A Startling Discovery

A Startling Discovery

Ah, Gilbert and Sullivan!  Their ‘light operas’ were the delight of my teenage years!  This cover of a G&S songbook represents two of them: The Yeomen of the Guard and The Mikado. 

Nowadays schools have a wide range of musicals to choose from – Cats, Les Miserables, etc. – but back then it was only a question of which G&S opera we would perform.  They mostly had the same witty format: a young couple who fall in love, are kept apart, then are reunited; a ridiculous central character who sings a very fast amusing ‘patter song’; and a delightfully complicated plot which is finally unravelled to produce a happy ending for everybody. 

Every summer term, once the important March exams were safely past, my school would prepare to present another one.  Several different departments were involved: the music department, of course, but also the art and technical departments who oversaw the design and production of the scenery, and the domestic science department who took care of the costumes.

During my first year at this secondary school, aged twelve, I used to stand outside the music room at the end of lunchtime, enthralled by the lively four-part singing of the senior pupils as they rehearsed for the next opera. I waited eagerly for the bell to ring at the start of afternoon classes, because then the door would open and out would stream my heroes and heroines!  So, when I reached the age of sixteen, I was thrilled to become a member of the chorus of The Pirates of Penzance.  Now at last I could participate in the lunchtime rehearsals, enjoying Gilbert’s witty text and Sullivan’s lovely melodies, especially the inevitable (somewhat soppy) love song for the young couple – very suitable for someone like myself, in love for the first time!

Excitement rose as the week of the three stage performances drew nearer.  The scenery was put up in the Town Hall and the costumes arrived from the theatre suppliers.   On the day of the Dress Rehearsal a photographer arrived to take a photograph of the entire cast.  How glamorous we chorus girls felt in our long flouncy dresses and large bonnets!  (That’s me in the second row, second from the right.)

The first public performance went well, and we all felt exhilarated. My parents had bought tickets for the second night and so, confident that they would enjoy it, I looked forward to performing on stage in front of them.

Little did I know that my life was going to change for ever that night!

During the opening performance I had barely noticed the bright spotlights between me and the unseen people in the darkened hall.  But now, knowing that my parents were present, I became only too vividly, frighteningly aware of being looked at by invisible people ‘somewhere out there’.  By the end of the first chorus I was in a state of panic, desperate for the end of Act One.  My delight in the performance had been completely destroyed.

At long last we reached the Interval.  As soon as we had left the stage I hurried away on my own towards the back of the building, where I found a quiet place, and sat down, holding my head in my hands.

But suddenly I was high above, at ceiling level, looking down at my physical self!                An out-of-the-body experience!

This lasted only a minute or so, after which my spirit seemed to return to my body.  But by then I was terrified.  My solar plexus felt unusually sensitive, so, convinced that this had been the place from which my spirit had left, I clutched my stomach in order to prevent it from escaping again.  I was afraid to move.  Returning to the stage for Act Two was out of the question. 

My poor mother and father, alarmed at my absence, could no longer enjoy the show! I sat, shaking with fear, until, on hearing the final applause from the audience, I summoned up enough courage to go in search of them.

As soon as we arrived home I rushed to my bed and lay down, still holding the area of my solar plexus.  For the next few days I remained there, unable to explain to my mother what was wrong with me.  Worried, she sent for the doctor, who quietly asked if I had a boyfriend.  He obviously suspected that I was pregnant! - but I assured him that this was not possible, and that, in any case, my distress was caused by something completely different, something much more than mere ‘stage fright’ (which I had already had to deal with at the recent Music Festival).  Puzzled, he could only suggest a few days bed rest – which, indeed, did turn out to be the best advice.  (i.e. literally “just what the doctor ordered”!)

As I gradually relaxed, I realised that for the past few months I had been in a perpetual state of ‘get up and go’, preparing for my Higher exams, performing in seven different classes at the Music Festival, then rushing out to rehearsals for The Pirates.  In addition, I had been confused by an on/off romance with my boyfriend, who was about to leave school – and possibly me, as well!  All in all, my body had reached a state of ‘nervous exhaustion’, - something which I now knew that I would have to try to avoid in future.

