Ice on the Millpond

You may have noticed that my posts are getting fewer and further between. And, now that I'm starting my first full-time, grown up job, I'll be writing even less. I expect this will be my last full-length post for a while, although I have a load of fantastic local artists that I'll be drip feeding you on the run up to Christmas!
   So by way of an apology here's a slightly longer story/fairytale. Yeah, it is actually quite long. I mean, its the longest piece of fiction I've ever finished. But I like to think that it's moderately entertaining, so hopefully you'll enjoy it! Look out for my short posts in future and thanks everyone who's commented, given me advise or encouragement, liked on facebook or even just read something I've written :)

Ice on the Millpond

There was once a young man who took an elven maiden for his wife. She fell in love with him because he stood as tall and straight as a tree, had handsome eyes of green, gold and brown and he was gentle and kind.

   He loved her too because, although she was ordinary in the eyes of other elves, she was beautiful beyond measure to him. Her autumn coloured hair fell below her waist, her face was as lovely as the sun shining through the willow leaves and he was impressed by her speed and agility, in which he had never seen her equal.

   Of course, their parents disapproved. The young man’s mother and father did not want him to form an attachment to one of the Fae Folk, knowing that there was truth in the tales of their strange ways and their fickleness. The elf’s parents did not want her to leave them for a mortal man who would turn to dust in a hundred years. But, with this thought in mind, they resigned themselves to wait for their daughter to return to them for good and so they blessed the marriage. As did the young man’s parents who could see that the attachment was formed and that their son would not be swayed.

   The couple were married in October and the young man’s parents gave them a house of their own to live in. The elf’s parents gave them a dowry of beautiful wooden chairs and tables carved with patterns of flowers, trees and animals, and a fine silver sword as a wedding gift for their son-in-law.

   The couple moved into their house and at first they were very happy. They were pleased with one another’s company and the freedom that living away from their parents afforded them. And if occasionally the young man noticed the lamps glowing with a greenish hue or unusual birds in their garden he brushed such thoughts aside. He had married an elf after all and she would, of course, attract strangeness to their ordinary little town.

   Each day the young man would go out to work and the elf would go wandering in the woods, foraging for mushrooms and hunting rabbits and deer. Soon the elf maiden began to long for the company of other women but the women of the town avoided her and her neighbours never answered her dinner invitations. They thought her unnatural and dangerous.

   Winter set in and the houses of the town were coated in ice. Women baked sweet pies for each other and piled more wood on the stoves. Men set out to work with a hot baked potato in their pocket, their noses red beneath their caps. Children waited in anticipation for snow.

   The frost formed beautiful patterns on the windows of the newlywed couple’s house, like flowers and trees blooming silver-white (the ice on his neighbour’s windows looked formless and flat in comparison but he did not notice). Smoke from the vigorously stoked fires drew charcoal scrawls on the sky and the millpond froze over. The elf would often walk by the pond and think that if the ice were removed it would be like an enormous blue coin. But she walked alone and became more restless and lonely than ever.

   One day, she walked down to the mill pond to find the ice broken into a hundred jagged floes. A thin layer of water had already frozen between the shards and she looked about the banks for the body of some unfortunate child that might have fallen in. She found nothing unusual except for two little islands, side by side in the centre of the pond, which she had never seen before.

   Suspicious and wary, she quickly went to find the miller. His ruddy-face darkened when she told him of the broken ice and even more when he heard about the two islands.

   “You say you looked for a body?” he asked, mildly impressed at her grit, “there won’t be a body now even if someone did fall in. I’ll tell you what broke the ice. It was Jenny Greenteeth, a troll of the worst description. We ought to tell everyone to stay away from the millpond, for if any child gets near it, out will stretch her terrible long arms and that little one’ll be gone in a flash.”

   “But what are the islands?” asked the elf.

   “The top of her head and the hump of her back. You tell the women, I’ll tell the men, then we’ll decide what ought to be done.”

 The women were reluctant to believe the elf but to ignore such warnings would have been foolish indeed. That evening the men of the town gathered to discuss what would be done.

   “Kill ‘er I recon,” growled the blacksmith taking a swig of beer.

   “That’s obvious,” said the miller, “the question is how.”

   “We could wait round the edge of the pond until she surfaces, then kill her with a spear or arrow,” said the butcher, lovingly fingering a small knife he used for gutting rabbits.

   The men nodded and grunted their agreement

   The elf’s husband listened carefully to this conversation. It struck him as an exceedingly dangerous plan; what if Jenny reached out an arm and dragged one of them in before they could kill her? It would be difficult to see her through the ice until her claws were already closing on your ankle. But he was neither old or experienced enough to contradict the other men and so he remained silent.

   “When shall we do it?” said the blacksmith.

   “Tonight!” crowed a toothless old man, “when the moon is up. She won’t surface in the daylight, but the moon is soothing to her. We’ll creep up in a circle, quiet as foxes.”

   “Each of us with a bow and arrow!” cried the bakers son, quivering with excitement.

   “She’ll be dead by the morn,” said the inn keeper.

   They got up and left to fetch their weapons.

   The women were also discussing the troll, in the house of the richest lady in the town. The lady in question was sat closest to the fire, embroidering in a show of apparent decorum. Punk, punk, punk went the needle; she imagined each punk went through Jenny Greenteeth’s heart. The other women sat around on stools and chairs and the poorer women on the floor. The elf sat in a draughty corner alone, listening intently. Glittering frost flowers blossomed on the window beside her.

   “What will they decide?” asked the butcher’s wife.

   “They will decide to kill her of course,” said an elderly widow, “the question is how.”

   “And if they form a foolish plan? A dangerous one?” asked the butcher’s wife fearfully, “what then?”

   “Then,” said the lady of the house, crisply, “we allow them to go through with it. They will not shame themselves for our sake. God willing, they will succeed.”

   At that moment a small voice was heard at the door.

   “Mama?”

   The lady of the house got up to return her child to bed, lightly placing a hand on the boy’s hair.

   “But what if the men fail?” insisted the butcher’s wife once the lady had left the room.

   “Then they shall think of something else,” said the elderly widow impatiently, “do you or do you not trust you husband and the other men to protect us?”

   “What are you implying?” said the butcher’s wife. Everybody knew what was being implied, the butcher and his wife hadn’t trusted one another for years.

   “Let’s hear their plan,” said the washer woman softly. She was sat on the floor leaning against the wall, her aprons spread about her and her legs sprawled out beneath, “let them decide something for themselves and when they tell it to us we’ll judge the wisdom of it. Even though they won’t shame themselves for the sake of the women, each man will listen to his wife.”

   “Wise words indeed,” said the lady of the house who had been stood in the doorway, hidden by shadows, “and now, to bed. We shall hear their plan in the morning.”

   The elf wished they could take more action but by now she knew that it would not sit well with the other women, so she kept quiet. The washer woman had spoken well.

As the women went their separate ways the first snow began to fall. The road home was slippery with black ice, and when the elf returned, late though it was, her husband was not in. The windows were dark and the hearth cold.

   She had assumed that they would make a decision quickly, and the inn keeper, who liked to go to bed before midnight, would have sent them home a while ago. The elf put her boots back on, wrapped her fur-lined cloak about herself and left the house again. She went first to the inn but it was empty and no light shone in the windows upstairs. Then she went as quickly as she could over the ice to the richest lady’s house. She raised her fist to knock but stopped, lowered it and instead ran to the washer woman’s house. She felt sure that the washer woman would be a better ally.

