Becoming A Birder

I have a new hobby! 

Disgusted with Twitter, I Twexited. I flit. I am creating a new and much softer persona on Mastodon. If you’re connecting, I’m here: @maryeffrancis.masto.ai . 

It’s a whole new virtual world. Politer, saner, not driven by the imperative to try to sell me stuff I’m never going to buy, there are no algorithms feeding me like-minded folk, so my horizons are expanding. Quite literally. 

Thanks to Mastodon, I have spent a whole morning bird-watching from a live camera in a suburb of Pretoria, and it’s amazing! 

Here are s few of the birds I’ve bagged:

There may be more. Photos and descriotions @C ourtesy of the Cornell Labs astounding “Merlin” bird ID App … 

Against All The Odds

From The Gloucester Citizen July 1986

I was rummaging through decades of papers and I found this newspaper article my parents had clipped and saved. It was amazing to hear my father speak after so my years. 

AGAINST ALL THE ODDS 

DEGREE FOR GIRL DOCTORS SAID WOULD DIE 

A young woman whose parents were told she would dic ol a brain haemorrhage at the age of five, receves a univcrsity degree on Saturday. (5th July 1986) Proud parents, Trudy and Frank Cook, the caretaker (and Cleaners)  at Crypt School. Gloucester will be at the ceremony as their daughter Mary Ellen, now aged 36 years, he’s given her open University bachelor of arts degree. 

For them, it is nothing short of a miracle. When Mary Anning was a toddler, the doctors said she was unlikely to survive

But since then she has achieved O and A  levels (7 and 2); trained as a teacher, married, had two children of her own; and now, after five years study, while working, and looking after her family, has obtained a BA. Mr Cook said: “we are overjoyed and as proud as can be. At one time we thought we were going to lose her, it was our blackest moment ever“.

The family were living in Mattson at the time. Maryellen had hooping cough. It is not clear whether the coughing or a bang on the head in a fall from a chair caused the brain haemorrhage.

Mary Ellen was taken into over hospital. She was paralysed down one side, suffered convulsions and could not see. The parents were told there was 1000 to one chance she would survive.

Suddenly, when things were at the blackest, both Mr and Mrs Cook had a vision, they could never explain. A voice came to both of them saying that their daughter would be alright.

Mary Ellen not only recovered, but instead of her brain power, receding, it seemed to improve. She began to read, fairytale books and newspapers in a way she never could before she was ill. New paragraph

Mr Cook said: “the doctors were amazed and said she would make medical history.“

Mary Ellen went to Finlay Road junior school and then passed her 11+ to  Ribston Hall High School for Girls, where she took O-levels and two A-levels.

She trained as a teacher at Bingley College in Yorkshire, where she met her husband Ray, who also now a teacher.

The couple now both teach in Rainham in Essex where they live.* They have two daughters Jenny six and Katie two. .

She has also been helping with a pioneer scheme, looking after unmarried, pregnant women and having them and their newly born babies in her own home.

Mr Cook said: “She is a very strong member of the church. She says that God gave her life again, a second chance, and so she is out to help anyone in. Anyway she possibly can. She wants to make sure she’s making full use of her life.”

*Mum Newtons Junior

Dad Mitchell Junior 

Re-imagining

Today is my seventy-second birthday. 

Born in 1950, from my first awakening to the concept of age, I have known:” In 2,000 I will be fifty!”How distant, impossible to summons, in those far-off days as a ten-year old, how such an advanced age, in a new millennium would be! And here I am, twenty-two years beyond, waving to the child inside, smiling. 

“It’s OK. Yes, hold the dream, it’s coming. “

My Aunty Mary was matriarch of my then-family. I am pictured here, a babe on her knee. The years took their toll, and I guess I am she, now. The depository of wisdom. The teller of stories, the bearer of the sacred flame of family,  that will be acknowledged and passed on, or buried, like treasure. 

The anscestors that I re-imagine for my grandchildren: the Pitts were gypsies originating in Italy, refugees perhaps from a long ago pogrom. The Cooks, Somerset men: immigrants from Ireland via Wales. . Swansea, I believe. 

Great-great -grandma cursed a rose, Aunty was a witch … story after story, growing in the telling. A distant uncle emigrated to America and vanished. Leonard Cook died of TB in ‘46 after fighting in the war, and reappeared as  a ghost long after. 

Update. Yesterday  I took the ferry from St Maws to Falmouth with daughter Kate, Darren, and their sons Frank, 6, and Alfie, 4. It was a wild ride, but now, just hours later the October sea is calm and blue, the rain gone. 

That, I think, is just how it is. 

October Flowers

Politically Naive

I used to believe that politics was fundamentally values-driven. 

Pick a bunch that mirror your values most closely, I thought. Then I became politically active. The local group of my (Labour) Party, did indeed reflect my values. They were thoughtful, compassionate, willing to work to save our community, our nation, our planet, from the greedy, unethical, unjust and uncaring forces of rampant consumerism. 

Our values were judged unelectable, and I quit. 

Older and wiser now, I see political parties for what they really are. Power-hungry and in league with big business. The cause of the kind is lost, and my country has become a lost cause. 

