Solstice snowdrops

After last night's party, I didn't sleep too well, overstimulated by socialising I guess. We live a quiet life for the most part these days. The doorbell rang just after half past seven this morning. It was a delivery man from Ashton's with the Christmas salmon Clare ordered. I was awake and ran downstairs to collect the fish as Clare wasn't quite awake yet. Then I went back to bed to listen to Thought for the Day and the news. By the time I eventually got up it was nearly nine and Clare had cooked Saturday pancakes for breakfast, and started making a fish soup for lunch. And thought she'd gone back to bed after putting the huge salmon fillets in the freezer for the weekend!

It rained until mid morning, then a strong cold wind sprung up and drove the rain clouds away. The internet was inaccessible and it took forty minutes of landline phone time to get it restored. The landline is being taken away, unless you pay £150 a year to retain the sevice. This will hit hardest those whose emergency devices only connect by hardwire. Scandalous. We don't need that and must switch to the all digital service to retain our landline. It doesn't bode well when the fibre lines are stil prone to outages. Changing our account to all digital costs nothing apart from another half hour on line via Direct Messaging, once the internet was restored.

At last I was able to make an effort to email digital greetings, over fifty of them, spanning decades of family life and ministry. It took a long time morning and afternoon to finish the job. The remains of the filleted salmon Clare transformed into a delicious fish soup with spuds and carrots for our lunch.

The chilling wind made walking the park on ordeal, but compensated by finding a few tiny snowdrops on the verge of the long avenue near the stables. There's a patch of ground where they first appear year after year. Finding them on winter solstice day is remarkable, about ten days earlier than last year. It was about the fifth of January the year before that. A symptom of climate driven change as the average temperature for this time of year creeps up incrementally.

I got home as the sun was setting and finished the Christmas emailing. After supper I watched the final two episodes of Crá, a complex 'whodunit' in a close knit rural community with shameful family  secrets and abusive relationships. Then made an effort to go to bed and catch up on sleep I lost last night.

Remembering Canton

A grey and damp day again. We both slept late and started the day late. Clare went shopping for food to take with us. I cooked lunch and afterwards went shopping to Lidl's in Leckwith for a few extra things to take with us. It's quite a collaborative logistical exercise catering for several days of Christmas feasting for seven people staying in a holiday let in a remote rural area.

Hilary and Clive invited us along with friends and neighbours for drinks and nibbles at their house, from six until eight. Some people we knew, most we didn't, but some interesting conversations took place. I was fascinated to listen to Gareth who sings in St Catherine's choir talk about the Canton he's known for the past seventy years since he moved here as a boy, a time when there were still orchards, and working farms with lots of artisan businesses and warehouses with new housing gradually transforming the patchwork of industrial occupation until it became almost entirely an industrial area. He has an encyclopaedic memory of changes over generations, as well as recollections of stories told from decades before he was born. He claims no expertise, but he is the consummate local oral historian. I would love to record him for a few hours, and regretted coming this evening not equipped to take advantage of the moment, I must make a plan for an interview, to map the history of the area's development in an audio recording.

We got home before nine, and I went out again for a walk in the park to quieten my senses after all that social stimulus, and complete my daily step quota, before bed. Thankfully, the sky was clear and I could see a few planets and stars, despite the urban light pollution. Always a lovely moment at the end of the day, as it was when I was a kid, looking from my bedroom window at Ty Isaf farm above Penallta Road. A lot more stars were visible in those days.

Christmas tree soiree

Dad's 'cello was ready for collection after repairs at 'Cardiff Violins', so we went into town together after breakfast, but first I needed to buy a suitable Christmas present for Clare. I'm hopeless at choosing presents and would rather buy something she knows she wants and is happy with. We went to John Lewis' and found a lovely soft Kashmir wool jumper. Just right, what a relief! We'd not thought through how to pay the repair bill, so we went to check this out at the Santander bank main branch. The gave me an opportunity to find out if my record I keep of my credit card PIN was correct. It wasn't, so I ordered a new one. When we went to pick up the 'cello, I took some photos of the the shop interior, so beautiful with scores of violins arrayed on its walls. I took a dozen photos for pleasure and send to Rachel. Here they are.