   As she’d hoped, the washer woman donned a cloak and admitted her own worry at her husband’s failure to come home. Then the pair, slipping on the ice and occasionally supporting one another, returned to the inn. The men’s foot prints in the new snow were almost hidden but the group seemed to have been headed for the mill, so the elf and the washer woman set out again with a chill in their hearts.

   The washer woman could hardly keep up with the elf whose long hair flew behind her like a coppery pennant in the lamplight. As they approached the mill pond they could just see the silhouettes of men spread out around it in a wide circle. They crept nearer and put out the lamp but the women didn’t dare interrupt them lest Jenny Greenteeth should be alerted to their presence. They could only watch with trepidation.

   No moon shone that night. The sky was smothered by clouds and the snow which fell to earth was whipped about by the wind in such a way that the night grew dimmer still. Only a shadow of light remained by which the men strained to see the trolls quick arm, for they did not dare to light a lantern. The surface of the mill pond was rendered utterly opaque by scattered snowflakes. The men drew closer to the pond, the circle tightening like a knot. But it was tightening around an eel, thought the elf fearfully, because at any moment the monster might slip its noose and attack.

   The first crack was quiet and perhaps only the elf, with her sensitive ears, heard it. It was the sound of a fist breaking thin ice. The second crack was sickeningly loud and combined with a great splash, which was then followed by the screams and cries from the remaining men. From the gap in the circle, the elf judged that someone had been pulled beneath the ice.

   She did not waste a moment but ran swiftly to the bank. The men only stood by shouting and nothing could be seen the beneath the surface of the pond; it was a cold ocean of dancing ice floes. Nevertheless she shrugged off her cloak, took her knife in hand and dived in.

   The water felt like blades against her skin. It was very dark and quiet. She strained her eyes to see Jenny Greenteeth for she had expected an attack from the troll as soon as she entered the water but none came. Her eyes adjusted quickly and the pool seemed far deeper than she had guessed, ribbons of weed licked her ankles and as she looked down she could just make out the tangle of limbs that was Jenny and her victim.

   The elf kicked downwards into the darkness and tugged at what she hoped was a man’s booted leg, but she felt fingers tighten around her wrist and sharp nails dig into her skin. Without stopping to think or decide whether the grip was friend or foe she slashed at it with her knife. Jenny Greenteeth promptly loosened hold but she struck out at the elf’s face with her other hand. Despite being blinded by pain and blood the elf slashed again, this time in the direction of the locks of pond weed that were the trolls hair. The knife made contact and a terrible cry echoed through the water.

   The elf still clutched the man’s booted ankle and she kicked blindly towards where she hoped the surface lay. As soon as her head broke through the ice, strong arms reached out and lifted her clear of the water. She had let go of the man but he too was caught up and dragged onto the frozen bank.

   She felt someone wrap her own cloak tightly around her and the voice of her husband asking whether she was alright, could she stand? Why was her face covered in blood?

   “I’m fine,” she murmured, “fine. Jenny scratched me.”

   The young man held her close and began to walk her home.

   “You were so brave,” he said over and over, “foolhardy, but brave.”

The next morning she was confined to bed.

   Her face had been cleaned but still bore three great scratches across her eye and cheek that the doctor said would scar. Jenny Greenteeth remained in the pond but she hid deep beneath the water, licking her wounds and mouthing evil curses, waiting and wondering darkly what would happen next.

   The man that the elf had saved was the bakers’ son. Whether Jenny had selected the slightest and youngest of the group on purpose or by accident only she knew, but if the elf had not been close by he certainly wouldn’t have lived; elves can hold their breath for longer than men, and their eyes are sharper in the dark. And so, while the elf lay in bed being fed chicken broth by her proud husband, the women of the town scolded the men for being so foolish (and none more than the bakers wife!), and the men puzzled over what to do next. Any new plan must be more carefully thought out but must also be swiftly implemented, because everyone’s greatest fear was that Jenny Greenteeth would grow hungry enough to leave the pond.

   The washer woman visited the elf and her husband several times over the next few days to relay the news that no decision had yet been made. Every time she explained some plan or scheme that had been suggested the elf shook her head vehemently. Each plan was rejected by the townsfolk anyway.

   But while the elf lay in bed she was not idle. She had her father’s bestiary in her lap and she read every passage concerning trolls. The book was very old with thick brown pages and crude drawings, and wherever it lay open the cat tried to sit on it so the elf was forever pushing the animal away gently. (That was another odd thing; her husband had noticed a marked change in the cats behaviour since he had moved in with his wife, it had grown more affectionate and, remarkably, it no longer took such pleasure in clawing his hands. But he simply put it to the back of his mind.)

The elf learned enough to begin to form a plan. She asked her husband why nobody had considered luring Jenny Greenteeth out of the pond.

   “Well,” he said, looking somewhat surprised, “she might kill us I suppose.”

   “But exposed to the wind and weather I think she would be at her weakest,” said the elf. For although the snow had lessened, it was colder than ever.

   “What are you suggesting?” asked her husband slowly.

   She told him, and he said he would sleep on it.

“It might work,” admitted the blacksmith.

   “Ain’t no skin off our backs if it doesn’t,” added the miller.

   “We could do with the firewood though,” grumbled the innkeeper.

   “We can compensate whoever provides the sheep,” said the elf’s husband quickly.

   They were huddled in the inn beside the fire. The flames were smoky and didn’t seem to warm them much, perhaps because the wood was damp. Everyone’s wood had been damp that winter, despite the crisp, dry weather. Green mould had crept out from under the bark, like algae spreading over a well.

   The men of the town accepted the elf’s plan with surprising ease, perhaps because no better plan had yet been discovered.

   The young man continued, “the snow has stopped too, which should make it easier.”

   “I’ve got an old ewe,” said someone.

   “Might as well get started then,” said the butcher, “there’s ten or so trees chopped down that haven’t yet been made into firewood.”

   Every man leapt up and leant a hand because each wondered in his heart: how much longer will Jenny stay in the pond?

   And beneath the ice, brown with old leaves and frozen in a crazy mosaic of splinters and shards, the old troll crouched in the mud and waited, muscles tense, secret spells muttering, she waited for the wind to drop.

It was so late at night that it was almost early in the morning. The men crept from their houses. The women sat up by the embers of the fire and prepared towels and hot water. Just in case. The children lay wide awake with excitement, because their fathers were out troll-hunting.

   Jenny heard the shuffling footsteps on the edge of the pond because the wind had died down, and suspicious though she was, she was by now hungry enough to risk anything. She listened closely and her long, knobbly hand crept closer to the surface of the ice, until crack! up it shot and her fist closed on nothing! Again she heard those shuffling noises on the other side of the pond. She wouldn’t be fooled this time, without warning her fist punched through the ice and snatched at the noise but again there was nothing!

   Jenny howled in frustration and her whole terrible, green body broke through the ice and was up on the bank before you could say Greenteeth.

   The ewe was before her but further from the pond than she had guessed. She lunged for it and it bleated and ran in terror from her, away from the pond and into the trees. She could see it well enough to catch it quickly, black as it was against the white snow. Her appetite was now so voracious that it had overpowered her mind and drove her on mercilessly, until the poor creature was dead and the best of its meat torn away by her ravenous green teeth.

