship God there. Despite the occasional smells and bells.

On finding my feet in my first job I started to attend CBC where I met and married Ali, and when we both wanted to be involved in young people's work we first had to become church members which implied signing up to their doctrine, which I once again did under much duress.

Both Ali and I wanted more than CBC appeared to offer and thus we met together with like-minded folk of similar age. One year the group had a holiday-cum-conference hosted by a Christian community in Eastleigh and this was our first introduction to communal living and The Move.

You can Google The Move and its founding leader Sam Fife and you'll find a lot of nonsense as well as some truth. And sure there was some nonsense, doubtless because of People. We had our share of this nonsense but thankfully nothing serious - because we were on the fringe.  The Wikipedia link is rather dated and things have changed, mellowed - a bit like the Peculiar People I wonder?

That Sam Fife (who I never met) was a "one man ministry", or at least the dominant leader, did raise warning bells in me but, hang it all, wasn't Jesus also a "one man ministry"? The thing is, some of what Fife preached his followers now don't go along with - at least they no longer emphasise - like "people of God we are not going to die" and the "wilderness message". If those radical areas that so intrigued his followers are now mellowed, do we revert to being plain evangelicals?

Probably not - Ali's parents were, for a time, Exclusive Brethren. When they left, not being able to stomach some of the more radical and intrusive teachings, her father could never feel at home in any other church flavour, none of which had the same sense of family and depth of conservative doctrine, so ended up without christian fellowship for the rest of his life.  I think I might have done similarly.

Seen in Texas 3 days ago

A recent guest on the Ryan Tubridy Show on RTE-radio-1 told how, when he was about six, he saw an angel standing beside his bed.  He hadn't told anyone else for years but much later his younger brother (who had shared the bedroom and would have been less than two at the time) asked him if he remembered the angel. So did that really happen?

I once saw an angel. I was a child sitting up in my bed at home. The angel was standing on top of a chimney stack on a building opposite my bedroom window: much taller than a human, with wings and shining white. Certainly not a cloud formation! But it might have been a dream - I cannot remember clearly: did that really happen?

My Aunt Mary claimed she had seen angels. She claimed all manner of things, mind you, but it would be wrong to discredit her experiences just for that reason.

If we cannot confirm whether recent extraordinary things like these really happened, what chance have we of confirming stories about a man who lived 2,000 years ago?  Most historians concede that the man Jesus existed - but they get woolly about the miracles. Did they really happen?  On the other hand why would anyone writing a Gospel account chose to blatantly lie?

Along with many others, I have a burden for a child with leukaemia and have earnestly prayed for his complete healing. His father is a Methodist minister and he also is praying for total healing: I would interpret this as "faith". But whilst there has been good medical progress, currently there has been a relapse. I am at least encouraged when I read "See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven". It's not the end of the story, of course, but I had hoped... But maybe I am missing something, maybe his being healed now would spoil some vast eternal plan?

We humans are rum creatures. We think we know so much and yet we know so little. Our understanding of science, when descriptive and thus concerning things we can measure now, is all very well. But when it becomes inferential, concerning things long ago or yet to come or far, far away or far too small, who knows whether we have it right? I sometimes wonder whether, if you look hard enough with a preconceived dogma, nature will oblige. Thus the double slit experiment which could be thought to answer to two apparently contradictory theories.

There's people who genuinely think the earth is flat. Or this guy who goes along with the electric sun hypothesis and writes:

Yet, here is an incredible thing. Even though the theories of Newton, Einstein, and Twentieth Century astronomy are blown to pieces on almost a daily basis by what is actually out there, yet modern man has refused absolutely to let go of those dis-proven ideas... And so to explain how "gravity" can do all these wondrous things, the mathematicians have pulled out of their hats such unprovable bits of nonsense as "dark matter," and "black holes," and "string theory," and "nuclear fusion," and so on. None of these fantastical ideas ever find their way into a practical laboratory because all engineers know they are complete fabrications. Governments have spent untold billions of dollars to duplicate "nuclear fusion" on earth to complete and continuing failure. Why? Because there is no such thing. That's why it takes government money to build the huge "super colliders." No private business would waste a penny on such nonsense. So, let's look at astronomy as it really is. The universe is electrical. The sun is a large solid ball of rock that sustains a vast and continual electrical arc lamp discharge above its surface exactly like the electrical arc used by welders. That electrical arc is fed by huge currents of electricity that flow down the arms of the Milky Way to its center.

