Tara Brooch, example of the High Art of the 8th Century

When I was quite young, I saw the Anglo-Saxon ship burial horde of Sutton Hoo and marvelled at the exquisite artistic masterpieces that had been turned out by artists during a period that Western civilisation had come to label as the 'Dark Ages'.

There is nothing 'dark' about this period in our history, especially where metal work is concerned. Whether it is weapons or jewelry, the art of the period that spans the so-called Dark Ages is amazing in its intricacy and high quality.  The sword of Sutton Hoo is a masterpiece.   It is only recently that a contemporary knifemaker was able to duplicate the process.

The Tara Brooch was found in 1850 and rapidly recognised as one of the most important works of early Christian Irish Insular art; it is now displayed in the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin.

Although the brooch is named after the Hill of Tara, traditionally seen as the seat of the High Kings of Ireland, the Tara Brooch has no connection to either the Hill of Tara or the High Kings of Ireland.

The brooch was supposedly found in August 1850 on the beach at Bettystown, near Laytown, County Meath, some 50 km (30 mi) north of Dublin. The finder, a peasant woman (or her two sons), claimed to have found it in a box buried in the sand, though many think it was in fact found inland and she claimed it was found at the beach to avoid a legal claim by the landowner.

It was sold to a dealer and then to the Dublin jeweler George Waterhouse who was already producing Celtic Revival jewelry and who renamed it the ‘Tara Brooch’ to make it more attractive to the masses.

Created in about 700 AD, the 7 inches (18 cm) long pseudo-penannular brooch is composed primarily of silver-gilt and is embellished with intricate abstract decoration including interlace on both front and back.

It was made in many pieces, with much of the decoration on small 'trays' or panels which were then fixed into place. When it was found only one panel of decoration was missing, but several more have now disappeared, apparently before 1872, when it entered the collection of the Royal Irish Academy, who later transferred their collection of antiquities to the new National Museum.

It is probably the most spectacular, and one of the best preserved, of several dozen high-status brooches found in Britain or Ireland, but mostly in Ireland. Although similar in style, each has a completely individual design in detail. Precious metals are used, but only semiprecious stones.

The design, the techniques of workmanship, including filigree and inlaying, and the gold, silver, copper, amber and glass are all of high quality, and exemplify the advanced state of goldsmith work in Ireland in the seventh century. The brooch has a pseudo penannular form. Like most brooches of the period, it contains neither Christian nor pagan religious motifs, and was made for a wealthy patron, almost certainly male as a personal expression of status.

Celtic Revival jewellery had become very fashionable over the previous decade and the discovery of the brooch could hardly have been better timed from this point of view.

Though made early in the period, the brooch was immediately recognised as the culminating masterpiece of the Irish development of large and superbly worked ornate brooches, a status it has retained ever since.

Waterhouse used it as the centre of displays of his replicas and imitations of Celtic brooches in his Dublin shop, also exhibiting it at The Great Exhibition in London in 1851 and the Paris Exposition Universelle, as well as the Dublin exhibition visited by the Queen in 1853.  Queen Victoria had seen it previously when it was sent specially to Windsor Castle for her inspection.

Waterhouse had invented the brooch’s name, choosing to link it to the site associated with the High Kings of Ireland, ‘fully aware that this would feed the Irish middle class fantasy of being descended from them’. By the time the brooch passed to what is now the National Museum of Ireland in the 1870s, ‘Tara brooch’ had become a generic term for Celtic Revival brooches, some of which were now being made by Indian workshops for export to Europe.

Piling on Work for the Disabled Woman

Sometimes I honestly do not understand how it is that NO ONE can put himself or herself in another person's position, especially where disability is concerned... and by disability, I will widen the definition to include people who are very short.

Let's start with this house... it was built for the couple who bought the land, specifically according to THEIR plans, and the husband was an engineer.  And yet, despite the fact that his wife was shorter than the allegedly legendary short Emperor and could not be even five feet in height, the cupboards soar to the ceiling and he even had an iron rack for wineglasses that no one short of six feet possibly could reach even on tiptoes.

