Monday, 21 December 2015

In Stitches: A Yule Tapestry





The trip out had been put on hold, while the storm was belting.
The sky was getting darker.

It seems that nothing much will get done.

Granma is in the kitchen, filling up the kettle. Grandad is looking for his phone/glasses/keys/other item: he’s on a rolling programme of searching.
All four grandchildren gather in the next room, out of sight, well in sound.

Grandchild 3 says, with musical clarity, ‘You get on the naughty step RIGHT NOW!’
Grandchild 1 says, with a sense of subterfuge, ’You see, that’s why I don’t like her!’
Grandchild 4 (most likely recipient of the command) simply growls.
Grandchild 2 says ‘What the?!’ (She implies an expletive with a comic shrug.)
Grandchild 3 appears in the kitchen, dressed in the snuggle blanket. It trails behind her, majestic and soft.
‘I’m Elsa,’ she informs. ‘Let the storm rage oooonnnnn!’
Grandchild 4 appears, drawn to stand on the trail of the blanket.
‘Lie down,’ Granma instructs, picturing a head injury.
This is how the dragging game begins.
From the broad space in front of the fireplace, where letter blocks spell CARIAD, past the Christmas tree, where an elf has shinned up to the top star, all the way to the kitchen bin! One by one, then two by two, then a bump or two, and the game is halted by Grandad, picturing lots of head injuries.
It was fun though, with nothing else planned, to grab a blanket corner and be caught in the flow of what is.

It’s late.

Grandad the Hero gets 1-3 grandchildren tucked into bed.
Grandma has cooked bolognaise and walked dogs.
Grandchild 4, last kid standing, asks for a story, one of Granma’s stories.
He sits up in bed, so as not to be fooled into sleep.
It doesn’t work. She tips his head gently onto the pillow.
Four guileless angels, lightly snoring; bright threads going somewhere.






Thursday, 3 December 2015

Yule Story 2015



The Porcupines In Winter




Winter is known for being cold. That is usual.
Some winters are mildly cold, and some fierce.
In the forest where the porcupines lived, a new winter was beginning.
The trees stood bare, all the flowers hid. This was expected.
And the weather spirits came, whirling around trunks and boughs, whispering forecasts.
In the forest where the porcupines lived, this was usual.
This year would be the coldest yet, the weather spirits told; the coldest ever. Cold enough to freeze blood, to ice a heart mid-beat. Over and over they whispered this. Never had the weather spirits been mistaken.
This winter would be extreme.
Migratory birds took fright and flew. The forest animals were afraid. They grew their fur extra thick and ate as much as they could manage. But as the fierce wind blew, and the ground froze, they began to die, one by one.
The porcupines called a meeting. Old Grandfather Porcupine recalled a winter that had been almost this cold, when he was a pup. His old grandfather had huddled them all up, so they could share their body heat. Thermal mass would get them through, he was sure of it.
So, they huddled.
If you know porcupines, you will realise the problem.
Each of them was covered in sharp spines. So as they huddled, they also prickled.
The prickles made them fidget.
Fidgeting made the prickling worse.
They were bleeding from constant spikes.
Mother Porcupine was first to quit, but as soon as she broke from the huddle, the rest followed. They were all sick of the pain.
Old Grandfather sighed. Now he thought about it, he did remember that it had been an unpopular solution.
So they went off to forage for food, but there was scarcely any. And every mouthful was frozen solid, and it made them even colder.
The porcupines began dying, alone in the ice.
So they came back to the huddle, since they wanted to survive.
Of course, they all still had spiny coats, and the old wounds were quickly opened.
This is a dilemma, Mother said.
How should we put up with each other, when we want to live but not be hurt?
And then a young porcupine, whom no one had previously considered as being wise, spoke up.
I dreamt of the ocean, he said. I saw the water rise up in waves. Great waves, storm waves. Repetitive choppy waves. What struck me, he said, was that no matter how big or wild or harsh or persistent the waves were, the ocean was always bigger.
I see, said Old Grandfather. The waves are like problems.
Yes, the young porcupine nodded. Like the winter cold and the wounds we have.
And the ocean, that’s our whole existence?
Yes, whether we notice it or not, it is there. And think of the sky, which covers the earth and the sea!
I like that, said Old Grandfather. Tell me that story again.




This is a retelling of an old story. I’m not sure of its origin. Schopenhauer and Freud both borrowed it to explain social relationships without necessarily drawing the same conclusions, so the moral of this story may be dependent on how you relate to people.
Arthur Schopenhauer observed that the prickliness of proximity allowed only moderate huddling, so that the warmth generated was not entirely satisfactory. People existed at a distance from each other, to avoid annoyance. The rare person had enough of their own heat to do no huddling at all, and suffer no prickling.
Sigmund Freud saw the tale in psychological terms, as a quandary of social inclusion and exclusion.
I saw an opportunity to promote the coping aspect of story telling, so I added the bit about the ocean, but the analogy of the waves and the ocean I received from meditation teacher, psychologist and author, Tara Brach. I also first heard the porcupine story in one of her lectures. Meditation, mindfulness, the sea, the sky, and stories have got me through every winter so far.