But now I also had  a startling discovery to ponder over.  When I looked at my reflection in a mirror, there was something else to think about apart from "Is my hair okay?  Is that a plook (pimple) on my nose?  Have I put on weight?  Does that colour suit me?  Will he like what I'm wearing today?" (!)

 I now thought of my body as the container for my spirit, which was the essence of me.
Two separate entities!  Yes, I had to take care of my body, but it was just as important to look after my spirit.  Otherwise I couldn't function properly!

Another new thought: a mirror wasn't necessary to review the state of my spirit - in fact, a mirror would be a distraction!  All I needed to do was close my eyes and think.  Or, at times of anxiety, close my eyes, think and pray.  This I did.

Gradually I regained my equilibrium and resumed my normal activities with my friends.
Throughout the recovery process I was soothed and strengthened by the first three verses of the 23rd Psalm, which I had been encouraged to memorise at Sunday School years before, and which I still love to this day.

'The Lord is my shepherd; I shall want nothing.  He makes me lie down in green pastures, and leads me beside the waters of peace.   He renews life within me, and for his name's sake guides me in the right path.'

 I commend them to you...

Deo gratias

Lost at Sea?

Lost at sea?

Lost at Sea is the name of a stage play which my daughter Sally and I saw in Perth earlier this year.  Written by Morna Young whose father, a fisherman, drowned when she was only five years old, it uses drama, songs, poetry, fiddle music and true stories, related in the Doric dialect by fisherfolk of the north-east of Scotland, to create a sense of what it is like to live in a close-knit fishing community.  The audience is given a powerful impression of how completely the villagers rely on one another – the men on their physical strength when their boats are storm-tossed, the women on mutual support when, in rough weather, they fear for their husbands’ lives.  We are shown a family’s anguish when a loved one’s body can never be recovered from the sea, with the result that there can be no sense of closure.


Alas, fishermen are not the only ones at risk of being lost at sea.  In the past few years more and more desperate immigrants have been drowned when attempting to cross the sea in small boats as they flee from oppression and violence.  And now we are also having to come to terms with the realisation that, through ignorance, laziness and greed, we have polluted all the seas of our planet – with terrible consequences for innocent sea creatures.

So much depressing news on television and in our newspapers!  When the present political chaos is added to all that, it is no wonder that we feel totally confused and “all at sea”.

                 

And yet, and yet…  There is still a source of hope to be found.

Down the North Sea coast from the Aberdeenshire fishing villages is the town of St Andrews.  It was there that I had an unusual experience which cheers me up whenever I feel “at sea”.  This is what happened.


I was attending a weekend conference of the Churches’ Fellowship for Psychical and Spiritual Studies (CFPSS).  On the Saturday afternoon we had some free time, so I headed for the shops in the town centre.  On my way back I suddenly heard a wonderful sound: church bells playing a wedding hymn!  I stopped in my tracks, then turned and, irresistibly drawn by the peal of the bells, ran back towards it, determined to reach the bell-ringers before they stopped.  A few months earlier, on a visit to my cousin in London, I had seen a group of campanologists practising at her church and had been very impressed by how they managed to pull the bell ropes at a steady pace and in rhythm.  Now I wanted to witness that again here in St Andrews!


Following the sound of the bells, I caught sight of the belfry, and soon discovered that it belonged to Holy Trinity Church.  At the main entrance stood the minister with the wedding party, about to have their photographs taken.  While the photographer was setting up his equipment, I approached the minister and asked if I could please see the bell-ringers.  “Just go up there,” he said, pointing to a narrow stone staircase.  Up I rushed until I came to an open door on my left. 