He has been married for almost fifty years I daresay to the same woman who kept hearth and home clean and safe for him and his children and yet he NEVER thought about her needs... I see it everywhere in this house.  He built an enormous 'man cave' (his term) in the basement with Surround Sound, an enormous television and an exercise room for himself with every wall covered with mirrors (and a lock on the inside, so obviously he did not want her to enter!)... but for her, he designed an ironing board with a tiny television that was less than 2 inches in size above the dryer in the laundry room ('so she could watch her 'stories' while she worked' he told us proudly).  I would not have bragged about any of it were I in his shoes.

And now the actually disabled woman who has a 'home aide' who comes to help her bathe and fixes meals.  Bear in mind the fact that I cannot stand without support and I cannot stand even with support for very long... yet, when she prepares even the simplest dish, she uses at least four bowls and pans and leaves them all dirty in the basin afterwards!  I never understood why people needed more than one bowl for mixing in any case, but here it is and the person who is using them is leaving the dirty dishes for me to wash up!  What logic is this?  I cannot possibly clean up after the person who supposedly is doing 'light housekeeping' for me!

Then there are the shoes left everywhere in this room... the physical therapist wants me to wear a specific sort of shoe for my exercises but despite the fact that he constantly reiterates the need for safety and tells me that nothing is more important, when he helps me to remove the shoes, he does not put them away.  My aide as well always leaves one set of slippers or shoes of mine in the middle of the floor and they are not even together but look as though they were flung about by a severe storm and then left to expire separately.  How can this be safe for me?  It is like a minefield of shoes in here and God knows it is a tiny room without any space at the best of times.

I hate to make the same requests again and again but no matter how many times I ask her to use a single bowl or to place my shoes at the wall or in a corner, it never happens.  Almost every one who ever has had servants knows that one actually works harder when they are about unless one has a manager in the form of a butler because they require endless supervision.  It is not much different with home aides... I do understand that they have many patients and they can't be expected to remember all the little preferences of each, but some things are simply common sense.  I can't be the only disabled person who needs the floor to be clear for reasons of safety.   Even with a walker, it is unsafe when one is forced to drive over a couple of unpaired shoes or slippers... not to mention the host of pillows that are supposed to be used under my legs and yet are placed by other people out of reach on the floor higglety pigglety rather than being stacked somewhere neatly.

Soon I shall be losing my home aide soon for two out of the five weekdays for which she was designated.  I really like her and she is a wonderful, warm and caring individual but I am reaching a point where I wonder if a bit of peace and quiet might not be welcome on those two days.  No extra washing up.  No storm of unmatched shoes.  No pillow islands everywhere in my way.

Pain makes me uncommunicative in any case.  I know that socialisation is important, which is one reason why I do write game guides and attempt to communicate regularly with friends and loved ones if at all possible, even if it is only through email or text.  Real life communication is a little more tricky as I feel I have to pretend all is well, to paste a smile on my face, to laugh and joke and make light of life's trials.   I am not unhappy by nature, but almost two decades of chronic severe pain has taken some of the joy from my being.

The Black Hole and the King's Grave

(King's Grave in Sweden)

Depression is a Black Hole that makes me think always of Alice in Wonderland.  Fall down it and you will be in a strange universe where none of the rules are known and where danger can lurk everywhere.  Nonsense becomes reality there.  I fear Depression with a vengeance.  When I was a child, my mother always threatened us with the dire results of embarking on any journey into what she defined as insanity, which had a very wide range of anything from liking the colour purple too much to being depressed or chronically unhappy.  She spoke frequently about a woman named Royal who threw her baby from a window and who represented the ultimate model of insanity.

When I was quite young, I spent a night once in a place that was devoted primarily to the insane.  The very next morning, I was told by the doctor that it had been almost a crime to send me there, that I had no business whatsoever in that place... thankfully, but the fear was embedded in me then for life. More than anything else, I fear those medications that are given to change the workings of the brain, to alter one's psyche chemically.  Too many medical professionals now seek to force so-called anti-depressants down the throats of pain patients.  I adamantly refuse any drug of that nature.  Pain is not equal to Depression.  One can fight pain constantly and still fight for the Light.

Yet, New Year's Eve usually makes me sad and the days afterwards tend to be bad days for me.  I lived far from my family often when I was young and I remember far too many New Year's Eves spent alone or with strangers.  The hype about the holiday makes it worse for people who are alone frankly.  Had it not been for all of that, I could have spent that evening alone happily with a good book or some project... but no.  One had to feel utterly alienated from the world, listening to the sounds of rejoicing everywhere else.