   Her sense returned a little and the troll sat back on her haunches and looked around. There appeared to be no one about so she pulled a tooth from the sheep’s skull for protection. She began to drag the remains of the animal back to the millpond but when she reached it she found, to her dismay, that the whole thing was covered in logs; if she ever found a way into the pond between them she would certainly never find a way out once they froze in place. She clutched the sheep’s tooth realising, too late, that she had been tricked.

   Now they came for her. They were not yet close but Jenny Greenteeth could sense them hiding amongst the trees that ringed the pond, could imagine their terrified breath and their sweat. She bared her teeth in a grin: well, she thought, they would soon see what a mistake they had made.

   She spat on the sheep’s tooth and rubbed it with her thumb, mumbling words her mother had taught her until she saw the snow begin to lift up from the ground in flurries. The men cried out in alarm when the branches of the trees began to creak and sway, though there was no wind, and screamed when roots broke through the frozen earth and ensnared their ankles.

   Jenny chuckled with delight, content to watch their displeasure for a while, until she grew bored and the gnawing hunger drew her attention once more. She softly began to approach the nearest struggling man.

   He saw her coming and called out to his fellows, and tore in vain at the roots binding his ankles. She crept forward slowly, on all fours, savouring his fear even more for the fact that she could clearly see the sweat on his brow and blood on his chin where he had bitten his own tongue. He hacked at his bonds with a knife and Jenny scowled and moved a little faster.

   A little faster but not fast enough to reach the shade of the trees by the time the rim of the sun rose above the hills. The first pale rays of dawn touched the troll’s skin and drew from her lips a howl that could be heard for miles around.

   Her intended victim, the miller, finally succeeded in freeing himself but when he looked for Jenny Greenteeth all he saw was a stone statue in her likeness.

The trolls spell lifted as soon as she turned to stone. The men recovered themselves and returned to the town, helping one another and smiling, laughing even, in disbelief. Each man was glad to come home to his wife and family (even the butcher) but no man more so than the husband of the elf. He took her in his arms kissed her three scars and her autumn hair and told her that her plan had worked.

   After that winter the men of the town and the washerwoman treated the elf as one of their own. She had earned her place among the men with courage but her place among the women was earned with courage of different kind, and it took another nine months for the other women to accept her. When the elf’s child was finally born he was loved and doted upon by a hundred aunts.

   And each summer, the willows hung green and gold over the millpond, which remained empty save for fish and water-boatmen. And each winter, frost bloomed like silver flowers on the windows and the ice on the millpond remained perfect and unbroken.

Love your brothers and sisters... whether they are fellow Brits or foreigners living in your towns

So the migrant crisis is a pretty big deal right? I mean, this is a crowded island, housing is limited, unemployment still a problem, and now on top of our standard net influx of immigrants we’ve got zillions more from Syria to house and feed and keep healthy.

Everyone’s been shouting about this issue, everyone’s throwing figures around. Even the Guardian is getting confused; I found three different numbers representing the amount of people arriving in Europe by sea in 2015 in the same article. No wonder anyone can just pick and choose whichever figures suit their cause.

I don’t like to sugar-coat or pussyfoot or rose-tint, so here’s what I understand to be happening (if you don’t like stats you might want to skip this next paragraph).

UK growth rate is currently 0.6% which is higher than most of Europe but lower than the US and Australia [World Bank]. I’m trusting you, as fellow grown ups, not to freak out if I tell you that the UK population is predicted to increase by 9.7 million in the next 25 years. To put that in perspective that’s 15% of the UK’s current population (which was 64.1m in 2013) [International Passenger Survey, Migration Watch UK].

Anyway, organisations like Migration Watch UK enjoy trying to scare us by saying that '68% of this projected growth will be caused by immigration!!!' but that’s not a particularly surprising figure when you consider that, according to the World Bank, the number of births per woman in the UK was 1.9 in 2013.

It’s true that recently there have been a lot more people migrating to Europe. As far as I can work out 744,000 arrived by sea in 2015 compared to 219,000 in 2014 (equivalent to 0.15% and 0.04% of the EU’s population respectively) [UNHCR, the Guardian]. Again, not particularly surprising considering the war in Syria. 4980 Syrian asylum seekers have been permitted to stay in the UK since 2011. Cameron says the UK will accept 20,000 over the next five years... not exactly zillions.

At this point let’s pause before we start arguing over how many asylum seekers should be allowed to stay, or before our heads explode from having so many numbers crammed into them. Unfortunately (or fortunately) I can’t possibly consider every angle of this issue in a single blog post so forgive me if I miss out fundamental stuff or focus on things which seem to be of little consequence.

It’s very easy to see the figures and feel scared. More people in this country poses a threat to our wonderful (yet already strained) NHS, to our (unaffordable) housing market and to all the other freedoms and services we enjoy.

I’m only 22 with nothing much to lose which makes me something of an idealist. But after a conversation with someone much wiser and more rational than me even I have to admit that there’s only so many migrants we can support before our high standard of living goes out the window. Although perhaps we could all survive a lightly lower standard... but that’s another blog post for another day.

Yep, it’s very easy to be afraid. Not only that but we are effectively helpless in the face of these new arrivals; how many of us get to decide how many migrants are allowed into our country? Not very many.

Perhaps that’s why some of us are beginning to express our dislike of immigrants, whether by actively campaigning and joining the relevant political parties, or simply by the things we say and what we choose to read on the internet.

Deuteronomy 24:17 says ‘do not be unfair to a foreigner or an orphan’. And some companies ought to read verse 14: ‘don’t cheat hired servants who are poor and needy, whether they are fellow Israelites or foreigners living in one of your towns.’ In other words, treat them as our equals. At the end of the day we don’t have very much power over whether migrants come to the UK or not, but we do have the power to make their lives miserable when they get here.

Sometimes it’s important to distinguish between economic migrants, asylum seekers and refugees. But I recon that anyone who has left their home, everything they know and love (because, unlike us Brits a lot of people actually do love their countries) at great personal risk, isn’t doing it on a whim or because they’re a ‘scrounger’. They’re probably doing it because their life, or their family, depends on it. For whatever reason.

So, my concluding point would be: please treat our guests with respect, if not kindness and love. If you want to help them more directly there are organisations who could use your time or money or space. We live in a globalised world so, whether we like it or not, their problems are our problems too. The war in Syria is our problem, and so is IS, and the lack of human rights in some countries, and the civil wars in the Middle East etc etc. 

No problem was ever truly solved by hostility and ignorance. Who knows, through immigrants and our attitude towards them the UK might even become a place we can love.

‘We love because God loved us first. If people say “I love God” but hate their brothers and sisters, they are liars... God gave us this command: those who live God must also love their brothers and sisters.’ 1 John 4:19-21

Sorry for the incredibly shoddy referencing. If anyone would like to know where I got any of the numbers from just message me.

   Please follow the links (time or money or space) if you feel prompted to provide more practical assistance to the migrant crisis. But there are loads of other organisations out there doing similar stuff so feel free to do your own research.

   Any corrections are welcome, I try to research thoroughly but I don't always get it right. And comments/suggestions/stories/questions would also be great to hear if you feel like sharing em in the comments box below! My voice gets boring after a while.

Epiphany!