We had thought about taking a taxi home, but having walked with it into town, I wanted to walk home with it. The weather was just about merciful, except for the occasional nerve wracking gust of wind but I got it home without incident, communing with my father fifty years dead, as I walked through the park.

Fran and Mark invited us to their Christmas soiree in Penarth, started many years ago by our mutual friend Russell Evans and now continued by Fran, with many of their friends and associates and some newcomers too, gathered to share the pleasure of an evening of carols, music, readings, meditative reflection  on the lighting of the Christmas tree along with conversation over food. It's a wonderful warm relaxed occasion, the best kind of domestic social ritual, different from an liturgical one yet bearing so many similarities due to its spiritual depth. Offered by laity not clergy, I hasten to add!

Clare and I sang the plygain carol 'Y fore dydd nadolig' with drone accompaniment from Mark on viola. On previous occasions I has been asked to make a verbal contribution of some kind. I was uncertain about what to offer until late in the afternoon. Then, about half an hour before we were due to leave, out of the blue an idea arrived. I wrote rapidly in pencil until I had a poem in blank verse about the obscurity of the birth of the Christ child manifested in the obscurity of the birth of children in Gaza under violent assault. It was raw unrefined, even after I'd typed and printed it. Clare said she thought it was powerful. When I read it, close to tears, it was acknowledged with thoughtful silence.

We bought train tickets when we went into town on a bus that took us to the new bus Interchange, before going to John Lewis', and took the 61 just after six to take us there again, to take the train for the twelve minute journey to Penarth. Fran lives 5-10 minutes walk from Dingle Road station. This was so much more convenient than driving in the dark and having to find a parking space in a neighbourhood that we don't know and is as hard to park in as is Meadow Street. BY not taking the car, I didn't lose my parking space outside the house. It's not unusual to go out for a night time event by car, losing the space and being obliged to park ten minutes walk away. Not pleasant when it's wet and cold.

We were fortunate to be offered a lift home by one of the participants in the soiree, so we were back in time to go straight to bed, and not needing to relax after such a peaceful evening.

Distraction

Another dismal day of intermittent rain. There was an amazing half hour programme on Radio 4, called 'Singing in Gaza' that told the story of the Edward Said Conservatory of Music in Gaza, destroyed by Israeli assaults but its musical mission kept alive by its staff, most of whom were made homeless and internally displaced by the onslaught. What an amazing inspirational piece of journalism! The sheer joy of musicians surviving, living not just to tell the tale, but make music, after having had their instruments destroyed violently - and making music teaching children to sing together from memory, using solfege. The embodiment of resurrection life and energy. No time for rage or despair driven by the creative urge to make the most of whatever life they have. It moved me to tears..

There were nine of us for the St Catherine's Eucharist. After collecting the veggie bag from Chapter, I cooked lunch when I got home - chicken and chorizo in a spicy sauce for me and fish for Clare with millet instead of rice. In the veggie bag a stalk full of brussels sprouts with one the size of an apple at the top. This on its own cut into quarters provided our greens for the day and any early taste of festivity to come.

I went to the Post Office to mail a calendar to Connie and Udo. Due to its unusual size and weight it cost £850 to send to Germany. Incredibly expensive! Then, a walk under the brolly in Llandaff Fields as the drizzle of rain intensified. My shoes and trousers were pretty wet by the time I got back. Then I wrote a reflection for New Year's Day Morning Prayer until it was time for supper, and afterwards I watched the finale of 'Strike' and a couple of episodes of Crá, the Gaelic crimmie with English subtitles, until it was time for bed, grateful for the distraction, and being in the warm, out of the wind driving the rain through the night time streets.

Culpable naivety?