Peering in, I saw to my astonishment that there was no sign of any campanologists – only a solitary lady wearing a headscarf and with a large shopping bag beside her, banging out the hymn tune on a strange kind of keyboard!  I watched her in amazement until the end of the hymn.  Then she turned and smiled at me.              
“Is this the first time you’ve seen a carillon?” she asked.  “Each note on the keyboard is linked to a bell in the belfry above.” 


(Here are two photos of this carillon, kindly provided by the current player, Callum MacLeod.) 

“Would you like to have a turn on it?”  the lady asked.  I hastily declined with thanks, horrified at the thought of sending my mistakes all over the town!


“Well then,” said the lady, “I know what we’ll do.  This year marks the centenary of the Boys Brigade, so let’s have their signature hymn.”  With clenched fists she began to hammer out Will your anchor hold?  How marvellous it was to hear the loud bells sounding out this special hymn all over St Andrews!


Now, years later, I still smile at the memory – and still find the hymn’s words a comfort and inspiration for action whenever I begin to feel “lost at sea”.  I hope that you will too!

Will your anchor hold in the storms of life, when the clouds unfold their wings of strife?

When the strong tides lift, and the cables strain, will your anchor drift or firm remain?           

We have an anchor that keeps the soul steadfast and sure when the billows roll;       Fastened to the Rock which cannot move, grounded firm and deep in the Saviour’s love!

Deo gratias

Symbolic Sea Pictures

Symbolic Sea Pictures

Do you have a favourite picture in your home, perhaps one you have inherited, one which you have loved since you were a child?

Here is one which I have loved since my earliest childhood.  It was a wedding present for my parents three years before I was born.  My father used to be amused and puzzled whenever he lifted me up to look at it, because I would excitedly point, saying, “Wee Willie Winkie!”  He had to wait until I had enough vocabulary to explain that the little girl’s shadow has a pointed top, like Willie Winkie’s nightcap in my picture book of nursery rhymes!


As I grew older, I saw the picture in its entirety, and never tired of looking at this little girl standing alone on the sand by the edge of the waves, staring out to sea.  She is barefoot and her hands are clasped behind her, loosely holding the cord of a little orange cart in which lies her doll, unheeded.  Gentle white-crested waves are breaking a little way out, but the little girl is staring at a small white indistinct shape on the horizon.


Not only do I love this picture “at face value”, because it reminds me of happy days by the sea, but I also love it on a symbolic level.  For to me the sea symbolises the vast mysterious world of eternal spiritual reality.  Often when I am brooding over some startling experience which has seemed to transcend “ordinary” sensory reality – an amazing coincidence, for example, or a vision, or a strong feeling of intuition – I am reminded of this little girl staring out at the distant object on the horizon, trying to make it out more clearly.


For my recent birthday I received another sea picture, from my son Michael and his family.  Wendy, my daughter-in-law, chose this view of the island of Arran from Culzean Country Park because she thought it would remind me of happy walks there with my dog – which it does.
  

But I also love the energy which the artist (Tina Sloan) conveys.  The waves here are turbulent, driven by the strong south-westerly wind, bringing seaweed to the shore.  Gannets are riding on the air current, each preparing to make its torpedo-like plunge below the surface, to catch a fish.  There are rain clouds moving over Arran, with a shower apparently over Brodick Bay, but the little glimpse of blue sky beyond indicates that they may soon pass.


The seaweed in the foreground reminds me of another picture which fascinated me as a child.  It too showed the outline of Arran as seen from the Ayrshire coast, but on a much calmer day.  In the middle ground, on the shore, were a horse and cart.  I never gave this much thought, until one day my mother-in-law was fondly reminiscing about the big Shire horses which used to pull cartloads of seaweed from the shore to the nearby potato fields.  Seaweed!  So that’s why a horse and cart were in the picture.