At University, the Halls were nearly empty during the Christmas holidays.  It depended on the schedule that year.  In some cases, one could remain there over the holidays but in other years, the University rented out the Hall to a Conference of some sort and one had to leave.  I always was a bit surprised by the way my friends often would ignore the fact that my own family was thousands of miles away... and basically lfet me alone to fend for myself over Christmas and the New Year.  For everything that my own family does wrong, we always have been extremely hospitable to strangers and people who are living far from their families, especially students.  Many of our own Christmas celebrations and New Year celebrations were shared with foreign students...  no such reciprocity existed for me for the most part.

I am not saying that I spent every Christmas and the New Year alone during my university years and the years thereafter when I did not live near my family but there are far too many memories of lonely holidays really.  Perhaps other people in the same situation do better because they care less.   I do know that the 'magic' of Christmas always meant a great deal to me and still does.

My family is heavily invested in Christmas, Twelfth Night, Easter and even St. Valentine's Day to some extent.  I am grateful for that, even while it can make life more difficult if one is alone.  Now, thankfully, I do not have to spend those holidays alone... although it may be a battle sometimes and if I were not capable of decorating, no one else would do it I suspect.

Today is the Eve of the Epiphany.  As children, Twelfth Night was the one day when we were allowed to have our own party with guests who were our own age.  We celebrated with a cake that had a bean in it, and crowned the person who found the bean either King of the Bean or Queen of the Bean.  That individual then chose his/her consort while blindfolded.

We put out our shoes for the Three Kings.  Later, having discovered that, in some lands, children left carrots for the donkey and camels, we did the same.  In the morning, we would find our shoes filled with coins, chocolates and a small gift.

Christmas Eve is the other 'magical' event when one awakens to find stockings filled with chocolates, clementines and small gifts.  One must leave an offering for Santa and his reindeer on Christmas Eve as well as a letter.

When Freya was little, I took her to the Mall where Santa sat enthroned in a little booth dispensing good cheer to all.  Children were queued up to tell him what they wanted for Christmas while they sat on his lap and had a photo taken of the event.  When we arrived, though, Santa was ducking out of the booth and headed for an ice cream shop.  Freya wanted an ice cream as well and wanted to see Santa... we witnessed him buying a milkshake for himself and he returned Freya's greeting and wished her a happy Christmas.

From that point onward, Freya insisted that we make a milkshake for Santa every Christmas Eve, so the milkshake of eggnog and ice cream was added to the plate of sweets and the carrots for the reindeer.

Yet I have not even mentioned the King's Grave in Sweden.  It is an incredible burial mound from the
Bronze Age, a double burial with fabulous carvings on stone.  It is situated in the province of Skane near Kivik.

I am given an incredible sense of peace whenever I have entered a burial mound.  When I visited Tarquinia over a decade ago, I was quite disabled and had difficulty walking.  The driver of the car suggested I wait at the top of the stairs, but what point in that?  One sees nothing.  When I expressed as much, he helped me down the stairs over and over so that I could visit all the chambers one by one.
The Etruscans, like many ancient people, had a fabulous method of burial which included a bed for the deceased and a dining table and benches for the living AND deceased.  The family would visit their beloved dead regularly (one hopes), bearing good and drink.  You can see the same practice in contemporary Mexico on the Day of the Dead.  It is good to commune with the dead.  The ancient Northern people would perform a ritual on the burial mounds of heroes, kings and dead family members, seeking a visitation, sleeping there through the night or a couple of nights if necessary until a vision or visitation occurred.

Most people in our Western cultures do not look at Death or the Dead in the same fashion.  When graves are visited, flowers are placed and perhaps prayers made but there is no ritual that opens the gates to the other realm.  Obviously, those fabulous burial mounds and mausoleums were reserved for the rich and powerful but at least every one had the concept of communion with the dead and celebrations with the dead in their psyches.

The irony for me is that going underground gives me a sense of wellbeing and peace, whether it is spelunking or walking through a cave system or burial system beneath the earth.  I never have feared that darkness.  The darkness I fear is above ground, in the atmosphere that is supposed to be ruled by the sun.  Below ground, I am happy to embrace the velvet black of a cave or mound.  Light is welcome to explore different areas but I love to sit in the utter blackness of a cave or mound, to feel enveloped in it.  THAT is NOT depression.