Mostly cloudy with intermittent showers throughout the day but mild at 11C. After breakfast Clare walked to the School of Optometry to order new prescription specs. I listened to the final Reith Lecture, this week from Bergen in Norway. Dr Gwen Adshead spoke about Norway's penal system citing its low re-offending rate, humane imprisonment conditions and above all the number of offenders whose lives are changed for the better as they get to understand why they offended in the first place. Money is invested not in bigger and better prisons, but in psychotherapy and where possible restorative justice initiatives. It's altogether more cost effective than the British penal system. 

I made a couple of loaves of bread and prepared lunch. I did some writing while waiting for the dough to rise. It went into the oven when we'd eaten and was baked as we got ready to drive to Chris' salon in Rumney for a haircut. While Chris did Clare's hair I walked around the lake in Parc Trederlech, and got caught in the rain. Fortunately the salon was warm enough for my top coat to dry out by the time we left for home. It was already dark and still raining and the journey was slow and difficult in rush hour traffic. I hate driving in these conditions, fearful of making a mistake, but so far fortunately, I've been able to do it without accident or incident that annoys other drivers.

When we got home I went out with my new brolly in the rain for a few things we needed from Tesco's. Clare went off to meditation group and I completed my daily step quota walking up and down Llandaff Fields in the dark. After supper, I watched another episode of 'Strike'. All of them are on iPlayer even though it's being screened live, two episodes this week and two next. 

In the evening news, a report from a new media investigation into historic cases of abusive clergy under the leadership of Archbishop George Carey has implicated him in case of the abusive cleric about whom Archbishop Stephen Cotterell is currently under criticism and facing resignation calls. On Carey's watch, Bishop Peter Ball abused a series of young men and was eventually jailed. After a long drawn out review of historic abuse cases Carey was asked to resign as an honorary assistant Bishop by his successor Justin Welby, now resigning himself.  

Carey was granted a local PTO, restricting him from the wider ministry senior church leaders often have in retirement. Now it seems he's withdrawn from public ministry entirely, returning the PTO he held. At his advanced age it's not exactly a surprise. Ill health could just as easily lead to him taking this step. But it takes him out of the media firing line, and further criticism that could lead to his PTO being taken away from him. No doubt he regrets errors of judgement made when he was in charge finding that he, like many other church leaders was taken in by Ball's charm and piety. It seems Carey supported the reinstatement plea of a priest banned for five years due to inappropriate behaviour, but not yet charged for child abuse.

I imagine Carey acted in the belief that if offenders had been punished, shown repentance and changed behaviour they should be given another chance, presuming the person's honesty and sincerity. But how well informed was he, and Cotterell for that matter, about the deceitful behaviour of sex offenders who haven't undergone therapy. Whose advice did they rely on?  Church Safeguarding policy has only arrived in the aftermath of the Peter Ball affair, the church playing catch up on secular organisations and learning to listen to professionals in the realm of care and protection of children and vulnerable adults. 

Looking back a few generations, clergy weren't as well trained in care for people as they imagined. Maybe only good at looking out for each other in the ecclesiastical boys club. Thank heavens things have begun to change, not least because of capable women  and some with disability included in the ordained ministry. More steps in the church becoming what it's meant to be. So sad that so many have given up belonging. The news describes Carey as having 'left the church', equating church with its clergy. In reality it's the laity that has left the church, having lost confidence in its ministers, and maybe its message too, if they ever understood it well in the first place.

The perils of authority

Despite going to bed before eleven, I had a disturbing night and woke up at quarter past nine logging eight hours and forty nine minutes of sleep. I have no idea why I should sleep so long despite being aroused by dreams and flashbacks to times when I injured myself. The mind is a mystery.

Deposed president Assad messaged the world from Russia saying he hadn't intended to leave when he did but was directing military operations from a Syrian air base being run by the Russians, when he learned of the Syrian army's capitulation and told to leave for Moscow. Officially he is an asylum seeker there, but Putin hasn't had anything to say about this so far it seems. Meanwhile the transitional government set up by the victorious rebel army re-iterates that it wants law and order retained and no retribution against perpetrators but justice in court. But will this prove possible when so many were involved in Assad's reign of terror, leaving so many victims and their supporters with scores to settle. 