As I thought about this, it occurred to me that sometimes my like-minded friends and I are rather like the potato farmers!  Ordinary “down-to-earth” folk, we are nevertheless occasionally aware of another element: the ‘sea’ of Unseen Reality. We do not wish to “dabble” recklessly in it, knowing that to try to venture into it, unprotected by faith and prayer, would be as foolish as setting out alone in a tiny canoe without compass, life-jacket, food or knowledge of the winds, tides and currents.


But like the farmers who gather seaweed from the shore, so we, in order to glean spiritual nourishment for ourselves and for others, seek to gather and use the gifts which God in His providence sends us from the mysterious element of the Unseen: evidence of life after death, spiritual healing and inspiration, and yes, startling coincidences!


This week, at a time of political chaos and general uncertainty, I leave you with this lovely Gaelic blessing.

Deep peace of the running wave to you,                                    

Deep peace  of the flowing air to you,                                                                          Deep peace of the quiet earth to you,                                                                              Deep peace of the shining stars to you,                                                                        Deep peace of the gentle night to you,                                                                          Moon and stars pour their healing light on you,                                                       Deep peace of Christ the light of the world to you,                                                       Deep peace of Christ to you.

Two Rainbows

Two Rainbows

(A time for silence and a time for speech, Ecclesiastes 3, 7)

Last weekend I celebrated my 80^th birthday with my family.  Linda, my younger daughter, gave me a special present which she had made for me: an academic year diary with a different family photograph for each week. On the inside front cover is this one of the Waverley, the popular old Clyde paddle steamer.  Linda knew that this picture would remind me of a memorable trip which still makes me laugh.

The five of us: Bob and I with Sally (9), Linda (7) and Michael (2) set off from Ayr one blustery July day, bound for Millport on the island of Cumbrae.  No sooner had the Waverley left Ayr harbour than it began to roll from side to side, waves splashing up on to the deck.  Hastily we found seats and sat tight, trying to convince ourselves that we didn’t feel sick.


Our aim was to cycle right round the island, on hired bicycles.  Relieved to have made it safely to Millport, we headed straight for the cycle hire shop. Bob found a large bike with a seat on the back for Michael, then we selected three others of different sizes.  Linda’s was little more than a fairy cycle.


Off we set, happily pedalling out of the little town and round the first bend, looking across to the mainland.  Well, I at least was pedalling happily!  Suddenly Linda stopped and began to sob. “This bike’s too wee for me,” she wailed. “My legs are sore!  I’m having to pedal too fast!”  Not wanting to have to go all the way back to the shop, I quickly thought up a Ruse.


“Listen, girls.  I know what we can do. Sally, you get on to Linda’s bike – but just for five minutes.  Then every five minutes the two of you will change over, and if you can do that without crying all the way round the island, I’ll buy you each a big box of Maltesers when we get back to Millport.”  (Bribery and corruption, I know – but it worked!) 


A few minutes later we felt large spots of rain.  Soon these developed into a serious shower, so we were glad to reach a building where we could take shelter - the University Marine Biology Station.  Having parked our bikes outside, we gratefully went in.  Just inside was a splendid model of the Firth of Clyde, showing where the deepest areas are.  While I stopped to study that, Bob took Michael and the girls to look at the aquarium, which housed specimens of the Clyde’s sea-creatures.  Suddenly Michael let out a scream of terror, having just caught sight of a large lobster which seemed about to scrabble out of its glass case towards him!  Embarrassed, we quickly took him, still howling, to the exit, and clambered back on to our wet bicycles.  We pedalled along in miserable silence, Michael now falling asleep and tilting at an alarming angle towards the edge of his little seat behind Bob.


All at once I felt that the rain was easing off and looked up to the sky. 

“Ooh, look!  I can see a rainbow!” I exclaimed.  “OH, BE QUIET!” came the joint chorus from my dear family. (Not their usual way of addressing me, I hasten to add – but wet clothes plus sore legs seemed to add up to bad manners!)


Ever since that day I have been teased with the words “I can see a rainbow!” whenever I sound like an Exasperating Optimist while other family members are feeling completely fed up!

