Rapunzel – What a Tangle.

It was quite a sight this morning, seeing the scarecrow model of a prince, climbing up the church tower on a long braid of Rapunzel’s hair. It is St Mary’s Scarecrow festival in Linton,  and the theme is Fairy tales but you should always be very, very careful with your Fairy tales because they are mythic, and myth always points to deep and unsettling truth.  The myth of Rapunzel, sanitised first by the Brothers Grimm, then by Disney (Tangled), is a story that would make a gangster blush. Briefly, Rapunzel’s Mum, pregnant with Rapunzel, had a craving for rampion, (from which Rapunzel’s name is derived) so her husband steals the herb from the neighbouring witch’s garden. This infuriates the witch who demands that once the baby is born, it must be given to her. The parents agree (!) and the witch imprisons the girl in a high tower that has no stair or door. The witch brings Rapunzel all she needs by climbing Rapunzel’s long hair. One day a prince hears Rapunzel singing, climbs Rapunzel’s hair and has sex with her on his many visits. The witch finds out, throws the prince from the tower who falls on a thorn bush and gouges out his eyes. The highly pregnant Rapunzel has her hair chopped off and is banished to the desert where she gives birth to twins and years later the blind prince and Rapunzel meet again, she weeps magic tears into his eyes, he regains his sight and they all return to a rapturous welcome at the castle. (All this wildness desported on the church tower as I arrived at the 8am church service this morning was quite diverting, and I am sure the creators of the scarecrows were thinking of a different version than the original.)
Rapunzel is a tale of the imprisoned feminine, fortified against unwanted impregnation and not trusted to take responsibility for itself. The high tower signifies the mind, the cerebral and dominant left hemisphere of our brain where we acquire knowlege without being grounded in intuition and wisdom. Knowlege, as we witness in our disconnected world, is the rampant need for information, the dangerous intellectualising of things without the compassion or imagination to apply knowlege for the well-being of all that is created. Rapunzel is disconnected from the real world high up in her tower and In her naivete, she does not understand why her waist band is getting tight. She pays a high price for her naivete. Presumably she learns very rapidly how to find food in the wild to nourish herself and two babies. The crisis forces Rapunzel to connect with the ground, the earth, and the sustaining elements that means she will survive in the wilderness. She evolves from a coiffured pet in a tower to a hunter gatherer mother, fierce and strong. If she refused to evolve, she and her children would die very quickly. Evolution is like that…transform or die but essential to the process is a threat to life. 
It is a fascinating tale on so many levels and there are many more truths that this myth points to. However I really resonate with this intellectualising of Rapunzel. How many talks and meetings have you sat through where you are inundated with information, when what you actually wanted was to have your heart set on fire. You wanted to hear a story. Almost the minute the speaker begins, you are bored and you shut down. I sometimes give a talk for Extinction Rebellion called “Heading for extinction and what to do about it.” It is a talk full of very good information but I know that if people have got as far as coming to hear this talk, there is a fair chance that they already know a lot of information. What they actually want to hear is how to hold this information, how to bear the grief and how to walk on with “new sight”, the new vision of a frightening future.
Rapunzel stands for our society, trapped in it’s mind, disconnected and unearthed. We are ‘fed’ by a malevolent entity (the media) that reaches us only because of our full cooperation in letting it climb up our hair (read: high speed internet cable) to our head. The world we receive is entirely mediated by this malevolent entity that keeps us absolutely imprisoned but fed and watered . The significance of Rapunzel singing, is that any activity, singing, dancing, drumming, meditating, compells us to take up residency in our own body. These days, apart from sport,most physical activities are consigned to the edges and attended by those hippy types: Drum workshops, freedom dancing, singing groups. They are few and far between unless you go to a houseparty, a rave or a concert.  But significantly Rapunzel’s singing leads to sex, a potent way to reside in a body, then to pregnancy and childbirth. She transforms very rapidly from virgin intellectual to ravished hunter gatherer. Mind you, there is a lot of suffering. The blind prince stumbles around in a forest for years, Rapunzel is banished to the desert. Suffering is a powerful transformer, but true and lasting change will never occur if we find ways of avoiding or numbing the pain by substance abuse, vengeful bitterness or by sheer busyness. Grief is a deeply subversive act. The Industrial Growth Society does not want us to grieve or feel our pain. It wants us to numb it by offering pharmaceutical remedies, retail therapy, a package holiday, all of which require that we keep on earning, suffering and consuming. It is a horribly cruel system that keeps us captive.

Where I belong

We, the long line of undead,
The numberless shadows, 
Mining and plundering 
Until our hands are brown with 
Earth and blood,
Sweat and fear.
 
The diamonds we seek
We can’t eat,
Nor do they lead us
To what we are seeking.
 
Oh God, mine me!
Sift the sallow soil of my soul
And lift the jewel
Of me to your mouth.
 
Breathe me clean,
And swallow me,
So I can be where you are,
Where I have always belonged.

When will it be enough?

A woman walking a dog.
Two boys on a bench, alone with their smart phones.
A white feather flickering in a puddle full of blue.
A spiritual guide who’s seen it all before.
An vacant cottage, friends moved away.
An apple tree shedding its load.
A red van, lift maintenance.
A cloud laden with rain.
A dog mangled chick.
A shadow stalking grief.
An empty house.
 