His position is gently ameliorated here but, honestly, with things we can, at best, hardly detect, who can say whether our theories are correct?

In our early community years we were already convinced about home schooling our kids. We listened to a CLA teaching about legal cases where the US child protection authorities took kids from their parents and, on their advice, we decided to eschew child benefit to cut one possible hold the government might have on our kids. Years later I think of all that cash we didn't get and see all the young parents here taking child benefit without a thought. And yet I read the other day Norway's hidden scandal - so were we so stupid? I certainly have no regrets about home schooling. Our four children have not grown up with carbon copies of their parents strange beliefs as some think home schooled kids will, but each are now making their own choice as to how they should live and what they should belief, as is right and proper. And I am proud of them.

I like to think that I am searching for truth (though probably not nearly hard enough as in strive to enter in at the strait gate: for many, I say unto you, will seek to enter in, and shall not be able).  But I am allergic to religious or hypocritical sort of "truth". Like in the parable of the leaven in all three measures of flour: I suppose the Kingdom of God must attract error.

In searching for truth I find myself coming back, again and again, to the gospel accounts of the life of Jesus. I try to read them without the preconceptions I grew up with, and I find a very human man with emotions and a sense of humour, who enjoys a good meal, who gets tired and thirsty after a long journey. Here I might add (though the accounts leave it out) that doubtless his body sweated and needed washing, that he had to go to the loo, cut his finger nails, and all the basic stuff we experience but don't generally advertise. But in this human frame he did only what he understood his Heavenly Father wanted, and thus he wrought amazing miracles, and he was crucified and died "to make us good".  And I get goose-bumps when I sing:

...Risen with healing in his wings 
Mild he lays his glory by, 
Born that man no more may die: 
Born to raise the son of earth, 
Born to give them second birth...
[Charles Wesley]

and

There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all

We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear;
But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffered there.

He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood.

There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.

O dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him, too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do.
[Cecil Frances Alexander]

Interestingly Cecil Frances Alexander, née Humphreys, second daughter of the late Major John Humphreys, Miltown House, co. Tyrone, Ireland, b. 1823, also author of All things bright and beautiful... The purple-headed mountain, the river running by might well have lived at or at least been associated with Humpreystown House, in which case those purple headed mountains are the ones we see across the lake at this time of the year, and the river might be the Liffey or Kings River.

20180121

Justification for my last post

Following two reactions to my last post, infinitely more than |I usually receive, I thought I should explain where I was coming from.

Like I said I saw the picture, minus its frame, waiting with stuff to be chucked out. I was aware that it had been in the loft gathering dust for a long time. I have no idea what became of its frame. I could have reclaimed the picture but had I done so I would have had to hang it in my bedroom or store it somewhere. It would not have suited our bedroom decor and I couldn't imagine Ali wanting it, or where would I store it and for why? In any case I didn't want it for myself - except as a memory. So I cemented the memory by photographing it and let the substance go.

I don't know where it is now. I could ask, and would if it were seriously wanted, but I don't want to make whoever disposed of it feel bad. Like I said, I am not sentimental about it. I myself chose to let it go.


20180120

Initiation rites

Now there arose up a new generation in the community which knew not Aunt Mary. And behold they found the picture she bequeathed us and consigned it to the rubbish heap.

Mary purchased this picture as a gift for us because she it tickled her fancy and I guess because the Dove is iconic. And so it became in a little way "a part of her". For many years it occupied a prime location on the first landing until Those In Control replaced it with something of Their choice and it was relegated to the loft. And then there was a grand loft clear-out.

It used to be said that there were three initiation rites for those who would become members of this community.  The first was to endure turkey plucking, yea verily to actually enjoy it. Every Christmas a team would go to a neighbouring farm and pluck untold numbers of turkeys. Some of our young people could pluck several per hour. I went a just couple of times: the stench was diabolical, I could hardly stand it. My contribution was not more that one turkey in the whole day. Otherwise I did my best to be very busy with other stuff when turkey plucking came around.

The second was to endure our annual convention and the third was to endure a visit from my Aunt Mary. But she wasn't all bad. Just a little embittered around the edges from life's experiences. The war that took the man she loved, and in her later life her subjection to her parents which ended in nursing her mother until she died of cancer. After her parent's death she continued to live in the family home... well, you can read about the gory details here.

I found the picture sans frame in a pile on its way to the trash and managed to take a few photos, but on inspecting them realised I needed to try harder to reduce reflections. But when I went back the picture had gone. Such is community. A good thing I am not sentimental about such things.

