Imbolc, Brigid and the Snake

We have been going through a series of calendrical turning points over the past week.

Today is the Lunar New Year. Time to say goodbye to the Year of the Dragon and welcome to the Year of the Snake. By birth, I am a dragon; but I'm not too sad to see the end of the past year as it has been a real tough one. This new year (4711 in the Chinese calendar) is that of the water snake. The snake is said to signify the qualities of intelligence, charm and introspection, alongside those of cunning, suspicion and self-control. Famous snakes include Bob Dylan, Virginia Woolf and Mao Zedong.

Actually I'm terrified of snakes. If I catch a glimpse of one on TV I begin to shudder and shake uncontrollably. Its their sinuous movement that gets to me. And if I was unfortunate enough to see one in real life, it would be far worse. I'm sure my reaction dates from childhood, when I was terrorised by two older lads. One of them grabbed my arms and the other dropped a snake down the back of my shirt. The snake writhed against my skin. I thrashed and shrieked. The lads laughed and trotted away. I ran home screaming. I was probably around 4 years old.

I later learnt that it was a slow-worm - a snakelike lizard. But every time that I see a snake (or any creature with their sinuous movement) I physically return to that childhood terror. I must admit I'm happy to be living on an island where, thanks to evolution or St Patrick, there are no snakes.

This past week has also seen the midpoint between the Winter and Spring solstices. This midpoint is a quarter day, there are four of these a year. In the ancient Celtic calendar this particular quarter day is called Imbolc. It signifies the end of Winter and beginning of Spring. Traditionally coinciding with the birth of the first lambs and the start of ploughing, Imbolc is essentially a festival of fertility.

Imbolc took place on 4th February. In early Mediaeval times this long-standing pagan festival began to be appropriated by the Christian church who initiated St Brigid's day (Ist Feb) and Candlemas (2nd Feb). These two festivals celebrate Christian events as well as the end of Winter and the beginning of Spring (the lighting of candles symbolising the strengthening sun).

St Brigid was an Irish nun who founded a monastery and was said to have performed miracles of healing. However, Brigid was also an ancient Irish goddess who mythologically was the patroness of smithing, poetry, crafts, medicine and the Spring. In early Mediaeval times the church fused St Brigid with the mythological Brigid, the saint taking on the functions and powers of the ancient goddess. St Brigid became typically portrayed with a cross woven from reeds and a lamp with a sacred flame.

I welcome Spring (my snowdrops are in flower and the daffodils are shooting up) and look forward to the Year of the Snake being one of increased fruitfulness for me (despite its unfortunate associations).

Release

Exactly one year ago I wrote to friends explaining that I had just seen a consultant gastro surgeon who told me that I had a hole in my diaphragm which part of my stomach had gone through. This problem was a residue from the big operation I had in June 2011 (which saved my life). Then they had to cut open my sternum and my diaphragm to get at the heart and vena cava below. When they put me back together again it seems that some of the hundreds of internal stitches hadn’t held.

The bad news was that I needed another operation, using conventional surgery, to fix this hernia. In practice it would mean two and a half hours in theatre, one week in hospital and around three months physical recovery. The consultant also explained that there would be a one in four chance that this repair would not succeed.

My heart sank. I was still trying to get over the terrible ordeal of the 'big op' (my first ever hospitalisation). Having to go back in for more surgery just a few months later was a thing of enormous dread. I told him that I was still recovering (e.g. taking painkillers) and I wouldn't be able to to undertake this at present. The consultant seemed a little disappointed but agreed to defer the surgery in the short term and to review me in six months time. I left the consultation feeling like a condemned man.

At the next review (July 2012) I'd improved. I explained that I felt physically recovered from the 'big op' and my gastric symptoms were stable. But I also told him that the mental side of recovery felt much harder to deal with and seemed to be taking a lot longer. The upshot was that I still didn't feel ready to go back into hospital for further surgery. After some pensive moments, he agreed to defer again and to review me in another six months.

On Tuesday I went for that review with my consultant gastro surgeon. I'd spent a good while preparing myself. I decided to tell him that I was now ready to give myself up to the hospital and have the damned surgery.

He asked me how I was. I told him I felt pretty well and that my symptoms had remained stable. I could eat and drink what I wanted and I was able to do most of the activities I wanted, including some easy hill-walking. I also said I'd joined a choir and found that I could sing, although I didn’t seem to have the same length of breath as others.