They moved my father's grave without even telling us and they continue to deny the fact, even though more than one family member has vivid memories of its original placement.  'As a matter of fact, he was buried in my mother's family's section of a graveyard originally.  Now a plaque that was purchased by some half-siblings evidently marks a spot where he was not originally interred and God only knows if any of his bones are beneath it.  Probably not.  The West has little respect for the Dead.

Nor is there a sense of community between the generations.  Part of the reason for the dining tables and the bed in the mausoleum was to continue a relationship that existed while the deceased remained still alive and a part of his or her family.  Death was the portal to another world BUT THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN DECEASED AND FAMILY REMAINED VIBRANT AND UNINTERRUPTED.

How different our culture where we send our elders to a nursing home or retirement community long before they expire.  We do not visit them there.  Why then would we visit the House of Death once they move onward.

In so many cases, the family is eager for the old person to die.  No time they say, to care for him or her and yet they resent the cost of keeping that individual in a nursing home, retirement home or hospice.

I see the same issue with children when both parents work.  In many cases, neither is willing to give up his or her job for a few years to become a full time parent.   The child is sent almost immediately to a day care facility or creche.   Often the cost of that care is equal to the wages earned by one of the parents but it is more important to keep the job than to give the child the experience of having a father or mother at home with him or her.

I look at the Barrows in England, Ireland, Germany and Scandinavia and the Tomb Houses of the Etruscans and the Maltese and other ancient civilisations and I see that we not only have a very different perception of Death than they had but a very different perception of Life and Family.  I personally do not think we have advanced at all spiritually or morally or in any emotional sense.  It is we who are the true barbarians.

For what could be more elegant and civilised than to give a dinner party for some one beloved who is deceased.  How better to celebrate Life than by ermbracing Death as part of a continuing existence.  How much less would we fear Death if we invited the Dead to dine with us?

Instead, we cower from the vision of our own mortality.  We are alienated at every stage of our lives: as children, as young adults and finally as old people.

One horrible aspect of this situation is that the elders often are forced to declare war against their natural heirs, to fight tooth and nail for their survival when in fact, all should share in whatever bounty the family possesses.

Once upon a time, a Family had an identity that transcended individual members.  One laboured for the sake of the family honour, for the family in posterity.  Now, the elders are aware that they often represent nothing more than a nuisance and a potential drain on the wealth of the younger members and they quite understandably lose any desire to leave anything behind.  It is a bizarre and unnatural situation but it is quickly becoming the rule rather than the exception.

The Tale of Silverhoof

(Silverhoof Matrioshka set by Golden Cockerel from St. Petersburg... Christmas gift from my dear friend, Cherie)

Once upon a time, there was an old man named Vania who lived alone and was very lonely as he had neither wife nor child.  He heard about an orphan girl who was not wanted by the family who had taken over her old home.  Although his original intention was to adopt a boy whom he could teach to hunt and follow in his footsteps, he realised that the girl needed a family and, if she were anything like her parents, they would enjoy a good life together.

He went to visit her at her old house and found her in a corner with a cat on her knees.  The woman of the house declared that caring for Daria was nothing but a nuisance and a burden.  She had not asked for the responsibility and she and her husband would be happier without the girl.   Vania asked Daria if she would be willing to live with him instead, even though he was only a poor hunter who lived in the forest.  While telling her of his life there, he mentioned his lifelong quest for the stag with the silver hoof.  Daria was intrigued by the tale and wanted to know why he was so interested in the stag... Vania declared he would tell her all the details only if she went with him.  She agreed, on condition that he accepted her cat Moura as well.  Vania agreed and off they went.

The new family was content with their life.  Vania hunted, Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura chased mice.   The lonely old man no longer felt lonely in the least.  Daria no longer felt like an orphan and Moura no longer was thin and hungry.

Vania kept his promise to tell Daria about the White Stag.  It was a magical creature seldom seen.  He had a silver hoof on his right forefoot.  When he stamped it, a multitude of jewels spilled out onto the earth.