DISCLAIMER: I’ve had a sort of road-to-Damascus/Homer-Simpson epiphany recently and as a result this post seems to mainly be an abstract string of thoughts. Sorry about that. I’ll get back to writing sensible (more sensible) stuff next week.

P.S. I also thought it might be nice to display some art by someone else. So here’s a masterpiece painted by my lovely sister, it was so much fun to see her for the weekend, not to mention hanging out with Beth and Hattie for the evening, although obviously not the same without the oldest Basson sister (Abby we missed you!).

Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending the wedding of Bekah Brain and Ben Allen. It was a great wedding, for all sorts of reasons, but what really stood out was that Bekah and Ben not only loved one another tonnes, but they also loved their friends and family (which I suppose is why they invited them to see their marriage).

In his speech, Steve (Bekah’s dad) said that Bekah had a real love for life and I interpreted that to mean that she loves the people around her, the world we live in and the opportunities and situations that she encounters. And as I sat there, mostly listening but also thinking that the cauliflower cheese I had just eaten hadn’t been seasoned properly, I began to wonder whether I had a love for life. As you can probably the guess, my answer was not a resounding yes.

At a wedding the bride and groom, not to mention their closest friends and family, publicly tell each other how much they love one another. And at a wedding like Ben and Bekah’s where there is so much love to tell about, this can be a very moving experience. It moved me anyway and I got thinking about who I really loved, and it dawned on me that I didn’t rate that love very highly. In my usual boring week love wasn’t something that got me out of bed in the morning.

So what was I living for? What did get me out of bed? Breakfast, mostly. But also the continual hope that the future would be better than the present, with better relationships and better ways to fill my time. I was like the travellers in my story the other week who were always searching for the better place which did not exist.

I’m sure we all take the good stuff that we have right now for granted once in a while. And despite all those Christmas films (the ones where the parent puts work before family then learns the true meaning of Christmas) which preach all those great messages, it usually takes something a lot more personal and closer to home to make us realise that we’ve got something wrong.

It is so easy to start living entirely for ourselves. Well, I’ve found it very easy anyway, and I didn’t even know it was happening. So I’ve had to start asking myself how much I’m doing for me, and how much is for other people, do I need to spend as much time as I do doing what I enjoy, or can I donate some time to someone else?

So, if you don’t already, have a careful examination of your life – and try to do it honestly. Luckily for me, God showed me what was really important before it was too late (although I suspect that it’s never too late), but not until after I’d wasted quite a lot of time. We need to make sure we don’t take anything/anyone valuable for granted, and did you know that you can ask God for a bit of zest for life if you don’t think you have any? Because I’m guessing he gives Bekah her love of life, and there’s plenty more to go round for anyone that wants it.

“I [Jesus] came that you might have life – life in all its fullness.” John 10:10

Apologies again for talking about myself so much. I wouldn't bother if I didn't think that there might be something you can learn from it! I'll be back to ordinary posts soon. Hopefully.

Eyes of a dragon

I haven't written a blog post this week, mostly out of laziness but also because I wanted to share this story I wrote back in March. Its based on a dream I once had.

Eyes of a Dragon

It was a wide, wild country. Great mountains rose either side of it, covered in dark forests and topped with snow, while in between the land rolled into steep little hills and valleys with a thousand bright brooks cutting through the valleys and a thousand secret nooks and crannies tucked away between the hills. Their slopes were covered with lush grasses and flowers or with rough brush or woodland. Roads were winding and overhung with apple trees and dog roses, rivers guarded by black alder and willow. It was a travellers land.

   And I suppose we were travellers of a kind. Although we lacked the cheer and love of travelling that the gypsies possessed, and we ignored them when they passed (to my disappointment) or threw stones at their caravans (to my embarrassment). Our caravans were rough and colourless, our horses sad and misused and our only thought to get on to some better place, always some better place.

   We stopped for a while to work in an orchard, picking apples and pears, and the farmer paid us in vegetables which we packed into crates of straw, and in pork which was salted in barrels for the coming winter. I liked to climb the hill each day and see the trees which filled the valleys take on their rusty blush. Their leaves broke free and skipped along the road. Some days brought quick, cold showers of rain between heady, sunny spells and each night our camp was lit with fires in metal bins. The smells of wood smoke and burnt vegetables lingered in the morning.

   It would be a hard winter. The men said to each other how lucky it was that the good farmer paid us in food and everyone sighed secret relief when they walked past the rows of barrels and crates; we were hungry now and it was harvest, think how much worse it would be in the empty months. I watched them, and hated them, wondering why I’d stayed so long with such drab, thoughtless people who were always looking for the better place which did not exist. I went out wandering at night to be alone.

   Until one day we woke up, and three barrels of pork were missing.

   The men searched for the barrels but couldn’t find them. They questioned everyone but there was no thief amongst us. Something like this couldn’t go unpunished so they went to the farmer and he told them: it was a Fire-breathing Wyrme. If food went missing when it was properly locked up or bright lights were seen in the sky at night, it must be a Wyrme. The men discussed what could be done and said to themselves ‘this is an animal that can’t be reasoned with, the only solution is to hunt it.’

   They set a watch every night to guard the remaining food; I know because I hardly slept anyway and spent my nights watching them. But the Wyrme came again, and always on the nights when the watch was weakest. It struck down the watchers and stole more food. It stole livestock too and occasionally an unfortunate dog. This kept on for some time, the Wyrme stealing slyly on nights when it was darkest, until it looked like the remaining food wouldn’t last us the winter. I began to think that it wasn’t worth my while staying any longer, I began to make plans, I explored the surrounding land at night deciding which way I would go.

   And my exploration did not go unnoticed. A few young men followed me one night and accused me of aiding the Wyrme, ‘you’re going looking for it’ they said, ‘we’ve seen you near the barrels, probably loosening the lids, and distracting the watchmen!’ I asked them why on earth they thought I would do something like that. ‘You’re a trouble-maker’ I was told. When I denied it they beat me and left me on the ground, outside the light of the fires.

   Their words and their hard hobnailed boots were the breath that fanned my anger. It rose like flames but I controlled it, refined it until I would need it.

   The next day brought suspicious glares from the camp. There were whispers and amongst the hisses and murmurs, that word, witch! like a blob of spittle in the dirt. I ignored them and went about my business but I knew I wouldn’t be left alone now, there would confrontation, and soon. I could only wait. More food was taken and an old man struck down by the beast, he wasn’t killed but he could not leave his bed the next day.

   One evening I wanted to be alone, to avoid the stares and whispers so I walked out of the camp and up a hill from the top of which I would be able to see the sunset. The path was steep, and dust and cracked dirt made it slippery. The grass either side was long and dry from summer; I brushed my fingers through it as I walked.

   At the top the ground levelled off into a green field from which I could see the land spreading out around, hilltops rising like waves, valleys like snug folds in a blanket. The sunlight streamed golden from the west and as I looked I saw the high blue mountains rising up, threatening to snuff it like a candle. The birds sang their last songs before the close of the day and the mist was beginning to crawl out of the river.

   But above the bird calls I heard another sound. Voices.

   Coming closer.

   Getting louder.

   I began to walk quickly through the field, towards the mountains and the setting sun. Hopefully they would not see me. They would go their own way on some private errand, or the sun would get in their eyes and hide me. I knew that neither held any truth.

   This was confirmed when I heard a shout behind me, “stop! Wait!”