This is all I have to give.
Are you feeling it yet?
When will it be enough?

Pray now.

I used to know to whom I prayed, and
Advised across the great abyss what
Needed to be done here.
We’d gather in groups, cohorts,
To add weight and volume.
You love us all you strange mystery.
The box tickers, the list makers, the
Worriers, fretters and god shrinkers.
 
It appalls me, your even-handedness, your
Non-interference. 
You come with us on our self-inflicted calvaries.
We just take you, you can’t not.
You do not flinch when we shred your advice
And throw it in your bride groom face.
 
But there are two things I see.
There is no abyss oh God.
I can’t get away from you, and this near love both
Proves my guilt and annhilates it at the same time. 
There is nothing left to say, except
God. 
 

Looking into the Abyss (the joys of a She Wee)

  1.  

When I was given the present of a She Wee by my dear friend and fellow Blake enthusiast, James Murray-White, I have to admit I was deeply under whelmed, but having looked into the abyss of festival toilets I have come to a wholly new appreciation of this bit of purple plastic. But what is a She Wee I hear you wondering? Briefly it is a device which lets you STAND UP and wee like a man when you have to ascend the shed of shame. It’s true, you do have a wet bit of plastic to carry about with you, but that’s better than having your nether regions besmirched by the sprinklings and daubings of a thousand strangers who clearly did not attend the workshop on” how to deficate politely”. Sadly there is no such workshop, but in one of my other alternate lives, this is the one I would run.

Dance or Die.

I am lying in a hammock listening to words that I will never be ready to hear but are inevitable. All around me the evening birds fling their final songs on the darkening valley, and away in the town the fairy tale steeples of the Church light up. It is Hansel and Gretel time, but I haven’t laid a bread trail and I will never get home again. Home is now in me, wherever I am. Currently it is unearthed, suspended in a hammock, the closest thing to the ground is my bottom and it feels like it’s getting a kicking. Bats flit between me and three purple clouds that are dissolving like gun smoke and it is becoming very chilly.

There is a time when life calls us away from the comforting certainties that grounded our existence. We don’t have to go…actually that’s not true, because if we don’t go, we come round again and again to the same bleak, night time station where we wait, and wait, and wait. Station life is not living, it is only waiting and by God, the place is crowded, some are even having dinner parties.

Make the train stop for you! Throw the luggage on the track. Wheel over the kiosks and shove them off the platform one by one until you bring the train to a stop and get on. You will leave a mess behind, and the dinner party will pause, and after a slow shake of their heads, will resume at their table, forgetting you. 

And, of course, the sacrament of life will continue to roll you along and roll you over, in the unremitting ordinariness of attending to the project of keeping the unbearable wonder of things alive in your own heart and the hearts of those you love. Feelings come and go in a kind of wild dance where you don’t always get to be the DJ. But dance or die, these are the only options.

SHEEP what could possibly go wrong?

What can I possibly have against sheep? Being here in the Alpujarras, where there are no sheep, I am in breathless wonder at the visions of wild flowers, herbs and shrubs that carpet the mountains and meadows that I walk upon. But just to keep you reading, did you know that every household in the uk pays £245 per year towards the continuous destruction of the UK uplands, causing soil erosion and flooding in our lowland towns and villages? No? Neither did I. Keep reading

In the rest of the world, including all the deserts and the really cold bits at the top and the bottom, over 30 % of uplands are forested. Along with this rewilding comes an ecosystem that supports insects, birds and a wonderful diversity of plants and species. In the uk only 13% of our uplands are forested. Mostly this is because of sheep who shave everything down to the ground, preferring nutritious tree saplings, but ensuring that there is no chance whatsoever of the reforestation and restoration of wildness in our uplands. “Oh but what about our poor sheep farmers?” I hear you cry. Well, my dears, they don’t make their money from sheep farming….they make it from subsidies, paid for by you.

The situation in Scotland is even more galling where a huge proportion of the land is privately owned by a few wealthy people who keep ‘their’ land artificially denuded by deer, or burn it for grouse shooting. This is so they can charge other rich people huge amounts of money to go deer stalking and grouse shooting. The activities of this tiny proportion of our population are not only destroying our countryside and ecosystem, causing flooding and eco degeneration,  but we are actually financing these activities! Where are the BBC when there is some real news to shout about???!!!

Just saying…..

Alpujarras

They have softened now into blue,

And with clouds falling like a wedding veil,

They repose with mountainous thoughts of ther own.

A man, straining to impress, told me their names,

But they don’t know them.

They have endured, nameless for billions of years,

And I have crawled up them, skittering down like a stone,

And have waded in their waters,

And knelt among their flowers,

And felt the rain upon my face.

Hear, O Israelites, the Name you cannot speak,

All nature resounds with it.

Nearer my God to Thee,

Nearer my God to me.

 

Kaleidoscope

You become one with me in a timeless mirada,

A  look of love, and you meet me completely.

‘What is this?’ I ask holding a tiny metal tube.

‘A kaleidoscope. It gives you a different view of reality.’

And you knows I need one. 

I want to fall at your feet, feel your hands on my head.

‘Bless me Mother.’

And looking up through the tube,

The sky shatters into a thousand possibilities.