We are literally on the brink of social, environmental and economic collapse, and I am helpless. 

I realise I am now perpetually on the losing side. I bow to that. 

February In Devon

So here I am, holed up in a centuries old Fishermans cottage in Brixham South Devon.

It has been an amazing week. Right up until today the Sun  shone brightly from clear blue skies and the sea has matched the sky in colour and stillness.Just look:

 My list of things to do was very short, top of it was: " nothing'."  A goal I largely managed to achieved. 

I came without a car, so on at least one day, I managed to hit my steps goal, by donning boots and walking along the coastal path to Berry Head. (See view above...)  I chalked up keeping a regular time for prayer and reflection, previewing the DVD series for Lent, talking to a Salvationist about faith, eating really good fish and chips, rediscovering Philip Larkin, and watching four back-back series of "Friends". 

I loved the harbour, and was fascinated by two features in particular, being a history buff. The first is a replica of a 16th century ship, "The Golden Hind" famously  Captained by that rogue, Sir Francis Drake. 

I was particularly taken with the balcony adjacent to Drake's cabin. I can see him now, with a mug of foaming ale, watching the dolphins play whilst he took a break from relieving unfriendly nationals of their valuable possessions. All in a good cause, I assure you. 

I knew, of course, of the "Glorious Revolution" of Nov 1688, that put an end to the romantic incompetence of the Stuart Dynasty, and gave us the stolid and predictable House of Honover. I am not that taken with William, so I took impish delight in upskirting a King. (Probably the most flattering aspect of the statue, by the way ... ) 

Judge for yourself:

Twittering About

I am a fan of Twitter. As a Tweep, I indulge my passion for political inactivism and playing with words. I am, after all, a self-declared wordsmith. Formative years forced to study grammar, and an undergraduate creative writing course, have borne fruit. Twitter, I assert with conviction, is my one weakness.

But I’m now in a quandary. What is One  to do, when an internationally renowned  Franciscan priest and teacher suddenly ups and “Follows” One? This is serious. 

I am not always polite. I sometimes swear. I am overtly political. What if one of my carefully crafted put-downs puts him off? Or my photo flipping the finger at a Troll gives offence? I could be putting myself in danger of losing my most prestigious follower! 

Oh What The Hell. I Tweet like a real Human. I like to think that’s why he ( ie his media team) followed me in the first place … 

Acquaint yourself with my “dark side” here: @maryeffrancis. 

 

Poem

Yes, I’m Woke …

 Are you? 

PhotoStop#1

My first visit to Gloucester Cathedral was on a school trip, via the upper deck of a No 3 bus with Class 4A1 - all 42 of us. I hadn’t a camera then, but have returned many times to capture special images - and this is my favourite:

You have to know where to find it, and be prepared to lift the seats in the Choir, preferably when guardian angels are looking the other way … . It’s a ‘misericord’ ( mercy seat) a ledge on which the monks could park their butts during the long hours of chanting. If you can’t picture the mechanics of the misericord, imagine lifting the toilet seat, and perching atop it. 

I love this carving because it’s mischievous, anarchical, and ever so slightly blasphemous.

Or should that be blarsephemous?

:) 

 

Easter Proclamation!

God Awakening

I will celebrate the victory of my God in silence, and in song.

I will gaze upon the likeness 

Of the one-who-was pierced.

I will touch the mystery 

Of the dead-one-living.

I will trace his signature over my heart:

North to South

East to West:

King of Kings

Lord of Lords.

I will open my mouth to sing the serenade of the stars,

The song of the angels before the throne of God.

 I will shout into the sunrise, a canticle for my King:

‘Rejoice!   Rejoice!

The Lord is Risen -

Alleluia!’ 

I will bury myself in his joy, 

And, with laughter,

I will rise again.

The King Sleeps

The King Sleeps

I will mine the agony of my God with a pick and a lamp.

I will hew the stones and teach them to cry ‘Hosanna!’

I will fashion a tomb to bloom in a garden

I will fracture the face of Israel with a blow

That will become an earthquake

To  awaken the dead.

I will set my lamp beneath a splintered tree

I will close my ears against the forsaken cries of the Holy One 

I will seal my mouth against the acrid taste of blood

I will shut my eyes to hide the corpse that hangs above me. 

His eyes, not -closed.  His body, not-clothed.

‘IT IS FINISHED!’

 

It’s over.   God - 

Adored, outpoured -  passes over. 

Numbed, beyond fear, I whisper a lullaby into the dark:

‘Be still.        Be still. 

Night dawns.  

Death dies -

The King sleeps.’ 

Frank And Alfie: For Vaughn and Zara

Frank and Alfie live in the County of Worcestershire in the United Kingdom.

We are here:

Here are my mum and dad (and grandma and grandad)

Here we are on Alfie's third birthday last year.

Alfie is holding cake.

This is our house:

Our neighbours live here:

This is our School:

Daddy and Alfie at the Hidden Gardens on holiday in Cornwall.

Grandma loves the Gardens!

At home with Grandad:

In a Castle with Mummy:

On the beach:

Frank's first day at school

Mummy and Daddy:

A sunny day at the beach:

A cold picnic!