   But I would not stop or wait. I began to run, hearing their footsteps quicken behind me. I turned quickly to see and, yes, there were three of them sprinting after me and though I was some way ahead they would catch up because they were strong men and determined. Fuelled by the fear of devilry.

   The field seemed to stretch forever, yet the distant plunging slope drew nearer. And still they pursued. I didn’t know if it was a race or a chase, it seemed I was going to lose either way. Closer and closer the end of the field came, there was no fence, no trees, only an end. And beyond it? I didn’t know. But I would not let them catch me. The end raced up; the field halted in a sheer drop, but my momentum kept me going, I couldn’t stop, over the edge I went and for a moment all the land between the hill and the mountains spread out before me, bathed in golden light and arched over by the blue dome of sky. And then I was tumbling, falling.

   I sensed one of my pursuers snatch at my heels, then fall after me, his friends unable to catch him. But I began to change. I spread my arms as if to fly and instead of descending I rose like a phoenix. Up above the edge of the cliff where I could see the two men howling in disbelief, looking up at me.

   The sun cast my great shadow over them and I was revealed.

   My wings like vast leather sails beating the air steadily, my long neck graceful and arching to peer down at them. The autumn sun felt suddenly hot on my scales and the world took on that familiar iridescence, the shimmering rainbow clarity that can only be seen through the eyes of a dragon.

Fin.

Lol how lazy am I, making the last five words the title :D

Comments/questions/ideas/complaints welcome as always. Have a great weekend!

Jesus and Feminism

I used to think that if God was any sort of feminist he would have made Jesus a woman. I mean there are a lot more prominent men in the old Testament than women and I thought that God might have taken the opportunity to even it out a bit.

Not only was this kinda presumptuous (and probably slightly heretical) on my part but the sad fact is that if Jesus had been a woman she would have had very little influence. She could not have been considered a religious teacher, people wouldn’t have followed her ideas or even listened to what she had to say.

But if we think of it another way Jesus being a man puts him in a much better position to be a feminist. It would be relatively unimpressive for a female Jesus to treat other women equally, and it would have been considered disrespectful for her to try to treat men as equals.

But don’t just take my word for it, let’s have a look at some specific examples.

Luke 10:38. The story of Mary and Martha (it might be worth reminding yourself of this one, don’t worry it’s pretty short). This story always used to annoy me because I feel like if Martha had just stopped making everyone’s dinner and doing the washing up the disciples would have been all like “woman! Where’s the food? Do you expect us to cook it ourselves?”

I had, as usual, got completely the wrong end of the stick. I recently read that when Jesus was teaching in the sisters’ house, both women listened and learned from him. But this time Jesus and his disciples turned up unexpectedly so Martha gets going with the cooking and (it’s been suggested) she wanted it to be a really good dinner, because Jesus was really important. But she starts focusing too much on all the stuff she has to do; she puts the meal above the one she is making it for.

So Jesus tells Martha that what Mary is doing is alright, that he doesn’t care if the dinner isn’t restaurant quality, he would much rather she stopped worrying about the domestic jobs and joined her sister.

The part of this story relevant to this post is that Jesus encourages the sisters to do something usually only acceptable if you were a man: learning religious teaching and ideology. Men and women are totally equal in his eyes and his message isn’t only for the privileged.

Then there’s the story of the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4). Men didn’t really speak to women in Jewish society, as far as I can gather it was considered beneath them. They didn’t speak to Samaritans either (Jews and Samaritans had a lot of beef over where the right place to worship God was and stuff like that). So this story is as much about racial acceptance as it is about feminism.

Jesus could have treated this woman as lower than him (as a lot of people in his sandals would have done), or, since we know he’s a nice guy, with pity. But he doesn’t. He treats he as an equal, he asks for a drink and strikes up a conversation. And he knows that she isn’t exactly pious but he doesn’t condemn her or suggest she pray for forgiveness. He isn’t patronising, neither does he exercise his superiority. 

Instead he offers her an opportunity to tell him the truth (when he asks her to go and get her husband, knowing full well that she isn’t married to the man she lives with) and to get closer to God. He offers her this opportunity because he wants her life to be fuller, better, happier.

Not only does she take the opportunity but she runs back into town and tells everyone she meets about Jesus. This is one of the first examples of evangelism and it’s carried out by a woman.

There are plenty of examples of Jesus treating women and men equally but these are the ones I know a bit about. There’s just one more I’d like to mention.

When Jesus was born the people that come to see him give us an idea of who he came to earth for: shepherds and wise men, minimum wage earners and foreigners. The people at the bottom of the heap and the people on the margins. Likewise, the people who saw him come back after he died show that he isn’t an exclusive God. Guess who the first person was to see the Son of God when he came back to life? Well, you can read that for yourself: John 20:10.

Jesus showed us how we ought to live: he treated and loved everyone as equals.

“God shows his great love for us like this: Jesus died for us while we were still sinners (before we even wanted anything to do with him)” Romans 5:8.

This is my second post about feminism and where it fits in with the Bible, my third one will probably be looking at the New Testament and the early church. Also thanks to Angela Spreadbury who inspired me to consider the story of the woman at the well with her fantastic talk the other week.

Any suggestions/comments/questions are welcome as always :)

The Homeward March of Acorn and Thyme

Hello!

I've been back from France for about a week now and I can't think of any more excuses not to write a blog post. I'm in the process of (alright I haven't started it yet) writing my second post on feminism and the Bible ('Jesus is a feminist'), but in the meantime I've got a little poem to whet your appetite.

   Its part of a children's story that I'm writing, although I haven't worked on it in a while... nonetheless it feels like one which I might maybe finish.

The Homeward March of Acorn and Thyme

Home we go, home we go,

Our feet sink deep into the snow.

Home we go, home we go,

And in the sky green curtains glow.

Home we go, home we go,

Through land where only moss can grow.

Home we go, home we go,

Where reindeer wander to and fro.

Home we go, home we go,

Past trees with branches stooping low.

Home we go, home we go,

By gentle ways where flowers show.

Home we go, home we go,

Beside where river waters flow.

Home we go, home we go,

To cups of tea and folk we know.

Feminism and the Fall

Hello, little friends! I'm back in Bristol between holidays and this is my first post about feminism in the Bible. 

Before I start I’d like you to know that I’m totally aware of the amount of baggage feminism carries with it, so there won’t be any bra-burning or man-hating on this blog. Feminism promotes gender equality not domination, and although it focuses on the empowerment of women much of the time there are also areas where men need to be empowered (for example suicide rates among men are 4 times higher than among women). So I hope I can write this in a way that doesn't alienate anyone, if I do please give me a heads up.

Where better to start than at the beginning? Genesis. The creation story. You’ve probably know it but it may be helpful to refresh yourself (Genesis 2:4 – 25 and 3: 1 – 24, you can search it on the internet if you don’t have a Bible handy).

A lot of elements in this story have been interpreted to show mans natural dominance over woman so let’s explore the main ones.

When Adam and Eve are made it seems pretty clear who’s boss: Adam is made first, Eve is a sort of afterthought, a playmate to keep Adam company, and she’s described as a ‘helper’ in verse 18.

But let’s look at it in more detail. First off, Adam translates as ‘human’, not ‘man’ so it’s been suggested that the act of removing his rib to create Eve was more an act of splitting the first human in two to separate it into male and female. (The Hebrew word for rib is more often translated into the word ‘side’ i.e. half of Adam).