Winter approached and Vania  told Daria that he intended to spend the season in his hunting cabin far from all human habitation.  Daria begged to accompany him but at first he refused, saying it was no place for a child.  In the end, however, he surrendered to her wishes and all three of them, Vania, Daria and the cat Moura began the long journey to the cabin.  The villagers whispered among themselves, saying that the old man was irresponsible to take a child into the wilderness for the winter but Daria was happy to go wherever her new father went and she was determined to see the White Stag somehow.

At the cabin, Vania spent his days hunting.  Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura caught mice.  All three were happy.  One day, while Vania was out hunting, Daria heard a noise and, looking out the window beheld a gorgeous White Stag with five-pointed antlers.  She ran quickly to the door and opened it.  There was nothing whatsoever to be seen.  She thought she had to have fallen asleep for a moment and seen a vision perhaps...

The next day, while Vania was off hunting, Daria heard the clatter of hooves on the rooftop.  She quietly went to the door and opened it.  There, standing in the snow in front of the cabin was a beautiful White Stag with five-pointed antlers and a silver hoof.  Daria clapped her hands with delight.  The Stag ran off...

The next day, Daria found herself still alone in the cabin as Vania had not returned yet from his hunting trip.  Moreover, Moura the Cat had disappeared.  She was worried and went out into the snow to search for her beloved cat.  She walked until she came to a hill covered with snow.  There on the top of the hill stood both the White Stag and Moura.  The two animals faced one another, their heads nodding as though deep in conversation.  After a time, Moura began to walk away and the Silver Stag followed him.

Although Daria attempted to follow the animals, she was unable to find them.  It was growing late, so she finally realised she had to return to the cabin.  When she did, she found the Silver Stag, Silvershod on the roof.  The magical creature stamped his silver hoof and jewels flew out, into the snow: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies, piled high.

At this moment, Vania returned from his trip and beheld the magical Stag again in conversation with the cat Moura, jewels sparkling all round them.  When he moved forward, Moura gave a strange unearthly cry and both animals vanished.  Vania filled his cap with jewels, but Daria suggested that he leave the rest where they had fallen... the sight of them glittering in the sunlight was so beautiful!  Let them enjoy the incredible display for a time.

The old man and young girl went into the house, leaving the rest of the jewels in the snow.  More snow began to fall.

The next day, Vania tried to find the jewels beneath the new snowfall but no matter how deep he dug, he could not find a single jewel.  Nonetheless, the jewels in his cap were more than sufficient to give them both a good life.  Moura the Cat never returned, however and both Vania and Daria missed her terribly...  Even so, it is comforting to think that the White Stag and Moura now are inseparable companions, friends forever!

The Language of Prayer

It was during my own childhood that the Great Rebellion against Latin took place.  Even the Church repudiated the ancient tongue and reconstructed the Holy Mass in the vernacular.  What a pity!  Throughout the world, before the pronouncements of the Second Vatican Council, worshippers could enter a Church and participate in the Mass freely, without having to struggle with a foreign language.

People justified the change by claiming that no one understood the Latin but really that makes no sense whatsoever.  The Homily never was given in Latin.  It was only the ancient set prayers such as the 'Pater Noster' (Our Father), the Gloria and the Credo that were declaimed in Latin.  I cannot believe that any practicing Catholic, or indeed any individual with a passing knowledge of sacred Music, would not know the text of these prayers.

The Church now recognises the value of the Latin Mass, however grudgingly, and there are Churchs that have added a Latin Mass to their weekly schedule.  Unfortunately, none are close enough to me and at present, I cannot travel much in any event.

Still, the old prayers in Latin give me pleasure and the very weight and resonance of the language is beautiful to me.

The following are not taken from the Mass but are extremely ancient prayers:

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O Sacrum Convivium
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O Sacrum convivium, in quo Christus sumitur:  recolitur memoria passionis eius; mens impletur gratia et futurae gloriae nobis pignus datur.

V.  Penem de caelo praestitisti eis;
R.  Omne delectamentum in se habentem.

O Sacred Banquet, in which Christ is received, the memory of His Passion is renewed, the mind is filled with grace and a pledge of future glory is given to us.

V.  Thou didst give them Bread from Heaven
R.  Containing in itself all sweetness.

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Sub Tuum Praesidium
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Sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix.  Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus, sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.

We fly to Thy Patronage, O Holy Mother of God.  Despise not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver us always from all dangers, O Glorious and Blessed Virgin.  Amen.