               And now for something completely different – but still featuring a combination of “BE QUIET!” and a Rainbow…

Eleven years after the trip to Millport our family circumstances had changed dramatically.  Bob had cancer of the bladder; his mother, now a widow and suffering from Parkinson’s disease, had come to live with us; Sally was at Edinburgh University, Linda at the Glasgow College of Building and Printing; I now had a fulltime teaching job at the secondary school where Michael was a pupil.


Every three months poor Bob had to suffer another unpleasant operation to have more cancer cells scraped from his bladder.  His mother, who tended towards depression, needed a lot of support, both physical and mental.  Every day I struggled to cope with all I had to attend to, trying all the while to appear cheerful, positive and supportive.  It was a huge challenge, and I found myself relying more and more on God for help.  I prayed every day at home, at work, in the supermarket, in short, wherever I was when I felt that I needed more strength and courage.  And, thanks be to God, I did get help – sometimes a quiet sense of calm would suddenly descend upon me, at other times I would have a “coincidental” meeting with someone who could give me the needed practical assistance or spiritual comfort.  My regular Sunday visit to church (without Bob, who was a complicated mixture of Sceptic and Seeker!)  provided more sources of strength – sometimes the sermon, but also an inspiring hymn, or a conversation with a sympathetic friend.  Writing also helped.  Expressing my intense emotions in my secret diaries got them “off my chest” so that I could better face the new challenges of the following day.


However, things came to a head one evening.  My mother-in-law had been admitted to hospital the previous week.  Bob, who after the latest operation was still passing blood and tissue, had just been told that she was terminally ill.  Her surgeon had asked him for permission to stop her medication and thereby “let Nature take its course”.  What an awful decision to have to make!


A neighbour had recently brought Bob a bottle of whisky by way of thanks for help in summarising a text.  Not surprisingly, the combination of whisky and his medication had a violent effect, opening the floodgates of despair, pain – both physical and mental – fear of death, anxiety for me and the children, and finally RAGE at me for being “a stupid optimist”, with his usual taunts of “All things bright and beautiful – oh yeah?” and swingeing attacks on my faith.


(Now I quote from my diary) ‘How ironical to know that without my faith, not only I but also Bob would be well and truly sunk in hopeless depression – as he himself has often admitted.  But what could I do but just sit there and take it?  Another case of ‘BE QUIET!’  Knowing only too well all that Bob is going through, it would have been presumptuous of me to say anything at all.’


Deeply shaken by this sudden verbal attack and by my inability to heal Bob’s pain, I prayed urgently for help.  A few days later, after a short time of quiet in an empty room, I wrote: ‘Gradually relaxing, I let my consciousness rise up and up, at the same time beseeching God to send me a comforting vision to help and strengthen me.  And He did!


I “saw” the high road between Straiton and Dalmellington, where I had often taken Bob’s Mum on a Sunday car run, stopping to hear the skylarks or to watch a shepherd and his collie round up the free-roaming sheep.  But what I now “saw,” and was aware of most clearly, was the weather – very dark clouds contrasting absolutely with the brilliant April sunshine.  And down to the spot where I was standing there came a beautiful rainbow.  Oh, how wonderful to be right in the very middle of the glorious seven-coloured light!  The arc connected me with Heaven, and I knew that I was being blessed, but also that the arc connected me with another spot on God’s earth, and that I was, as it were, to travel up the rainbow to God for strength, then down again on the other side, to bring the wonderful light, colours and blessing to somebody else who was standing alone in the dark clouds.  All were ONE by means of the rainbow: God, myself, and the other person.  I remembered the idea that at the end of the rainbow there is meant to be a pot of gold, and I “knew” that I, standing there, had enough gold (of faith and blessing) to last me a long, long time.  I felt joyful and richly blessed.


A day or so later there was a lovely coincidence when, in a National Trust shop, I found this picture postcard, which reproduces my vision almost exactly!  Joyfully I pasted it into my diary.

Deo gratias