And whether or not you agree with the amoeba theory (as I like to call it) God makes it clear that “it is not good for man to be alone.” In creating the first human alone God shows us that we are incomplete on our own, men and women are equal, complementary and integral to one another.

As for the Hebrew word used to describe Eve (translated as ‘helper’) it doesn’t mean helper like an ‘assistant’ or ‘subordinate’. The word azer k’negdo refers to powerful and vital aid and support. It is used throughout the Bible to describe the role of God himself, notably in 1 John 2:1.

Finally, the relationship between man and woman is really important: it illustrates the relationship between us and Jesus. We need Jesus’ aid and support, he brings life to us as life was brought to Adam through Eve (Eve means ‘life’). Only Jesus can complete us.

The second part I want to address is when Adam and Eve eat the fruit of knowledge. When I was younger I sort of got the impression that Eve (the temptress) was skulking about by herself when the snake shows up. The snake's all like “God’s a bit of an old fart isn’t he? Go on, eat a bit of this fruit.” And Eve says, “yeah I guess you’re right.” She eats the fruit and, having poisoned her own mind, runs off to find her hubby to trick him into eating some too. “hey Adam, fancy a nice apple?” “Have you licked this?” “Nah, I just had a tiny bite to check it wasn’t mouldy (heh, heh, heh).”

This story is wildly inaccurate. First off Adam and Eve were both there when the snake rocks up. Eve is discussing the tree of good and evil with it whilst Adam listens (could this be the first example of a women in leadership?). Genesis 3:6 says “she also gave some of the fruit to her husband who was with her.”

At no point does Adam pipe up “er, babe, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.” He eats the fruit when she passes it to him, so both of them sinned equally.

After this, one of their punishments meant that Adam would rule over Eve from that point onwards. And I don’t think this punishment exclusively affects women, the repression of women in many cultures has caused problems which affect both genders: they are no longer equals and no longer complete one another in the same way.

The creation story shows us that men and women are equal yet display contrasting and complementary aspects of Gods character. God made both genders in his own image so that means that all of us embody God, regardless of our gender, ethnicity, impairments, sexuality, dress sense etc etc.

“When God created human beings, he made them in his own likeness. He created them male and female and on that day he blessed them.” Genesis 5: 1-2

The next post will probably look at Jesus' and how he treated men and women equally (catchy title, I know). Also I’d like to thank the people who’ve told me that they enjoy reading this blog. I really appreciate it!

And the painting at the top of this post was done by a nun at our Lady of the Mississippi Abbey in Iowa, my mum found it on the internet somewhere.

How to begin the rest of your life

I can tell that everybody has missed my lengthy rambles. I’ve been on holiday for two weeks, first on a young adults Christian thing (Hill House) and then in Cornwall with some friends from school (affectionately known, in other circles, as my ‘hipster friends’). I’ve learned a lot. About God, about his plans for me, about myself, the people that love me and life in general. And I’d like to share a few things I’ve learned with you. Just in case any of it happens to be useful.

At Hill House a couple of guys really challenged us all. They’d been reading about the early church, the people that got together to try and live like Jesus said they should after Jesus had left and the Holy Spirit had arrived. And ohhhh boy, were they alternative! They ate together and shared food, met every day to praise God in the temple, and they sold land and possessions and gave the money to people who needed it, or put it into a big communal pot for anyone in the church to use.

I’d like to point out that these guys were not nuns or monks. And they weren’t beggars with nothing to lose, or crazy rich. They had day jobs, families to support, reputations to uphold. They were just like us and they completely changed their way of life to match up with what they believed in. They wanted to live in community, placing the needs of others alongside their own needs, and as a result they were ‘liked by all the people’. (How often is the church today described as ‘liked by all the people’?)

I digress. The main point I would like to make is that there is no ‘correct’ way of living, even if the world around us often insists that there is (and this way tends to place importance on annual salary, good grades, mortgage repayments, the launch of the iPhone 7, etc, etc). So we might as well live in a way which prioritises what we think is important, rather than what we’re told is important.

That will look different to all of us I expect: some people live in community houses because they want to share their home, time and meals, my parents buy their meat from the farmers market because they want to support local farmers, other people cycle to work for environmental and health reasons. 

For those of us just starting out in life, now is the ideal time to decide how we want to live, and for those who’ve already started it’s never too late. Don’t compromise your values, live ‘em.

We couldn’t help occasionally talking about employment (or unemployment!) in Cornwall. And someone said to me that if you aren’t doing something related to what you’re interested in then you’re just working for the sake of working, or living for the sake of living. He, like many of us, learned this the hard way: by spending a year in a job which he doesn’t really care about.

And alright, we aren’t going to get our dream jobs for a while yet, I expect many of us will never get our dream job (if we even have one that is). But if we’re just working for the money, to buy a flat, car, x-box (do people still play x-box?) is that really a good enough use of our time? How many people do you think lie on their death bed and regret not earning more disposable income in their life?

We all gotta eat. We can’t be so picky that we bypass every opportunity that comes our way, but many of us are very privileged in this country in that there are support networks available whilst we’re looking for work, and a range of jobs on offer. So, if I’m going to spend my days answering phone calls I could at least do it for a renewable energy company rather than for Texaco.

So there you go. Some stuff I’ve learned. I don’t know if it was helpful to you but it’s certainly shaped my perspective in regards to what I’m going to do next.

In other news: I don't know if you remember the fairytale I wrote a little while back (the Ash, the Oak and Yew) but here's the cover illustration for it. Butterfly wing cloaks are all the rage right now.

In my next few posts I’m hoping to tackle feminism (and misogyny) in the Bible. So if there’s any bits that people find difficult or confusing or just plain annoying please get in touch and I’ll look into them. Have a good week and I’ll see you on the other side of Soul Survivor Week B!

The Story of Farmer Harry

I've been on holiday for two weeks as you may know so, since I haven't had a chance to write a serious post yet, I thought I'd get back on the blogging-horse as soon as possible and post this fairytale that I wrote last October, along with a few illustrations I drew for it. I'm not an expert on farming so some parts are probably a bit questionable, but I hope you can forgive those bits and enjoy the story. And appreciate the moral of course.

The Story of Farmer Harry

Once there was a young man called Harry. He was from a poor farming family so as soon as he could he set out to seek his fortune. He travelled the country for a number of years, never getting any richer, until one night he got so drunk that he fell into a deep sleep. While he slept another man came and stole the little he had left. So Harry had no choice but to return to the village where he was born and try to make a living from farming.

   Harry’s father was old and had divided up his land between his sons while Harry was away so upon his return the son found that he had been left the worst field full of poor, sandy soil that hardly yielded any crops. But the young man was determined, because he couldn’t ask Emily to marry him without an income, so he ploughed the field and sewed it with wheat.

   When the time for reaping came the wheat grew short and sparse with small, scrawny ears and the soil beneath was even poorer and sandier than before. Still, Harry wasn’t one to give up easily so he went to visit the West Wind, because he’d noticed that when the soil got dry the wind would blow it away.

   The West Wind lived at the top of the highest hill with the steepest sides. When the young man got there the Wind was howling and billowing around the hilltop. Harry shouted: “West Wind! How can I stop you and your brothers blowing the soil of my field away?”

