Well Becoming

This post is from my wife Sue

My mum and I loved peanut brittle . Expensive presents weren’t the order of the day growing up but once I started work one year I bought her a whole sweet jar full. And she still had all her own teeth!

Just recently I was quite sad as a good friend had been diagnosed with cancer  So one of my daughters sent me a present to cheer me up.  Included in it was a slice of peanut brittle.  Suddenly I was smiling, going back through the years to my childhood.  It wasn’t actually about the peanut brittle, that was just the catalyst.  So what was it about?  And what about those who don’t have ‘peanut brittle‘ memories to fall back on?

I was very lucky. There are so many little things that remind me how safe and valued I felt growing up, although we only realise these things retrospectively.  The things that made me feel OK as a person, first as a child and later on as an adult.

But actually we are all okay as people.  It’s just that if no-one helps us to realise that growing up we have to find ways of doing it for ourselves. 

A very common way is not to remember anything: “Oh that’s in the past, for me it’s a bit of a blank “ Bit of a shame really as you are blocking out all the clever ways you managed to survive growing up in a difficult environment, all the things you managed to work out for yourself.

Or you only remember the bad things you were told or believed about yourself.

“My mother says I was born an angry child”.  I don’t think so but it makes some sort of crazy sense if your life was not good.

And maybe the most complicated one to deal with as we get older, we pretend it was all OK!

So what can we do about all this?

Firstly, keep repeating to yourself my dad’s mantra: ”You’re as good as anyone and better than no one”. Never mind that you don’t quite believe it yet. Just keep saying it. It affects how you feel about yourself and other people.  And how you treat yourself and other people: as equals.

Then if you’re past wasn’t good enough make sure your future is better.  Work out the things that make you feel good.  That’s not what other people think, it’s what you think. I mean going swimming fills me with fear and dread. For someone else it’s a fantastic way to relax.

And it doesn’t matter what it is you like. Train spotting, watching Coronation Street, computer games, doing nothing. All valid if it’s your choice. Rebuild your world as you want it.  And yes, I know it’s not always that easy.  But remember the mantra – you’re as good as anyone and better than no one.

 Go on, you deserve it!

Today we complete our journey from despair to delight, with six of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ sonnets as our travel guide. To celebrate, we share his pleasure in his own favourite poem, The Windhover:

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
      dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! 

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

This sonnet really does work best when you read it out loud.  It takes a few goes to get the rhythm of it, especially the first few lines. Do try it yourself -  you’ll soon find you are flying with the falcon, up and down, barely taking a breath until the first full stop arrives, half way though line seven.
 

Then you can have a rest and check out some of the words and images. In line 2,’ dauphin’ means ‘crown prince’. In line 6 the imagery is ice-skating – for us today it could as easily be skiing in the Alps, or surfing the waves of Cornwall. Lines 9-11 give the image of the prince on horseback fastening (buckling) together his armour. In lines 12-13, ‘plough down sillion shine’ refers to the way that soil, when turned over by a plough, becomes big and shiny.  In the final line, ‘gall’ means graze or scrape, and ‘gold-vermilion’ is the colour of fire, or fresh blood.

Hopkins used the word inscape to refer to the charged essence of a thing (a tree, a landscape, a sunset or – in this case – a falcon); the absolute individuality that gives each thing its being, its uniqueness, its sanctity, its purpose in the world.  He created a second word, instress, to refer to the energy that holds the thing together and – importantly – to the impulse which carries it whole into the mind of the person seeing it.  His heart stirs for the falcon, he is at one with it in its mastery of the air.

We can gain profound courage from this sonnet. The beauty and joy of the falcon, ecstatically riding the wind, infuses with his energy not only Hopkins the poet but also ourselves the readers. It prompts us to celebrate those moments in our own lives when we feel effortlessly magnificent and free.

He inspires us to believe in a glittering luminous core to our own being - a core not crushed by the ‘sheer plod’ of our daily activities, but brought by them to the surface, honed and sparkling in the sun.

And all this in full awareness that our existence is precious but precarious; that danger or death may be lurking around the corner. An awareness that only heightens the intensity of our joy for life in the present moment.

He has some inner company in this time of trouble. Within the first three lines, Hopkins’ switch from the first person ‘I’ to ‘we’ (I plus heart) to ‘you’ (heart). So he is not dealing with all this on his own. His heart is taking some of the burden for him.   
 

This is the first step on our journey from despair to delight, taken in the company of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. We’re going to jump straight in with what, for me, is Hopkins’ most desolate sonnet.

Here it is: take a deep breath, and read:

            No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,

          More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder ring.

          Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

          Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?

          My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-

          Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge old anvil wince and sing -

          Then lull, then leave off.  Fury has shrieked 'No ling-

          ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'.

                    O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall

          Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap

          May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small

          Durance deal with that steep or deep.  Here! creep,

          Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all

          Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

Yes, it’s a tough one, isn’t it?  It’s probably the most troubled and troubling poem I have ever read.  Grief upon grief. Fury after fury. An endless falling into nothingness. Nobody there to offer any comfort or relief. The only possibilities of escape are sleep or death. 

So how could this dread-full poem ever be helpful to someone in the depths of despair?

Well, I think it offer us comfort in three ways.

First, it makes a connection for us. I first read this poem when I was 18, soon after a big relationship break-up and living in a place and with people I didn’t know.  I felt totally alone, and utterly miserable. And I realised: this guy understands what I’m going through, he’s been there himself, he’s talking my language.  So there was a link for me with Hopkins, a sense of shared experience. And I didn’t feel quite so alone.   

Other people I know have felt the same.  ‘It’s like finding a friend,’ someone told me recently;’ I felt like he was sitting next to me, reading to me. It brings a closeness.’  

Second, reading a poem like this can help us accept that it’s OK, it’s legitimate to feel so distressed - something we may often doubt or feel guilty about.  ‘It’s allowed, you’re entitled to feel that depth.’

And third, there is something powerful and impressive about Hopkins’ absolute, raw honesty here - his ability to give deep expression to the reality of his experiences, however terrifying that reality may be.  There is no pretence, no denial, no hiding.    

You may know that mindfulness meditation is helpful for people who have recurring experiences of depression.  And this is precisely where mindfulness begins – resting in the present moment, however difficult that moment happens to be.  Staying with the reality of our situation. Without judgment or evaluation. Without avoiding the problems we face, or trying to solve them. Just being there.  

This is the first stage of the journey. If Hopkins has the courage to face his misery head on, then so can we.

I’ve been reading a lot of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poetry recently.  And I've realised  that his sonnets can offer relief and hope for people going through a period of deep distress. 

I’ve been worrying quite a bit recently – partly about family problems and work pressures, which I can do something about; and partly about the corrosive effects of Brexit and Trump, which I can’t do anything much about.  And then I’ve found myself worrying about worrying, which is more worrying still - and definitely not to be recommended.

• My afternoon siesta, which I’ve built into my routine since my cycling accident, is a must-do these days. It stops me from wearing myself out, restores my energy, my memory and my creativity. Highly recommended!