You will see the glass is mirrorred around the border, and the picture itself is embossed so that the reflection changes as the viewer moves position.  So here's the best I can do as a testimony to Aunt Mary's life. I can only apologise for the bit of me (holding the camera) that is visible.




20171001

Why I cannot hear what you are saying

Several months ago, egged on by Others here, I submitted to a free hearing consultation in Newbridge. The man was thorough enough with his tests and concluded that I had considerable hearing loss and needed one of his hearing aids for five or six grand. He let me try one and showed that it improved my ability to hear quiet sounds. No brainer. But I was and still am not convinced that it would help much in a noisy situation which is where I suffer most.

Since then I purchased a small battery-powered gizmo - basically a microphone, amplifier with volume and tone controls, and earbuds. I improved the latter by purchasing the noise isolating kind that reduce ambient sound.

I suffer from tinnitus, which means that I hear constant "noise" in the higher frequencies. I'm in the lounge at the moment: Ali is sitting opposite me and talking to Caroline on the side. There is no-one else in the room. The level of my tinnitus noise is a little below that of their conversation, and I can make out what they are saying with no problem. But if they were speaking more quietly I might not because the tinnitus noise would mask theirs. Without doubt my gizmo would help in this case, even though its own electronic noise is quite audible to me.

In the praise in our meetings with its loud accompaniment (grand piano, drums, bass, trumpet, guitars), or at community dinner time (think 30 people with small children in a room with a low ceiling) another effect kicks in - my ears start to distort the sound to the point that it can become uncomfortable. When I use my gizmo it amplifies this cacophony and only makes it worse. QED. Even with the noise isolating earbuds which, frankly, do not isolate ambient noise very much.

Distortion is exacerbated when there are many sounds together, because the distortion mixes them up. Technically speaking the non-linearity of distortion can, from two sounds at different frequencies, create new sounds at the sum and at the difference of those frequencies - so two sounds become four, and four become... It is those additional sounds, I think, that make it so uncomfortable.

In the praise in our meetings I find I can actually hear better with a finger in each ear, because it reduces the level below that at which it distorts.

The undamaged human hearing is amazing. It can can distinguish about 10 graduations per semitone over 10 octaves (20Hz to 20,000Hz), and can safely detect sound levels over a 130dB range - that's a ratio of 1 to 10,000,000,000,000 times. And, of course, it is stereophonic so that it can spatially locate sounds.  In contrast the dynamic range of my hearing is severely limited especially at higher frequencies - I can't hear sounds substantially below the threshold imposed by my tinnitus, and sounds louder than an upper threshold distort and become uncomfortable. Which is strange recompense for someone who has commented on the present day departure from hi-fi.

For what it is worth, I believe my legendary Aunt Mary suffered in the same way - she used to plug her ears with cotton wool to reduce the discomfort.

Whilst people try to be understanding, there is without doubt more of a stigma over wearing any sort of hearing aid than, for example, wearing glasses. Kind of on a par with wearing no shoes. People say things behind you back, or give odd glances. Which is why I don't go around with a pair of ear defenders on (except when doing building work).


20150505

Dartford Crossing 2

In my last post I started talking about the journey from home (Alresford) to my father's parent's (Rayleigh). Despite the title I didn't get as far as the Dartford tunnel, so I'll try again...

Sometimes we drove through central London. As far as I can remember the route was the A30 through Staines, past Heathrow onto the A4 Great West Road and so through Knightsbridge. Here it became really interesting as we passed Harrods and the Victoria and Albert, and Natural History museums to Hyde Park corner and then to Piccadilly Circus. Which of course was the reason for coming this way.


Piccadilly Circus in 1962

From there we drove through Holborn and past St Paul's cathedral and the Bank of England. These were impressive places that kind of made me feel proud to be English. Then Aldgate and I think Whitechapel Road into the East-end of London.

London, our parents explained, has a West-end and an East-end. All the rich people live in the West-end, and all the poor people in the East-end with their jellied eels and Cockney rhyme. Travelling out of London through the East-end was kind of scary because of what one imagined poor people might do but, at the same time, I somehow felt more empathy towards the East-end people than those snobs in the West. I somehow felt privileged to be allowed to travel through their domain. This feeling of identification with the working class remains with me to this day. I would not want a white-collar job, I prefer to get my hands dirty, to be involved at the nuts and bolts level. Despite being an Oxford graduate.