   Suddenly, all was still and quiet and the man heard the Wind murmur in his ear, “What will you do if I tell you the secret?”

   “Anything!” said the young man, “I’ll do anything.”

   “If I tell you the secret you must promise me to use it wisely and treat it like the wind would. Otherwise everything you grow will be taken from you.”

   Harry didn’t understand what the wind meant about using the secret wisely but he agreed hurriedly and the West Wind told him what he had to do.

   Next, Harry went to the forest to find the Queen of the bees because he’d also noticed that insects had been eating his crops. The wild bees lived in a bright clearing which was full of late summer flowers and the humming of a thousand insects.

   He called out: “Queen Bee! How can I stop your cousins from eating my crops?”

   All the bees went very quiet and the man heard the Queen of the Bees whisper in his ear, “what will you do if I tell you the secret?”

   “I’ll do anything!” he said.

   “If I tell you the secret you must promise me to use it wisely and treat it like the bees would. Otherwise everything you grow will be taken from you.”

   Again, Harry didn’t quite understand but he agreed eagerly and the Queen of the Bees told him what he had to do.

   Finally, the young man went to see the Wise Woman because he’d noticed that his field was on a slope over which the rain ran quickly making the soil dryer and sandier than ever. She lived in a tiny dark cottage on the edge of the village and people went to her in secret when they had a problem that they couldn’t find a solution to. They didn’t do so casually; it was said that she had the power to predict the future and even weave magic spells.

   He knocked on the door and went inside, the Wise Woman was hunched up in a chair and wrapped tightly in blankets. Harry asked: “Wise Woman, how can I stop the rain running over the tops of my field instead of soaking into the soil?”

   The old woman closer her eyes and said in a creaky voice, “what will you do if I give you the secret?”

   “I’ll do anything,” replied the young man.

   “If I tell you the secret you must promise to use it wisely and treat it like an old person would. Otherwise everything you grow will be taken from you.”

   Again, Harry didn’t completely understand but he agreed earnestly and the Wise Woman told him what he had to do.

The next spring when he ploughed his field he followed the West Winds advice and planted beans and clover between the rows of wheat so that the wind couldn’t get at the soil. Then, as the Queen of the Bees told him, he planted chamomile and marigolds around the edge of the field to keep the insects away. Finally he followed the Wise Womans instructions and dug a deep ditch along the top of the field and put sand and stones in the bottom of it so that when it rained heavily the ditch caught the water and allowed it to flow through the soil instead of over the top.

   By harvest time Harry had so much wheat that he had to build a larger barn to store it in! People from the village wondered at the young man’s good fortune. His brothers had all suffered hard years, losing portions of their crops to insects and bad weather, and they asked Harry what he had done to grow so much wheat. But he remembered what the Wind, the bees and the Wise Woman had told him about using the secrets wisely and refused to tell anyone.

   That autumn a strong wind came blowing down from the hills and when Harry went to his barn he found that the wind had forced the door open and blown a large part of his crops away! He was disappointed but locked the doors firmly, telling himself that there was well over half left.

   Not long afterwards a great swarm of insects was seen flying over the fields. All the farmers rushed to check their harvests but the only person to find any food missing was Harry who had lost half of his remaining crop to the ravenous insects.

   A few days later black storm clouds came marching inland from the sea and the heavy rain that they brought lasted a whole week. When the downpour finally stopped Harry found that it had washed the last of his crop away.

   Downcast and ashamed he went to Emily to tell her that they couldn’t marry. And he explained to her everything that had happened, beginning with asking the West Winds advice to losing everything he had worked for all year.

   At first she was sad too but then she began to think and she finally asked, “what exactly did the Wind say to do with the secret?”

   “To use it wisely and treat it like the wind would,” replied Harry.

   “Then you should have spread the secret!” she cried, “because the wind spreads everything it can pick up. What did the Queen of the Bees tell you to do?”

   “To use it wisely and treat it like the bees would.”

   “Then you should have told your brothers about it when they asked!” she said, “because bees work together and share everything among themselves. And what about the Wise Woman? What did she say?”

   “To use the secret wisely and treat it like an old person would,” replied Harry.

   “Then you should have passed it on,” laughed Emily, “because the elderly pass on their knowledge to the next generation.”

   “Of course!” said Harry, “but what can I do now? I don’t have any money or food to last the winter.”

   “You still have the secrets,” she replied, “tell them to your brothers in exchange for food for this winter, then next year everyone will have good harvests. We can marry in the autumn.”

   So that’s exactly what Harry did, and his father gave the couple his most sincere blessing.

Moral: community is better than competition. Things are better when we work together than when we try to beat one another and act selfishly.

This story is dedicated to Richard Spalding and Alan (really sorry can't remember his surname!), two of my lecturers who are genuinely questioning a lot of the practices in agriculture and development which we take for granted, and who taught me to question them too.

How to be a good ruler of the earth

I brought you to a fertile land so that you could eat its fruits and produce, but you came and made my land unclean; you made it a hateful place. Jeremiah 2:7

My friends and family probably all know that I’m a bit of an eco-warrior. And for those who didn’t know consider this your warning. Cardboard in the general waste makes me twitchy, I’m an avid follower of George Monbiot’s blog and never, ever get me started on the topic of farming.

But I understand that in this globally connected age there are so many worthy causes vying for our attention that the environment isn’t always the first thing on our minds. There are also so many conflicting views on any one issue that it can be almost impossible to know what to believe. Take climate change. Most scientists agree that it’s happening, but what about those who don’t? And even among those who do no one can seem to agree on how bad it’s going to be or what we should do about it. But this post isn’t about arguing for or against climate change, it’s about our attitude to the environment.

It always makes me sad when people who genuinely want to dedicate their time or money to a good cause disregard the environment and how we treat it because, they reason, people are more important that plants. We all know that a person is more important than a plant, but what this attitude really shows is that we think of the natural world as separate from our society, as something that we can live without. How often do we consider that without plants our lives would fall apart?

Vandana Shiva recently wrote an article exploring why our attitude towards our natural environment needs to change. Shiva suggests that if we treated the land and its ecosystems with respect and love, rather than as property that we have the right to use how we like, then many of the problems that we face wouldn’t exist. Species loss, soil and water pollution, land grabbing - all of which have a huge negative effects on people by the way - are caused by someone acting on the idea that they have the right to get as much out of the land as they like and to hell with the consequences.

If land is understood to have more than a monetary value, and treated as more than a buy-and-sell commodity, then maybe some of the people who need food aid could still be making their own living by farming. Instead they are bought out or exploited by global corporations with more money and power than sense.

If the land and its produce were treated as if they were valuable then perhaps food wouldn’t be wasted on such a vast scale. And maybe the soil wouldn’t be degraded by agrochemicals and its fertility would be preserved.

In a way this attitude has some roots in the Bible. God blessed them and said: “have many children and grow in number. Fill the earth and be its master. Rule over the fish of the sea and over the birds in the sky and over every living thing that moves on the earth.” Genesis 1:28

But it depends on how you interpret this. I take it to mean that, whether we like it or not, every one of us (you, me, everybody) is a master of the earth. That's a pretty big deal. The question you have to ask yourself now is: what sort of master are you?

There are the kinds of rulers who treat their subjects however they like, who use their power for their own gain, to increase their own comfort, even if it means running the kingdom into the ground. There are the kinds of rulers who take no responsibility, no interest in their kingdom and let it be attacked and destroyed, so long as they are alright. These two views are, sadly, widely held.

