I Buy A New Washer: I Quote Charles Dickens

I Buy A New Washer: I Quote Charles Dickens:  As I've gone about my Christmas busyness, I've been listening to David Copperfield  by Charles Dickens. One of the things I've ...

I Quote Charles Dickens

 As I've gone about my Christmas busyness, I've been listening to David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. One of the things I've done in 2022 is subscribe to what, in the 1980s, my granny (her vision deteriorating) would have called a talking book service. Subscribing has been one of the small, but significant, things I've done in 2022. 

Other small things I've done have included my 80th parkrun, decorating a pottery bowl, growing potatoes, onions and sage, drinking wine in a summer house after dark, buying curtains, and making my first nut roast.

There have been bigger things too - of course there have been.  I held my great-nephew, 3rd newcomer to his generation, for the first time; I followed in the steps of Leopold Bloom around Dublin; I became a part-time employee; I scattered ashes of one of my dearest friends; I attended the first graduation ceremony for a while. 

I was drawn to listening to David Copperfield because I first listened to Demon Copperhead  (Barbara Kingsolver) - her book's plot follows that of Dickens'. Even with extra time to myself these days, I would not have finished reading either book in print, but have enjoyed having them read to me while I go for walks, do housework, dig. I will forever associate my attic with Moby Dick, the book that accompanied my DIY insulation improvements in the spring. The timbers have something of the ship about them.

Like this blog, Dickens writes David Copperfield in the first person. The comparison goes no further than that, except, perhaps, in one respect. Today, when I heard David Copperfield musing that "trifles make the sum of life" I thought, Yes, that's right. The break ups, the bereavements, the awful news of wars and sorrows ... as well as the joys of new discoveries, the triumphs - all of these are huge monuments in our lives: the dates of birth and death which mark out years as unique. But in-between, every day of every year, it's the small stuff --  what seems trifling at the time --  that holds us (that holds me) together.

Tomorrow is new year's day and I'm lucky enough to be spending it with family, including the very youngest ones. I was reminded, thirty-one and a bit hours into David Copperfield, of one small event that tends to happen each new year in our family. Thus it is, dear reader, that I go into 2023 hopeful that, among the contributions to the spread of food on 1st January 2023, there'll be trifle. 

I Snap A Picture

I find Christmas more enjoyable, whatever its shape, whoever I'm with, however the food turns out, if it's accompanied by Handel's Messiah. It's often sung at this time of year because of its distillation of the Christmas story into quotations from the bible, the first part focusing on Unto us a child is born.

I listened to the first section yesterday as I ran round the Quarry Park in Shrewsbury for my 80th parkrun, sporting my Santa hat. I was somewhere behind Mr Yule Log, and amid 700 or so other Santas, Elves, Christmas Trees and even, I think, a Christmas Pudding. 

Here's a photo I snapped at the start. See if you can spot Mr Yule Log - he's well-camouflaged against the tress. 

And here's the first photo I've ever taken while running up hill and not wearing glasses. The first few hundred runners are a blur in front of me, cresting the hill underneath St Chad's church.

As I ran, I listened to the words of the Messiah.  Comfort ye my people, all flesh shall see it together, yet once a little while, but who may abide the day of his coming, and shall call his name Emmanuel, lift up thy voice with strength, be not afraid ... and later ... why do the nations so furiously rage together?

I love the poetry and cadence. I love the way that human experience is present and ancient in the texts. Yet once, a little while. It's so beautiful: rhythm, harmony, melody. 

This work of Handel's has survived its own popularity. This is song that can be sung in any season, even this one with its ugly-beautiful mix of religion, commerce, greed, altruism, cynicism, hope, loneliness and partying. I do not experience this work as a sermon, but as a poem. Similarly, parkrun with its accommodation of logs, fast runners, walkers, dogs, puddings and all - I don't experience it as a race, but as a temporary community with volunteer marshals encouraging us on every step of the way. 

Christmas. It's a whole mix of things, and we've not failed if it's not merry, bright, happy or joyful. We can't buy our way out of the human condition, but maybe we can sing it, maybe we can write about it. This is not a message from on high, but one from on low, from our daily experiences which includes grief and loss, hunger and cold, as well as birth and mysterious gifts. 

I think that's what I'm trying to say in this poem, which I'm grateful to Ink, Sweat and Tears for publishing today. 

28th July, 2021

Mist blankets the beach, blending

the horizon to something of a mystery. 

The air whitens to peace,

the sun, our star, glows a yellow lamp-bulb.

Gulls call the sad, glad news,

trace holy ghosts in simple pilgrimages

above the seal-grey sea, calling

holy, holy, holy are the days.

We've brought gifts from the Christmas

none of us could spend together,

sit to open them on sand warm enough

for a camel's footprint. 

Later, there'll be room at the inn.

Twelve will sit at the next table, and we'll witness

a father reach to take his silent daughter's hand.

We'll eat together at last, drink water, drink wine.