The celebrations surrounding victory and the return of freedom to Syrian people now gives way to facing the hard work of rebuilding a society in ruins. It's not so easy to achieve while there's uncertainty among the  nations interested in helping, about trusting the transitional government led by Prime Minister Mohammed al Bashir, acting as head of state. He talks about an inclusive future, but has yet to appoint anyone other than his own islamist supporters. How does anyone go about recruiting suitable participants from Christian, Druze, Shia and Alowite Muslim minorities when there's no precedent after fourteen years of civil war and half a century of tyranny from the Assad clan, who just happen to be Alowite?

After breakfast housework, then a circuit of Thompson's park before lunch. We went to town afterwards to look for Christmas presents, but it turned out to be a frustrating venture for me. Clare took a bus home before me, and I walked back through the streets, as the sun went down. After supper I watched an episode and a half of the latest series in British crimmie 'Strike' about a private detective agency with a story about cyber stalking ending in murder. It's interesting in its portrayal of covert surveillance and an investigation carried out by a civilian agency in cases where the police cannot  take action or are reluctant to for lack of resources to take action. What MI5 and MI6 get up to in this area is anybody's guess!

This past couple of days the media have started reporting about calls for Stephen Cotterell, Archbishop of York to resign over his handling of a case he inherited in his previous diocese of Chelmsford of a child abusing cleric about whom he was slow to deal with until the case had been taken up by the police. The man was already deemed to be unsafe around children, a risk to be managed while he was still in office, until there were legal grounds for removal from office. The trouble is there are perpetrators who are good at 'gaming the system' when it comes to avoiding culpability, and its made more difficult because of the rights of clergy as office holders in the established church. 

When I was young, I recall hearing about clergy disappearing from their pastorate without a send-off or leaving a forwarding address with no explanation given. In those days, obedience of clergy to the Bishop who licensed them was rarely challenged. The order to leave a place or never work under licence again in the event of misbehaviour or conflict was taken seriously for the most part. If the Bishop was openly defied by someone staying in post it was because as a cleric they had freehold tenancy for life, it was hard to remove them legally. 

Nowadays, so much church legislation has been put into place, surrounding clergy employment, welfare, professional conduct, accountability etc that a Bishop needs advice from a legal team before taking action. Personal authority and respect for apostolic authority can be and are challenged, making 'gaming the system' more possible for wrongdoers to avoid real accountability. Taking authority in such a complex confusing world is a poisoned chalice.

Swedish Advent

Cold cloudy and damp once more today. There were over fifty of us at St Catherine's for this morning's Eucharist. The children performed a short and simple nativity pageant at the end of the service. Half of them are under five, so it was a wee bit chaotic, but nobody minded. It was just lovely to see them take part in performing together for the rest of the congregation, some of them for the first time in their lives I imagine.

After lunch, I went for my afternoon walk, returning before sunset. Once it was dark I found the link that Sara sent me on St Lucy's Day for watching the 'Lucia Morgan' recorded concert on Swedish TV, as she's done over the years. It's a lovely musical occasion with children's and youth choirs, a barbershop singing group and a duo playing violin and nyckelharpa, which is a Swedish bowed instrument about the size of a viola with a keyboard to press the strings down on the neck as finger normally do. It's also called a keyed fiddle or key harp. It's an instrument I've never seen before. 

It takes place, or is meant to take place before dawn in candlelit darkness. It's the Swedish equivalent of a carol service and an initiation ritual event for young girls especially in their schooling. I don't suppose it happens at the crack on dawn in schools! It was a delight to see a sprinkling of snow in Sala where it was filmed this year - a location where there was once a historic silver mine, a site populated by historic buildings. As I was watching, Sara sent me a message and picture from St Andrew's Gothenburg, where she and Gunnar had joined the congregation for the Anglican Nine Lessons and Carols service. As a port city facing Scotland across the North Sea, it's not surprising there's been a chaplaincy there since 1857, six years before St Peter and St Sigfrid's Stockholm, a testimony to maritime trade routes back then I guess.

After supper we watched the Antiques Roadshow, then I read for an hour and a half before early bed.