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The turning of the soul towards God during illness or medical emergency or the threat of impending death is the subject of much mockery but really, it does make sense.  The veils that separate this world from the other become tattered and thin when one sees or senses the approach of Death or even its threat.  Yes, we should be conscious of the blessings of God at all times but most people do not have the capacity to multi-task and being aware of the spiritual World while trying to perform a host of mundane tasks can be difficult.

When one is forced into physical inactivity, it is easier to return to the spiritual.  After the first operation, I was not as aware of the spiritual world as I am now, after the second.  Indeed, I had a very vivid vision during the recovery from the second operation where I saw both Christ on the Cross and our Holy Mother.  She appeared to me as she did to St. Bernadette at Lourdes but she was surrounded by flowering trees and vines.  The colours were incredibly vivid and the scent was exquisite.  Although she was dressed in blue and white, the colours of the plants that surrounded her were almost overwhelming in their vivid glory.

Christ was on the Cross, to the left of the Holy Virgin, a little in the distance, but both of them spoke to me.  In fact, I had a bit of an argument with them.  I asked, 'What is the point of all this pain and suffering?  Why have I been forced to live so long with so much pain?  Did I do something to deserve it?'

The answer was not that unexpected really.  Christ, bleeding on the Cross told me that suffering NEVER was meaningless, and never pointless.  Pain was a Teacher and it enabled us to become stronger and to see beyond the transitory to the eternal.  Furthermore, through witnessing the pain of others, we become more compassionate and empathic.  We become less selfish.... well, some of us do, I suppose.  Others have an incredible ability to ignore the pain of others or simply to find it annoying and burdensome.  I do see, however, that I became more compassionate as a human being by being forced to witness the pain of others, both animals and humans.

Our Lady looked at me with such tenderness and compassion.  She did not have to speak at all.  I had to acknowledge that she, of all human beings, understood the path of suffering.  She walked that path with her Son.  She never turned away.  She gave him strength and faith at His darkest hours.  How can a Mother bear to watch her own child in torment?  it has to be the bravest act of all, that refusal to turn away and her willingness to act as a witness to the Passion of Our Lord.

I have not had many real visions in my life.   This vision occurred at a point when my blood pressure fell radically.  No one ever will tell me what happened during or after the operation, but I know I had to have massive transfusions and that my blood pressure was dangerously low for quite some time.  No one was allowed to see me for almost two hours AFTER the operation...

At some point between the first operation and the second, a wonderful volunteer from St. Francis Parish began to bring me Holy Communion regularly.  What a difference that has made!  It is not only the Holy Communion itself or the rite...  the fact that this woman, who herself suffers from disabilities and pain, is ever willing to battle bad weather and her own problems to help others, is a source of inspiration to me.  How many of us would try to find excuses not to go out of our way in these circumstances?  I find her dedication and kindness rather amazing.

Christmas always has been a favourite festival of mine.  I love the entire Advent Season and the many traditions that our family followed.  We did not only observe our own traditions.  We would adopt traditions from other cultures and our Christmas embraced St. Nikolaus and Krampus, St. Lucia, the Nativity, Stockings and of course the Tree and after Christmas itself, the Feast of the Epiphany.

Advent 2016 and its Blessing

Such a makeshift, frustrating but I suppose potentially blessed Advent season.  I am sleeping in a recliner in the little office by the front door, in the same room as the small live Blue Spruce Christmas Tree.  Thank God for that Tree!  I insisted that Freya find a live tree to replace the one that had died quite dramatically as I lay in hospital and then in a rehabilitation facility after my first operation in June.  I vowed I would not come home to a dead tree after the 2nd operation and finally, finally, it came to pass.  The poor dead tree was carted away and a little baby Blue Spruce took its place.

Early, yes, for Christmas, having been placed in the corner before the Thanksgiving festival, but my operation was scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving.  My main focus that week before I went into hospital was the TREE, stringing lights on it with the reluctant help of Freya and making certain it had a bit of water to prevent it from following its predecessor into an early grave.

I was wise to make these preparations, as I am still unable to stand at all.  I can walk fairly well with a zimmerframe/walker, but I cannot stand.  Trimming the little Tree therefore is extremely difficult.

It has been extremely disappointing to discover that Freya does not like the trappings of Christmas much, does not take any joy in decorating and recently confessed that she does not even like dolls now.  She loved them as a child... they remain one of my great loves and it is sad not to be able to share that with my only child.

