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Help
also came from anonymous sources, via the mind. Does that sound strange?
I write at great length about the adverse spiritual intrusions, but what
about the positive? Yes, what about the positive? I have written about
this new territory of craftsmanship in which I found myself, tackling
projects in which I had no previous skill, and working into a construction
of heavy granite boulders and thick, iron-hard plaster, or plaster that
would not take a fastening. I could have been way out of my depth, and
there was a limit to the frequency with which I could call upon Bob. But
then it started to come, virtually by direct transference, subliminally,
as it were, the total concept of a process or mode of construction
transferred without 'words', but rather by complete inspiration. But not
only the knowledge, the know-how, but the resolve and active support to
help me to go forward, for many times I was daunted and demoralised. Let
me illustrate. I was needing a link unit between two elements in my kitchen,
and had constructed something almost in desperation, then went to bed
not truly satisfied, aware that I had virtually 'cobbled' something together
that would just about do.
I woke early next morning to a feeling that, over time, I began to recognise
- the feeling that the right day has dawned, that the tide is flowing,
the wind is in the correct quarter, and that nothing will hinder progress.
Thus I was encouraged and buoyed up, as I completely dismantled the efforts
of the previous night and reappraised the design. Although much more intricate
work was involved, I, nevertheless, achieved a much more satisfactory
result, aesthetically and functionally, having been given directly into
my mind, insight into a mode of construction of which I was not previously
aware, and about which I had no other source of information.
Advancing with my physical and practical activities were the internal
and spiritual, and yes, the reality of interactive spiritual beings
- you can deny their existence, wish the concept away, but I'm afraid
that you are on a loser. Have no doubt about it, such do exist. Take for
instance the little shelf above the cooker in my kitchen. I was building
in a large electric oven into a previous cupboard space and needed a shelf
to link the upper and lower sections. It could not be regular, and would
involve a different curve at each end. I drew these out on my chosen piece
of wood one evening and took the wood to my bandsaw the next morning.
Unfortunately, the tide was not flowing, nor was the wind in the right
direction, and I made a bit of a cock-up of the curve at one end. Disheartened
I went and had my breakfast and considered the situation. My craftwork
prayer focus was St Joseph - he the craftsman and worker, and the ear
to which I raised my invocation. I finished my breakfast and washed up,
then took my shelf back to the bandsaw and presented the other curve to
the blade. Immediately I, myself, was 'locked on', and the wood went through
the saw in such a way that even if I had wanted to, I would never have
been able to deviate from the curve. So remarkable was the feeling that
even if I had been levitated and propelled out of the house I would not
have been surprised, so great was the sensation of being held in a strength
and focus that I am afraid defies description. This second curve only
required a touch of sandpaper; the other needed a rescue operation with
rasps. But there the shelf is, a constant reminder of what is possible.
Not everything was portentous and awe-inspiring, for there were light-hearted
events and humour aplenty - take this for instance, as when I had cause
to replace the hot water cylinder in my bathroom. When installed, no provision
had been made to allow the cylinder to be drained, and there was quite
a residue of water that prevented me from completing an awkward lift.
So I connected up a pipe that reached to the loo, and then blew into the
top of the cylinder in order to displace some water. It was quite a blow,
and I paced myself so as not to do myself a mischief. After one such blow,
I sat back gasping, when a voice in my head said, "We would love
to help you, but we've all run out of puff". Not the most hilarious
of jokes, but in the location and circumstances I found myself rolling
on the floor in laughter.
On another occasion, I had been following on the radio a serialisation
of Fielding's Tom Jones. It was broadcast at nine on Sunday evenings,
and this particular Sunday was to be the last episode. It was a beautiful
evening and I had had a number of friends for meals during the day. I
was finishing off, washing up and musing as one does after a very enjoyable
occasion, and was completely lost to the world, when suddenly there was
blasted into my mind the rumbustious 'voice' of Squire Western, - "Zounds
Tom - a pox on it!". I managed to keep hold of the dish that I was
drying, and came to my senses realising that it was exactly nine o'clock
and time for the finale of this radio romp.
I can put no worthwhile time scale on the progress of the work and developments,
but I am almost at the ultimate point of completion. For some time I have
had a ground floor that is very accessible to anyone in a wheelchair -
bedroom with en suite shower (which could be fitted to take a loo), cooking
hobs at knee-height for a wheelchair, two accessible loos and a sun room
with easy access and paths with gentle slopes. Though, strangely, it has
not been the physically disabled who have come to take advantage
of the facilities, as time will reveal.
After a few weeks of regular church going, I found a sort of pattern developing,
although attending either of two available churches required a round trip
of twenty miles. On shopping days, if I arranged my timing correctly,
I could hear Mass and receive communion on occasional weekday mornings,
while at the weekends I decided to return to the church that I had formerly
attended. Such is the way in which the liturgy works that the 'vigil',
i.e. the evening before a particular day, has the validity of the day
itself, and thus attending Mass on a Saturday evening was the equivalent
of Sunday attendance, which is required of Catholics. This became a regular
feature of my weekends and allowed me, having descended from my 'mountain
fastness', to follow on with some social visiting, and at the same time
leaving me free to be at home on Sundays when friends were most likely
to call.