He nodded and then smiled. The best course of action, he said, is to put the surgery on hold and to keep you under review. I perked up. As your situation has been stable for well over six months, he said, we'll bring you in and do the surgery when and if the hernia becomes a problem. How would I know that, I asked. Stomach cramps and persistent vomiting, he said. I nodded, thinking of my misspent youth, after many beers and a curry such symptoms were commonplace.

He told me that diaphragmatic hernias are a congenital condition that affects one in two thousand children. The diaphragm begins to form in the sixth week of pregnancy and can grow with a hole in it. When some children are born with this defect it can be very dangerous (depending on how the abdominal organ protrudes) and require immediate surgery, but others can have these hernias for many decades without any problems only realising that they have the condition when something happens in adulthood.

I don’t need to see you again for a year, he said. Call me and come in earlier if you get a problem, he said, but keep on going as you have been and I think you'll be fine. I grinned and shook his hand. A door had opened. I walked out of the hospital with a real spring in my step.

Chinatown (1974)

I saw this classic thriller at QFT last night. Made by Roman Polanski just five years after the murder of his wife by the Manson gang, it stars Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway. Written by Robert Towne, the film is set in 1930's Los Angeles and appears to be paying homage to film-noir: Nicholson is a smart private detective and Dunaway a stylish, rich lady. Then the film goes through many twists and reversals that unravel layers of corruption, conspiracy and abuse towards a bleak, tragic ending.

The film opens with Nicholson being commissioned by a jealous wife to investigate a husband who she suspects is cheating on her. The husband is the chief engineer of the city's water authority and after being followed around the country to dried up rivers (Los Angeles is in the middle of a drought and heatwave) Nicholson photographs him kissing a young girl at an assignation. The pictures are published and the chief engineer is embroiled in scandal.

In the first of many plot reversals, Nicholson is then visited by Dunaway who sets out to sue him, as she is the true wife of the chief engineer. Realising that he was originally commissioned by someone impersonating her, Nicholson decides to embark on a quest to find out who set him up and why. The first thing he finds is the dead body of the chief engineer being pulled from a reservoir. This serves to intensify his quest.

The plot interweaves the corrupt pursuit of lucrative land and water rights for the expanding city by a rich businessman, played with patrician charm and menace by John Huston (the director of several film-noir classics), and struggles for identity and authority within an abusive family, Dunaway plays Huston's daughter.

Dunaway starts out as a classic femme fatale (the black widow), appearing duplicitous and with divided loyalties: being both helper (lover) and opponent. She seems to draw Nicholson into mystery, confusion and danger. But as the film proceeds we discover bit by bit that she is a genuine person who is struggling with a terrible secret.

Nicholson is very resourceful and despite many setbacks, some of them violent (the infamous scene where one nostril is slit open by a stiletto wielding hoodlum, played by Polanski), he pursues his quest with determination. This quest is highly moral, for he is seeking to identify who is doing good and save them from those that are doing bad in a world that appears to be filled with deception and corruption. We sift the clues and unravel the complex, elusive facts as he does - we join his quest as he produces explanation after explanation, and theory upon theory, each of which is shown to be flawed and misleading.

The film concludes with a series of startling and powerful denouements. In the first of these Nicholson challenges Dunaway believing that she killed her husband, drowning him in their garden pond during a row about his affair with the girl. In the turmoil that follows, Dunaway reveals that the girl seen with her husband was her daughter, the product of an abusive relationship with her father when she was a teenager, and that Huston now wants to take the girl from her.

Dunaway needs to escape with her daughter and wants to go Mexico. Nicholson finds a friend to drive them there and arranges for them to meet the getaway driver that evening in Chinatown. Then Nicholson goes to challenge Huston about his corrupt water and land deals and discovers that it was he who murdered his own son-in-law (drowning him after he had uncovered this corruption). Huston is unmasked as the charming face of evil, saying 'I don’t blame myself, you see most people don’t have to face the fact that at the right time, the right place, they're capable of anything!'

Having secured the water and land deals, Huston wants to take full charge of his younger daughter (Dunaway's incestuous child). At gunpoint he forces Nicholson to take him to the meeting point in Chinatown (after which he will kill him). All the characters converge here for the climactic scene.

First off Nicholson is handcuffed, arrested for withholding evidence. He protests to the police that Huston is the one they really want, but they ignore him. Dunaway then attempts to make the getaway with her daughter, Huston confronts them in the car, shouting that Dunaway is 'a disturbed woman, who cannot hope to provide.' He is shot in the arm by Dunaway who speeds off. The police shoot at the receding car, it slows to a stop, the horn sounds and someone begins to scream.