Each Christmas as a child, my sister and I received a new doll.  Most of the time, it really did not belong to us, in the sense of having any control over the doll or being able to play with him or her freely.  My Mum was a collector and the dolls usually were stashed away fairly soon in a cabinet somewhere.  Nonetheless, finding a new doll under the Tree was a thrilling experience.

We did not have any money really.  If my Mum could not afford a new doll, she would make a new outfit for a doll that we had.  One for my doll and one for my sister's doll... the dolls would disappear mysteriously from our room a few days before Christmas and appear under the Tree on Christmas morning clad in new frocks.  My favourite was a llittle frock made from fabric with a pattern of cherries on it.  She made that one for my Wendy Doll.

Vicki had a Ginny by Vogue and I had a Wendy by Madame Alexander.  Both were the same size.  They were 8 inches in height and both were 'girl dolls' rather than fashion dolls, adults or infants.  These dolls were not relegated to a display case or closet.  They were the dolls with which we played regularly.

We were a very international family in terms of our holiday traditions even though our heritage was Northern European.   Both my sister and I continue to celebrate all sorts of ethnic festivals.

One of the most beautiful festivals of the Advent Season is that of Santa Lucia.  She was a saint from Sicily but the Scandinavians adopted her and the traditions now associated with her are the ancient traditions associated with the Goddess Freya.

Santa Lucia was a virgin saint.  She is depicted dressed in a long white gown with a red sash, wearing a crown on which garlands of evergreens, red berries and white candles have been set.  The candles are lit.  She is, in effect, the Goddess of Light.

During a famine in Sweden, St. Lucia appeared in a boat laden with food, wearing her crown of light.  She saved the people of the land.... this, of course, is Freya, the Goddess of Fertility and Plenty.

One of the traditions in Sweden is that the eldest daughter of the house dresses as St. Lucia on the morning of her festival and brings a tray with a special breakfast to her parents.

I always wanted a St. Lucia doll but never had one until a very good friend sent me the American Girl doll, Kirsten with the St. Lucia outfit one Christmas.  Every year, I set her out on the festival of St. Lucia.

I knew where she was, but I cannot climb stairs yet, and all my decorations are either upstairs or downstairs.  I told Freya where she was and asked her to fetch the doll a few days ago.  She claimed to be unable to find her.  Yesterday, I begged her once again and this time, she did return with the doll.  I suppose she realised I would continue to ask her to search until she finally opened her eyes and made a serious effort.

So now I have my St. Lucia... . I did find a damaged St. Lucia Ginny doll by Vogue some time ago.  I had intended to try to repair her but that is impossible at this point in time so instead, I took one of my own Ginny dolls out of her raingear outfit and redressed her as St. Lucia.  She looks rather wonderful I must say.  I am quite happy about it.  She may not be a 'new' doll under the Christmas tree this year, but she is a doll with a new outfit, so the old family tradition is being followed still.

As a young girl, I delighted in the world of the imagination, in books and their beautiful illustrations... in artists like Arthur Rackham and Sulamith Wulfing.  John Cole's Bookshop always had a marvelous selection of cards and books from Europe featuring these artists... now, sadly, John Cole's is gone.  Sulamith Wulfing is dead and the reprints of her books are now out of print... I could not afford them when they were published and now the prices have leapt through the ceiling.   Fortunately, one can find a few illustrations on the internet, but I dearly would love to have the books.

D-Day and Animism

My operation is scheduled for 23 November, after five long months of delay following the first.  Due to the fact, I firmly believe, that Coordinated Health is more concerned about hard cash than aftercare, I had both a blood clot and pneumonia shortly after the first operation, causing an apparently arbitrary mandated three month delay.

I took the bull by the horns and asked for an ultrasound from another doctor in mid-October.  When no blood clot was to be found anywhere, I begged for Coordinated Health to allow me to see the surgeon earlier than the end of November when the appointment was scheduled.  When he saw me, along with the films of my hip, he once again shook his head in pity and muttered, 'I never have seen a hip worse than yours' and from the initial pronouncement that he had no openings until December, he said he could make a slot for me on the day before the American Thanksgiving holiday.  I accepted it instantly.  What is the point of a big meal if one cannot walk or have any moment without severe pain???