Aerial view of the Hog's Back

After the tunnel opened in 1963 we generally took the Dartford route, following the A31 from Alresford through Farnham and onto the Hog's Back, a narrow, elongated ridge that is in fact the western end of the North Downs (more on that later).  There are beautiful views either side making it a special part of the journey. What with imagining driving along the back of an actual pig.

The Hog's Back ends at Guildford where the river Wey cuts through the North Downs. Exactly how a river can cut through high ground becomes easier to understand when you realise that the area between the North and South Downs was once even higher as evident from a geological cross section.

Cross-section from London to the Channel

We drive through Guildford city centre to get onto the A25 route to Dartford, passing the famous cathedral with its golden angel atop which, apparently, is 15' tall and turns in the wind. The angel was erected in 1963 a couple of years after the cathedral was consecrated - so all within my time-frame. From a distance the angel is but a golden sparkle in the sun, but I always looked out for it and still do when in the area.

Guildford cathedral

The golden angel atop

1952 map of Guildford east

The A25 starts at Clandon Park just east of Guildford and was our route around London to Dartford. It is the precursor to the M25 London orbital motorway and follows the southern edge of the North Downs. Clandon House was a hospital during the first World War and there is some connection with my dad's folk this being the reason why their house was named "Clandon". I think Ginty was there convalescing.

Marble Hall Clandon Park as war hospital

Clandon Park during WWI

Sadly Clandon Park was gutted by fire just a few days ago. Some furniture was hauled out but otherwise the whole of the interior was lost.

Clandon House gutted by fire 29 April 2015


The effect of the fire services seems pathetic

Leaving Guildford and Clandon behind the A25 climbs over the North Downs and begins its descend down the escarpment face at Newlands Corner and Albury Downs (see map). Here are walks and a beautiful view and we sometime stop here for a breath of fresh air. From then on the A25 hugs the southern base of the North Downs all the way to Sevenoaks.

Abinger Hammer in 1959

The next place I look out for is Abinger Hammer. The river Tillingbourne flows through the village where it was impounded in the 16th century into a hammer pond, providing water power for Abinger Forge which worked Sussex sourced iron. Such details elude me - it is sufficient to get a glimpse of the famous clock and I hope we can pass on the hour and see the bell struck.

Westcott village

1952 map of Dorking area

Westcott is the next village, pretty as its name, and then after Dorking the view-point of Box Hill on the left (highlighted in red) and Brockham to the right. I do not know that I will return here in my 20's with my first and only girlfriend in tow. Her parents lived at Great Brockamhurst at the time (highlighted in green). One of my first visits there ended up in a picnic together at Leith Hill south west from Dorking.

where we parked at Leith Hill

the view from Leith hill



I think we picnic'd by the car (a proper affair with tablecloth laid out) then climbed to the tower. Apparently the tower was built in 1765 with the express purpose of raising the elevation to over 1000' which, my father informed me, was the threshold between hill and mountain. We lie side by side in the grass without a care and I am ecstatic soaking up the warmth of her body. But I digress.

Laporte fullers earth work, Redhill

After Dorking comes Reigate and Redhill and my next memory is the Fullers Earth works - this being one of only three places in Britain where the stuff was mined . The idea of mining, in England, a substance that was mentioned in the Bible fascinated me although actually the Bible reference is to fuller's soap which probably wasn't the same substance at all. Production ceased in 1996 and the works are now derelict.

We pass through Bletchingley and Godstone. Funny how all these names were and still are dear to me: they are colourful and have a quaint ring about them, whereas place names close to Rayleigh (Brentwood, Billericay, Benfleet, Rochford, Maldon) seem grey and boring. Apologies to any of my readers that might live there!

Oxted and Westerham come next and then Sevenoaks. There actually were seven oaks, although six of them fell in the storm of 1987. Here we leave the A25 and head north along the A225 through the gap in the North Downs cut by the river Darent, through Otford, Eynsford and thus to Dartford.

1952 map of Dartford - no tunnel!

and with the tunnel

the day before it opened

The tunnel is about one mile long and I enjoy every moment of it. The sort of things I notice are the green "traffic-light" arrows (what were they for? - one could hardly stop or go backwards), the cat-walks either side, the ventilation fans in the tunnel and shafts visible on approach, and the staged increase in fluorescent lighting to get us used to daylight as we emerge. All that just to let you know what sort of a person I am.

And then via the A13, joining the arterial road at the Chelmsford intersection and thus to Rayleigh. More recently I have driven the M25 route, Dartford crossing and A13 route several times to Rayleigh to visit my now deceased aunt and the same feeling of dread came over me as I got closer. Such are memories.