All the characters rush to the car. Dunaway is dead, slumped forward, shot through the head. Huston comforts the screaming girl, putting his hand over her eyes: he has got what he wanted. Nicholson is shocked and stunned: 'as little as possible' he mumbles. The police lieutenant releases Nicholson, shouting 'get him the hell out of here', and begins to take charge of the crime scene. The film ends with two friends leading Nicholson away down a street filled with clamour and sirens: one says 'forget it, Jake, its Chinatown'.

Originally there was a happy ending, but this was rewritten by Polanski and Nicholson shortly before the final scene was filmed. In this ending the rich, powerful and unscrupulous win out over those on a moral quest to right wrongs and do good. Nicholson's final comment refers back to (post-coital) dialogue in which he spoke to Dunaway about things that happened when he was working as a policeman in Chinatown years ago.

Chinatown here becomes a metaphor for a community with a complex mix of good and evil, where 'you cant tell what's going on'. In such a place of intense moral ambiguity, your best intentions can have the opposite effect: Nicholson says to Dunaway 'I was trying to keep someone from being hurt, I ended up making sure that she was hurt.' In the climax of the film this tragedy repeats itself, as Dunaway, the vulnerable female victim he was trying to save, is killed. In shock, Nicholson self-critically repeats the advice he had been given in Chinatown many years previously: when you don’t really know what you're doing, its best to do 'as little as possible'.

This bleak ending is entirely fitting and makes the film tonally complete. A happy ending would indeed feel inappropriate. Unsurprisingly the film has garnered many awards, most notably Best Film, Director, Screenplay and Leading Actor at the Golden Globes (at the Oscars it gained only Best Screenplay, the main awards being taken by The Godfather 2). Reissued almost 40 years after it was made, Chinatown certainly retains its power.

However, at a more fundamental level, I find the bleak vision of the film unsatisfying. Yes, the moral crusader who sets out on a quest to right wrongs in a complex and corrupt world is certainly problematic and most likely dangerous. One thinks of Travis Bickle and the violent excesses of any number of gunmen in American schools or in the Algerian desert. We are of course flawed and unable to apportion right and wrong fairly. But when you cant really know what you are doing in a complex and morally ambiguous world, does it mean that the only real course of action is to do as little as possible? I don't think so, for that means that the powerful and unscrupulous will always win out. This strikes me as equally problematic and dangerous.

I believe there is a challenging moral possibility that lies between these unpalatable alternatives. A way forward that is grounded in accepting what we can and cannot change. Try as we might, we aren't able to directly change the world's flaws and inadequacies - but but we can certainly alter our own. With plenty of hard work we can change ourselves and how we relate to whoever we encounter. Far from being a retreat, this has repercussions way beyond ourselves. As Mahatma Gandhi wisely observes, 'be the change that you want to see in the world'.

Gill Banks

Gill Banks


10 Dec 1959
        
17 Jan 1987


Love and Peace

Loss and Change

Most people hate change. Particularly when that change is radical and forced upon us against our will. We resist the change with all our resources - hostility, denial, withdrawal, avoidance and so on. I know them all very well, having spent a long time actively resisting the change wrought in my life by the big C.

I wanted to return to the life I had and who I was before my diagnosis. In other words, to restore my normality. This was my quest and I was terribly afraid of failing to achieve it. For if I let go of my normal life, the activities I valued (e.g. cycling, hillwalking) and the people I did them with, I would be losing myself. And then I would be lost and alone in an extremely painful place - just poor, defenceless me and the big C.

This desire to protect yourself is quite normal. Because change always entails  loss and pain. The more radical the change, the more traumatic that experience. Thus we seek to avoid the pain of loss, even when it is unavoidable. But as Thoreau observes, 'not until we are lost do we begin to understand ourselves'.

So how did the change happen for me? I'm still working it out, but I think it goes something like this.

Over the past year in particular, a number of different (and contradictory) processes have been going on at the same time. Firstly, all sorts of resistance and plenty of attempts to prove that I was still who I thought I was. Inevitably there was lots of disappointment and pain in this. Secondly, withdrawal into self-pity and mourning for who I used to be, alongside bouts of anger and renewed resistance. Thirdly, experiments with new ideas and activities - some more tentative and soon abandoned, others more intensive and prolonged (e.g. singing in a choir). Fourthly, some sort of acceptance and revaluing of who and where I was - that the past wasn’t as good as I had made out and the present wasn’t as bad as I feared.

It now strikes me that anthropologists would call this experience a 'rite of passage'. These take place in traditional cultures to shape important changes of identity, for example the transition from childhood to adulthood (Victor Turner is the authority on this).

