England’s green and pleasant land

I’ve been agitated lately, it started a day or so before Polling Day. I was astonished to find how much this Referendum mattered to me. In the end I went to the favourite spot I’ve written about before (England Have My Bones) with camera & voice recorder; recalling as I went Ellie’s comment on a recent post “Referendum”:

I like it when you let your unconscious mind have its say. . . . stick(s) in my mind speaking more loudly than well-chosen words.

So I went into the fields on the evening of that fateful day, June 24th, 2016, looked across the valley, and talked. Edited transcript below.

I find something superbly English in the UK’s collective democratic decision to leave the EU. I have to say that it’s a very scary one and I don’t know whether it’s the right thing to do. I’ve heard all the dire warnings—how xenophobic, how it would ruin us, and the EU. They may be right. Now that I and the others have voted, one way or the other, it no longer matters if we were right or not. There was a lack of facts to guide us, just propaganda, one way and the other. How could there be facts, anyhow? Only the future can tell and the future’s not ours to know. The past is fact, a coherent set of facts, all of them forged from hopes and fears. Our Prime Minister gave us a democratic choice. A self-selected jury of 33 million voters delivered their majority verdict. That was the deal on offer. There’s something a little mad about the whole affair—mad, generous and eccentric. Maybe it will have ghastly consequences, as many are no doubt thinking. Everyone has been shocked, many saddened and appalled. All of us are surely scared.

I feel immensely proud to have become English, for I wasn’t born that way. Slowly England embraced me, convinced me this is the place I belong, with its wild, generous gestures. I think people misjudge others, think ill of them for having different views. Truth and reconciliation is the thing to aim for. Yet there is a perverse pleasure in being enraged by ideological differences, to use intemperate language & mental imagery. I am not exempt from it, that is how I know. But it’s a low-grade pleasure, one of the lowest. It’s so easy to hate the wrongness we see in others, the bullshit they (we) let themselves (ourselves) believe, in place of worthwhile ideas. If we don’t stop ourselves, it’s an Augean stables that fills as fast as we try to clean it out.

But—the gesture of defiance has been made, and so we have to go from where we are now. Collectively, we did it to ourselves; a familiar story in my life, I’ve done it to myself so many times: scary leaps of faith—marriages, rash commitments—and ended up here, in this, a living part of this living beauty. There is nothing to regret. The heart makes its gesture, not on some momentary whim, but from its own stored-up, hardly-understood, often denied and repressed but profound nature. Of all the hell that people create in this world, what was this referendum? A mere folly, if you will, in one of its meanings:

Folly, n.A popular name for any costly structure considered to have shown folly in the builder

Except that those who voted Leave wanted to escape by any means possible from what they saw as a folly, one they’d never signed up to and whose main rationale for Remaining would be the risks and costs of escaping.



Here I am in Saunderton Lee, just wandering around, not another soul in sight in this much-loved part of the countryside, adored by me and available to be adored by everyone. No one can guarantee it won’t be defaced or destroyed— so be it, change is the one certainty—but meanwhile it is worthy of being kept as it is.

The big thing I see now is that the politicians will have to serve the people. They will have to take up this thing. They will have to see the bigger picture. How can we make this thing work? It’s like a war. We have declared a bloodless war on ourselves. It doesn’t need to hurt any of us, merely engender a spirit of togetherness, of the kind that our nation spontaneously felt in ’14-’18 and ’39-’45. A war with no enemy—a natural disaster, if you will. The aim is to save our country, the place that we love. Our votes were expressions of hope, fear, resentment, self-interest, whatever moved us. I cannot speak for others. I can’t analyse my own motivation, only that I voted with my whole self, and never for a moment contemplated putting the X in a different box. For a day or so I considered abstaining, stepping back from the conviction I felt. But I couldn’t do that. When you feel something deep in your heart and do nothing about it, you harbour a poison in the system. A black cloud obscures the sunshine of your joy.

The worst thing you could do, in the absence of simple joy, is to substitute something inferior, to force yourself to be satisfied with pursuing that: money, jobs, ideals, the solution of petty problems that our grandparents never had the luxury of griping about. The worst thing is to harbour a nameless discontent and take daily doses to numb the pain.

St Botolph’s Church & Bradenham Manor, where in 1967 I attended a computer course, & Queen Elizabeth stayed in 1566

I cannot see anyone else from where I am standing in this beautiful place, only trains speeding through the valley, the busy rush of economic activity. It surprises me how empty the landscape is, yet perfectly manicured, the meadows planted or left fallow, the hedgerows regularly trimmed, trees planted, footpaths well-trodden, stiles kept in good repair. And since I was here about ten days ago, ears of barley have grown where you could only see tall stems and leaves before, and not be sure what crop it was. Here you see the works of man and nature, so strong together, constantly regenerating; not laid out by any designer, but the creation of centuries of anonymous husbandry. This valley speaks louder in mute testimony than the old gothic cathedrals which took a century to build.