The sense of 'homecoming' and belonging added greatly to my inner composure
and developing strength, and my 'world awareness' began to re-emerge as
I took my part in an organisation that reaches to the remotest regions.
One could not fail to have been aware of the African tragedy, as famine
killed millions. Not having a lot to be able to give to charity, I wanted
what I gave to make its mark without loss to any administrative costs,
and so I chose to join an organisation called The Little Way Association,
which guarantees that every penny will make its way to the needy through
a network of missionary priests and nuns. I also participated at home
in the regular prayer activity aimed at supporting these front-line people
and their works. This was fine up to a point, but the far-flung individuals
remained as shadowy figures working in the remote desert or bush. I needed
a face, a focus. Such a face came via a photograph in the Catholic Herald,
which I had started to take again.
The face was that of a nun, a 'Missionary Sister of Our Lady of Africa',
a so-called White Sister - they and the White Fathers used formerly to
wear a white Arab-style burnous to identify themselves with the local
populace in Algeria and North Africa where they first operated - and thus
they got their name. Joy was then an assistant chaplain at Liverpool University,
and I wrote to tell her of her new role as my 'focus'. She replied, and
sent me details of some prayer events and retreats that were scheduled
at 'St. Beuno's', the Jesuit College in North Wales, one time home of
priest and poet Gerald Manley Hopkins. In particular, she had circled
and recommended a weekend in February (1981), and thence I went. This
was an entirely new venture for me, as was the setting; and new was the
contact with a young Jesuit priest, recently returned from a part of his
training in Japan, at the Jesuit University there.
He brought to us concepts of stillness, breathing, sitting, meditation,
derived from Eastern, and particularly Zen Buddhist, traditions, for part
of the remit of this University is the promotion of dialogue and understanding
with Zen Buddhism. I also, for the first time, became aware of the spiritual
ambience of a place, a group of people, for the place had focused many
years of prayer, while in the group there were a number of nuns of teaching
orders taking their half-term break, and nuns are not strangers to prayer.
Practically, I brought away the design of a simple meditation stool, a
virtual bridge across the ankles that enables one to kneel/sit effortlessly
and comfortably for long periods.
Much flowed from that encounter with Joy. She, additionally, had a job
as an 'outreach' worker at a school in Liverpool's deprived Toxteth district,
and, amongst other things, she asked me to pray for these needy children.
Prayer, for me, is a call to action, and so I asked what I, personally,
could do. Reply there came: the children needed holidays. And so it was
that the house began to find its purpose, and the combined forces of the
Seascale churches kicked into action. A group of ladies, the Co-workers
of Mother Teresa, were the first to answer the call, and a posse descended
on the house with besoms, mops and polish. Jack came with wife Edna and
helped me to lay some new carpet on the stairs, that I hadn't yet got
round to. Fresh curtains appeared; bunk beds were donated by a local hotel;
towels and sheets, crockery and a large cooking pot arrived courtesy of
a local Spastic Society school that was closing, as did some extra kitchen
chairs. And the large cooking pot would definitely be needed, for, whereas
the first contingent was going to be West Indian lady, Jenny and her five
children, it was now also going to include her friend Carol plus her son.
Good old Val, who twisted arms at a local bedding manufacturer and obtained
additional duvets and sheets. And so we were ready, and with extra transport
as the train rolled in, and out poured a seeming host of black faces as
Peter, Alicia, Nicola, Darren, Sonia and Wayne descended to the inevitable
Cumbrian rain - it was spring bank-holiday week.
A book would be necessary to relate the mixed activities and emotions
of that first encounter, and all that followed in the subsequent summer
holiday as Little Ground became fully booked for the season. Evenings
in that first week provided a memorable picture as the area around the
fireplace filled with a variety of sitting, lying, wrestling bodies, while
to one side hair was being teased into tight, tiny plaits. I soon found
myself whittling knitting needles and huge crochet hooks from dowel to
occupy idle hands, and looking around, I saw my mini harem, but without
the sultan's privileges! We alternated the catering, and the large cooking
pot did full service, although its walls were fully proof tested by the
force of cayenne pepper and chillies, as chicken or sea-fresh fish were
absorbed into its interior, emerging as highly charged but superb meals.
The summer holiday filled a much greater need for these and other children,
for it was in the intervening months that the infamous Toxteth riots occurred,
and while the visitors weren't actually traumatised, they were all glad
to be removed from that violent atmosphere for a while. Jenny and her
gang returned for a fortnight, when they found a much wider range of activities
as the sea became warmer and the shore beckoned, and beckoning also were
the ponies of my neighbours' daughters. Next to arrive were Elizabeth
and her mother, who immediately found a place in my life, where Mum stayed
until her unfortunate early death, and where Liz now remains, a science
teacher, married with three young children. They also came twice, once
by design and the second time to fill a gap created by the early departure
of a family - mother (plus her sister) and six youngsters all under eight.
They were overwhelmed by the open space and silence, and having come on
a Saturday, vanished on the Monday. The immediate gap was filled by two
delightful girls, their mother and an unpleasant, and basically unwelcome
partner, whom I hadn't bargained for. The girls were left mainly to my
charge as mother and mate went around pursuing his activity of trying
to wheedle antiques out of unsuspecting country folk. I later had police
enquiries about him and his local escapades, and also heard about his
imprisonment for GBH. Interesting times!
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