Or there are the kinds of rulers who think of their subjects before themselves. Who protect them and ensure their safety however they can. They go out of their way to understand how the kingdom works so that they can rule it even better. That’s the kind of masters we ought to be. We have the responsibility to treat, not only every person, but also every animal, plant, river, forest, ocean, resource, etc etc, as if they are important. Because they are. And we need to understand their importance and how to best look after them.

This is not very hard to do. We can be good masters in every area of our lives. Instead of playing Candy Crush we can spend five minutes researching where some of our food is grown, we can choose not to buy from clothes shops that we know don’t source their clothes ethically, we can pay attention to the plants and animals on our own doorstep.

This particularly applies to those of us who answer first and foremost to the Big Boss, God. After all the Earth belongs to the Lord and everything in it – the world and all its people. Psalm 24:1

Fin.

I know that I come across as a total hippy in this post but I'd like to reassure you all that I still wear shoes, that I have not become a vegetarian and that I'm not judging anyone for buying from MacDonalds or Primark since I still buy stuff from those places when money or hunger or sunglasses get the better of me. But I'm not condoning them either and I wish it was easier (and that we knew enough) to make the right decisions.

As always, your thoughts and ideas are very welcome :)

Why was Jesus white?

It’s a question I have often pondered. In a Middle-Eastern country, wouldn’t a guy with white skin, fair Loriel hair and glistening blue eyes have stuck out like a sore thumb?

The thing is, the Bible tells us that Jesus looked totally ordinary, that he had ‘no beauty that we might desire him’. And as well as this, he often slipped away into the crowd when he was tired or in a tight corner, suggesting that he wasn’t instantly recognisable. He was an average Joe, of the Standard Jewish Carpenter Model. You wouldn’t have known he was the Son of God just by looking at him.

And so my friends, I decided to research this topic to discover for myself what ordinary people in Galilee, like Jesus, might have looked like, as well as working out why the Son of God is portrayed as he is and how exactly this weird state of affairs came about. Here are my discoveries.

How about we start with a nice easy question: would Jesus have had long hair?

Er no. I have it on good authority from Jack Wellman that Jews in Jesus’ time never wore their hair long. And it would have got in the way when Jesus was carpentering, which he did for most of his life since he didn’t start teaching publicly until he was 30.

OK question 2. What was his face like?

It might have been a bit like this. Richard Neave (a medical artist) and his team used examples of Galilean Semites’ skulls to recreate the facial shape of Jesus in this image, and they used drawings found at archaeological sites to determine that he would have had dark eyes and a beard. It’s also likely that Hebrews in Jesus’ day had olive-coloured skin.

What was the rest of him like?

Carpenters didn’t have power tools back then (again, Jack Wellman said so). They worked with huge bits of trees and stone, so it would have been an extremely labour intensive job. Jesus, therefore, was not the slender elfin figure he is often portrayed as; he would have been pretty muscley and hulking. But apart from the time when he flips out in the temple I can’t think of a single example of Jesus showing any sort of display of strength, and the fact that he had great strength but didn’t use it for anything other than his work tells us a bit about his character too. Jesus was self-controlled and gentle.

Neave and his team found that Galilean Semites stood at an average height of 5 ft. 1. So, interestingly, I would be half a foot taller than Jesus. Also, they reckoned that he would have looked older than his years from working hard and outside all his life.

That's what I've found out about his appearance and at this point I’m sure a lot of you smart cookies could probably guess, at least in part, why Jesus is portrayed as white. I mean, Jesus is often shown as reflecting the appearance of the part of the world he is portrayed in, he’s been African, Arab, Hispanic, etc.

However, his Westernness can seem like an overwhelming image in today’s global culture and this is because of Christianity’s roots in Europe. And, the power of art. Particularly during the Renaissance (a cultural movement which started in the 14^th century) European artists were inspired to paint the son of God, and probably in a way which reflected their own society. It’s likely that they associated light with righteousness and darkness with sin and evil. Thus white Jesus became the face of God.

Perhaps what we should be asking now is: why does this image persist? Anyone, with a few minutes thought, can work out that the usual interpretation is not accurate. Yet even works as beautiful and Biblically accurate as ‘the Passion of the Christ’ get it wrong.

I can only put in down to lazyness and lack of imagination. And probably the influence of Hollywood in the case of films and TV.

I know perfectly well that at the end of the day it doesn’t matter what Jesus looked like; he’s still made the ultimate sacrifice for you and me in the hope that we can know him and love him. But I hope that the next interpretation of Jesus Christ (whether it’s on the TV, in the cinema or in a children’s book) will be a bit more accurate. Not only because Jesus’ appearance tells us something about his life and personality, but also because art and stories are not believable or relatable if they are based on such fundamental errors.

And the Christian faith is the best, most complex, layered, challenging and dangerous story ever told. I want to know every detail, and I'd quite like it to be the truth as well.

Fin.

If you'd like to follow up any of my sources here they are ---> 

Richard Neave and the gang using forensics

Jack Wellman talking about the colour of Jesus

Jack Wellman talking about what Jesus looked like

Jesus' portrayal in the Renaissance and now

Yeah, I basically just found them by doing Google searches so it's hardly academic standard. But there's some interesting reading material if you're interested.

Oh and if anyone finds the picture at the beginning of this article disrespectful, I'd like to apologise; I thought it was funny though.

Mermaid Song

Somehow I forgot to finish my post last week, but never fear I am working on it! It will be done in the next few days.
   In the mean time here's a poem that I wrote for my mermaid story, I don't know how easy it is to understand without reading the story so here's a quick explanation: Calyso, Luan and Dandé are the three most commonly recognised deities in the civilised ocean. This poem describes a little bit of each of their personalities and associations but I don't want to give too much away here. The rest of it is up to your imagination.
   The poem has a tune so in my head the rhythm makes sense, however I don't know what it's like to read with fresh eyes so if there's any rubbishy bits or bits that don't work please let me know.

In other news, I have finished my Jabberwocky illustrations. You can see all seven in order here. Wow, can't believe I actually finished something! Very grateful to my pals on deviantArt (Flying-Glove and Oly in particular) for all their encouragement and advise.

Mermaid Song

Before I set sail on the merciless sea

A mermaid swam up and she whispered to me

A crown of red coral she wore on her head

She beckoned me close and here's what she said.

Calypso has shown me a thousand gold fishes

And giant octopi with eyes large as dishes

In houses where naught's left of hopes, dreams or wishes

A city abandoned by all but the dead.

Before I set sail on the infinite sea

A mermaid swam up and she whispered to me

Like a wave on the beach she didn't stay long

She beckoned me close and this was her song.

Luan, the sweet one, has shown me her kin

The bright in the sky ones and those with grey fin

All through the green forests she taught me to swim

And showed me the places I ought to belong.

Before I set sail on the fathomless sea

A mermaid swam up and she whispered to me

I'd follow wherever she told me to go

She beckoned me close and spoke soft and slow.

Dandé took my hand and we swam so deep

We came to the place where the oldest things creep

Where people spoke strangely and didn't need sleep

Part of me still dwells there so far below.

My next post will explore why Jesus was white. Dw it will be pretty chilled, just some research into what he would have looked like, which might surprise you (it surprised me!). Have a good week :)