The future generates itself. The unknown hardens into facts, facts into immutable history. We have to move forward. What makes the present worthwhile in itself is not the pursuit of any distant fugitive goal. The true fulfilment can only happen now. It’s here, I feel it—don’t know what to call it, not sure if it even has a name. Nor do I want to give it a name. Whatever is named can be cheapened.

So I find myself here, on June 24th, 2016, at ten past seven in the evening, looking across this little valley, watching the trains go past, some of them from London to Birmingham, some of them on shorter runs, stopping at villages. I reflect that I live in a beautiful country that has taken a step, right or wrong, foolhardy or guided by a mysterious principle that we may not understand, just as this Earth has been guided somehow, to get all the way here from its Big Bang when the laws of physics first unfolded. It couldn’t have been completely random, can’t believe that. And if it was completely random, then how can we criticize randomness? Look how fruitful it has turned out. And imperfect.

There is beauty, and there is horror, destruction, hate, cruelty, murder, which we don’t know how to contain or neutralise: either actual and violent, or latent and insidious. The people who have voted to leave the EU are mainly the English, by which I don’t mean white people, or those who can trace their native roots on our island. You can become English, as I have done and my beloved has done after arriving later in life from Jamaica. There’s a process. I imagine those who most appreciate being English are the ones who don’t take it for granted; they’ve been somewhere else first, great effort was made to get here. Tourists and other temporary visitors like to come because we are generous and welcoming. I mean no slight to anyone else. It is a fine and precious thing to be proud of your native or adopted place on earth. This island became what it is from immigration.

At this moment, on this day, we need some confidence, and to be in harmony with the forces of love, perhaps through prayer, whatever people do that works, the contemplation of beauty.

Freedom comes at a price. We have not had to fight a war of independence or a bloody revolution. This deed was done gently, with a stub of pencil tied on a string, uncertainly, fearfully, no sense of triumph. I don’t know which was the “right” box, only that a new fact has come into existence. Our Government trusted us, we trusted ourselves to do what we felt in our hearts and not what we were told to do.

As for those who advised us, with their campaigns, leaflets and speeches, they were just as passionate, even where the passion came from narrow or short-term self-interest.

Now there is a need for goodwill, and for people to feel blessed. The only way I know is to live in harmony with the cycles of existence: sunrise and set, the growth and decay of everything, the pattern of our own lives from birth to death. As for survival, we’ve been through world wars: this thing done in peace with blunt pencils requires much less of a sacrifice from us, to go forward and do the right thing by everyone. Now we need a sense of solidarity, not just within England but our neighbour north of the Border (Scotland) and across the English Channel. We stand or fall together. We all must make it work, whatever “it” is.

If England is stripped of its union with Scotland and Northern Ireland, as well as its long quarrelsome marriage with the European Union, so be it, for England is a finer name than “UK”.

Bring me my bow of burning gold!
      Bring me my arrows of desire!
Bring me my spear! O clouds, unfold!
      Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight,
      Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand,
Till we have built Jerusalem
      In England’s green and pleasant land.

Anniversary

This is not about the Queen’s ninetieth birthday, but a single moment exactly ten years ago. I wrote about it then, while it was fresh in my mind (a). I said I’d learned something and would never be the same again. I couldn’t express it very well for others to read, but it’s helped to remind its author of the occasion. And I stand by the verdict I gave then. It marked a turning-point in my life.

I’ve edited the original piece, enhanced with what I remember but didn’t feel able to say at the time:

I was walking along Ledborough Avenue to its intersection with West Vale Road. People in cars were waiting for the lights to change. Some pedestrians stopped off at the doctor’s surgery or the lab next door where they tested blood and so forth. Beyond that was an oily yard where mechanics were repairing taxis. Suddenly it hit me, that all of us are more than our bodies and minds.

At about 11am on Tuesday 13th June 2006 I obtained personal knowledge, the kind that changes you permanently. It is something you cannot get by any shortcuts. A teacher could not convey it without possessing it. A student could not learn it without being ready.

I felt that each of the persons I saw was an immortal being. I wanted to acknowledge to them that I knew; but I could not know whether they knew it themselves. I had no idea how to share it, certainly not in words. I don’t know how to express it even now. I don’t mean “immortal” in any conventional sense. Would “infinite beings” be better?

What I meant to say was that in each one I saw something to celebrate in their very existence, something which transcended how they looked and moved, was unaffected by their lot in life, as lived day to day. It was as if to say, we are all in this together, we are acting in this play, performing our allotted roles, according to the throw of the dice—or God’s will, if you prefer to put it that way.

However we express it, whatever we believe, our lives are circumscribed, we can only go on from where we are with what we’ve got, each on a personal path from birth to death. But I saw our true selves there, each of us, in one sweep of the eye, and it was like a joyful embrace, for we were one: a team of infinite beings. I knew of no way to share it, not through an exchange of glances, or any form of greeting. I knew this thing in that moment, but did they?