What have been the parameters of my passage? It's hard to be specific. In recent years there have been a series of important changes in my life: the death of my mother (my remaining parent), early retirement from work, the death of my brother from cancer, my own cancer diagnosis and treatment, then my partner leaving me.

This is where I've come from. It's been quite an ordeal. But where have I arrived?

In my previous post I said I had become more fully myself. This feels very true. I called it a process of becoming. This process has also been a reconstruction.

Like Humpty Dumpty, I had a great fall and my pieces have been put back together again. But they don’t fit as before because some of the pieces are bigger, some are smaller and there are also some new pieces that didn’t really exist previously. So I'm a refocused and rebalanced person, somewhat more than I used to be, clearer and more confident of who and where I am.

As Oscar Wilde pithily observes, 'be yourself; everyone else is already taken'.

 

The Blessing of Paradox

One year ago I posted 'Blessing for a Friend on the Arrival of Illness' by John O'Donohue. I had just joined a cancer support group and one of the members quoted these lines from it:

 

            'you feel that against your will

             a stranger has married your heart.
             Nothing before has made you
             feel so isolated and lost.'

There were murmurs of recognition and nods of assent from around the room. These startling words captured where I was with the illness perfectly. I went home and found the whole of the blessing on the internet. I read it again and again, all of its first half spoke to me very powerfully:

            'Now your time on earth becomes full of threat;

             before your eyes your future shrinks.'

I must admit that I found the second half of the blessing quite incomprehensible. For example, I should seek a way 'to embrace this illness as a teacher who has come to open my life to new worlds'! What in hell was he on about?

I knew what I wanted: exactly the opposite. To be rid of the illness as soon as possible, so that I could return to the relative safety of who and where I was before the diagnosis. My world had become so very dark and difficult. I had a long, red post-operative scar down the centre of my torso, stretching from neck to groin. Every day I had to face the prospect of my own death. I certainly didn’t need any 'new age' claptrap to add to my pain and confusion.

            'May you use this illness

             as a lantern to illuminate
             the new qualities that will emerge in you.'

            'Fuck, fuck, fuck', I shouted: 'give me a break!'

But, strangely enough, something like this now seems to have happened. I'm still not exactly sure how. I do know it's been a very hard journey that's taken the best part of a year thus far. I also recognise that I had much further to descend into the slough of despond before I was able to begin to recover. And herein lies an important paradox.

It seems to me now that within the very power of the illness, its overwhelming ability to break you, to sever your grip on who and where you used to be, there also lies the seeds of healing, the resources for rebuilding and growth. The veritable treasure of darkness.

To John O'Donohue, this is a journey of faith (not necessarily the progress of a pilgrim) and belief (not necessarily in a higher power). He describes it as a journey of faith in your own possibilities, a journey of belief in becoming and emergence within yourself. A journey 'to release whatever has become false in you'. A journey of learning and revaluing 'to become more fully yourself'.

Such a journey is of course a struggle. For becoming is, by its very nature, ambiguous and uncertain. Furthermore, it is pursued between the heavy pull of opposites (for we come to know light in relation to darkness, and vice versa) so the journey is filled with paradox.

For me this journey has been a huge ordeal. I'm strong, resourceful and was determined to escape from my situation and find my way back to before. Stress, fear and sleeplessness were my companions, until it dawned on me that the journey I was trying so hard to make was unavailable. A terrible realisation. I felt consumed by the shadows of death. Then, very slowly, I began to discover that the different life and self I did have wasn't necessarily worse: indeed in some ways it could actually be better.

As John O'Donohue perceptively observes, the struggle of becoming takes place over the span of each day, in which you are trying to 'bring this night-wound gradually towards the healing and freedom of dawn.' We all have been there and will again be there, our struggles rising and falling over the journey of a human life.

I'm still finding my way: doing my best to accept where I am, to value it differently and even to enjoy it. I know that I cant go back to who and where I was before. Indeed, I wouldn’t want to. I'm now more fully myself than I have ever been. A patchwork of strengths and limitations: sure. A work in progress: of course. And long may that journey go on.

Sadly, just two months after his 'Book of Blessings' was published, John O'Donohue died suddenly (in his sleep) aged 52.

  

Watershed

Gushing between glaciers

 

and the ocean bed,

 

a vast, unremitting tide

 

sculpts the reluctant land

 

as the moment needs,

 

sweeping particles for sediment

 

or in raging spate, whole trees.

 

Tugged from the awkward bank,

 

I’m torn beyond the shallows -

 

currents and tows rip me,

 

floundering.

 

               You ravel onward

 

in sleek rolling waves,

 

plunging deep and dangerous

 

I embrace the cascade.