That’s what I might have written if my skill in language had been better ten years ago—or if I thought to spend an indefinite time redrafting text. The revision is more faithful to the original experience, helps me relive it. And as I do, it suddenly puts me in mind of something I’ve heard. When there is heavy flooding in parts of Africa, animals take refuge on floating logs, where predator and prey coexist quietly, abandoning normal behaviour, as if united in a common thanksgiving. Or as if they can take a holiday from everyday instinct, and know they are infinite beings. I tried to find an account of this on Google, with limited success: only a blurry video of a snake and mouse sheltering together on a ledge under a bridge, trapped by the swirling waters all around.

It also puts me in mind of an Anglican hymn written for children, “All things bright and beautiful” which in its original form includes this verse:

The rich man in his castle
The poor man at his gate
God made them high or lowly
And ordered their estate.

It was published in 1848, the same year as Marx & Engels’ Communist Manifesto. Latterly the Church of England has been anxious to suppress evidence of its former support of the status quo, ruling classes and Government, to the point where some see it now as Socialist in politics. (b)

If you take the verse in context (see scan alongside) you see that it’s an essential part of the author’s theme, to encourage children to look, and see the wonderful things of this world as gifts from an invisible Giver. Take away the verse and it’s incomplete, all of nature referred to except humanity. Subject to the constraints of her chosen verse form, she’s merely saying that by “man” she doesn’t mean any particular kind of person. So she takes the extremes: rich, poor, high, lowly, to include them equally among the bright and beautiful things to be seen and contemplated. Did God order their estate? In a song for children (of any age) on the theme of good gifts from an invisible Giver, her answer doesn’t trouble itself with theology or social justice. We (as little children) should open ourselves to admire the beauty around us, as a entry point to spiritual knowledge.

I’d like to share an example of how, by contrast, the Church of England had no compunction in perverting its spiritual authority as an institution. To help promote the war effort, in 1915 the Archbishop of Canterbury issued a Pastoral (c) or special sermon to be read in all churches and published in newspapers (d). Here’s an excerpt:

What is at stake is not only the honour of our plighted word, but our safety and freedom, and the place entrusted to us among the nations of the earth(1). The spirit arrayed against us(2) threatens the very foundations of civilized order in Christendom(3). It wields immense and ruthless power. It can only be decisively rolled back(4) if we, for our part, concentrate the whole strength of body, mind, and soul which our nation, our Empire, holds(5).

My glossary of weasel words used by the Archbishop:
(1) = entitlement to have an Empire
(2) = Germany
(3) = the status quo
(4) = defeated in war
(5) = military support expected from the Empire

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The truth remains camouflaged among all the baggage. The true Way or Tao is a precious secret eternally hidden in plain view, waiting for our eyes to notice it, almost too simple to be grasped.

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Notes
(a)this post
(b)Try googling “the Tory party at prayer”
(c)Full text here
(d)As reprinted in a newspaper here

Referendum

Marylebone Station

Just woke up. Before it fades to oblivion must write down my dream, about our great national Referendum, due in a few days’ time. Shall the UK stay in the EU or leave it? I’m as strong for leaving the European Union as I was strong for Scotland to stay in the United Kingdom, when the Scots had their referendum not so long ago. Our union has lasted since 1707 so far, and from my point of view nothing was broke enough to need fixing. Why did some of them push to go it alone? Emotion, cussedness and greed, I guess—the latter based on the notion of keeping the tax on their oil & gas revenues. That was then, before the prices dropped & put the industry at risk.

And what about our EU referendum? Is it not also driven by emotion, cussedness and greed? Not to mention the bogus forecasts on both sides, offered in lieu of facts. Che sarà, sarà, the future’s not ours to see, what will be will be. So we must vote on principle. We should never have joined. Let us lead our brethren out of the forty-year wilderness, ditch the manna, go for the milk and honey, get our own land back, not a promised land—don’t believe any promises! Do what’s right and trust. Enough.

I dreamt I was in our town centre, a rather fine one which I didn’t recognize. It looked more like somewhere in London, a sloping cobbled square with buildings around, reminiscent of Marylebone railway station. There was a rally of Remain campaigners, who seeemed pleasant enough but not being of their persuasion, I wondered whether to declare myself their opponent, or let it go.

view of our own town centre

Then (still in the dream!) I was back home and someone was at the door. It was a couple of those Remain campaigners, shyly canvassing. Being otherwise occupied, I called to K to see what they wanted. The next thing I knew, two of them had gone upstairs, chattering easily, making themselves at home, going through the various things strewn there. I said, “Hey, those aren’t your things!” They just smiled. We had two lodgers in our adjoining spare rooms, young fellows about 18. They’d just woken, and gazed out with vague amusement at the invasion.

K must have let them in, she’s so friendly I could well imagine it. I would have to be the one to put my foot down and say “Leave!” And so I did. I wanted to act Mr Nasty & shout, let them flee in haste without looking back, but couldn’t manage it. I simply smiled and held the door open. To my astonishment seven “intruders” came down the stairs, and then after an interval two more, reluctantly. They liked our house so much. The cheek! As for our lodgers, K had never told me about them. I’d do well to stay out of that business.

I suppose this is what my unconscious mind has to say about the risks of unrestricted immigration.