In any case, waiting for Godot...  and I asked for the very dead Christmas Tree from last year to be removed from the office that has been my abode for five months and for a new live Tree to be put in its place BEFORE I went into hospital.  The dead Tree HAD been alive before I had the first operation but no one cared for it and it died.  I felt it was a very bad omen and I wanted to come home to a living, breathing Tree.

Of course, Jim and Freya both pronounced me mad and so on and so forth.  If they had cared more about the whole Tree business, the poor Pennsylvania Pine would be alive still, ready for a third year of festivities.  Instead, it had to be carted off in a white shroud made of plastic. Poor thing!

I wonder if my request would have been shuffled off if Jim's family had not become involved in the quest.  George rang up one evening to say that there were living Blue Spruces at a local supermarket.  To me, it was a sign from God Himself.  When do supermarkets EVER have live Blue Spruces for sale?  It is my favourite evergreen and when the stupid neighbour who bought the house next door at the old address cut down the glorious Blue Spruce that the former owners had planted and tenderly nurtured for two decades, I cursed him to eternity.  (He swore I would love his landscaping, but in fact, he is the sort of person who has grandiose ideas but never follows through.  He dug two deep holes in place of the Blue Spruce, lined them with rubbish bags and filled them with water.  I expect he envisioned some waterfalls and koi but he never went beyond the initial filling and the water became increasingly fetid, spawning hosts of mosquitoes who no doubt carried West Nile Fever.  The neighbour on the other side of him crept onto his property in the dead of night regularly to pour household bleach into the water.  Some of it seeped into OUR garden, ultimately killing my Goddess Tree, a beautiful Birch I had planted when first I moved there and was pregnant with Freya.  There is a moral in this tale somewhere...

In any case, that is not the topic of THIS post, but the beauty of these internet sites is that one can ramble endlessly with no one to cut anything that is out of place.

The topic today is Animism.  I have addessed it before.  I always have subscribed to the belief that all things have souls.  It is obvious to most people now that Plants and Minerals have souls, but I think it goes beyond that and since I had the first operation, every object surrounding me has demonstrating that it has a mind of its own.

It does not matter if it is a plant, a rock, a plastic bag, the lid from a bottle or an article of clothing.  Every object that is not actually bolted to the floor or tied to a shelf has discovered FREEDOM.  I cannot reach for anything without having it leap from its position onto the floor and usually then to go off on an extended adventure into some remote corner hitherto unexplored by man, beast or any object that is supposedly inanimate.  It is almost like having a poltergeist in the house.

I suppose in some other cultures, people might pronounce me possessed by a demon because usually it is my hand that initiates the exodus.    In the old days, when I actually could reach the floor unaided to retrieve any object that had fallen, I was NOT clumsy.  I seldom dropped anything.  It was only when I could not retrieve items that had fallen or leapt to the floor that they all began to initiate these extravagant journeys.  It is beyond vexing.

In the space of a half hour, I have dropped the cap from a perfume bottle, the jumper I intended to wear today and a tube of medication  The medication in particular was most annoying because I could not see where it had gone.  I have two grabbers or whatever they are called.  They are basically long sticks with pincers at the end.  I originally had one but it kept falling so I had to buy another in order to be able to retrieve the first whenever it fell.

In any case, grabber in hand, I painfully navigated the room to try to retrieve perfume cap, jumper and medication tube.  The clothing was easy to find.  Clothing does not run away the way smaller objects do.  It is possible that it would love to be as nimble and quick as other objects but it more resembles a disabled person when it falls.  It looks more like a dead thing, perfectly still, remaining precisely at the spot where it fell, like a suicide who leaps from a building.  One could take a bit of chalk and draw an outline quite easily.  With all the clothing that has fallen in this room, I would have quite an intricate painting in chalk at this point.

The perfume cap, being made of plastic, even though it was NOT round and one would not suspect that it had such potential in terms of mobility, went quite far and ultimately lodged itself behind the leg of the recliner where I was unable to find it for about ten minutes.  When I finally did manage to scrape it out of its hiding place with the end of the grabber, it again leapt away and gave me a merry chase.  The tube of medicaiton, far more vital to me, could not be found initially at all.  I moved everything I could, searching and searching.  I searched the bedside table, packed with all the items I need and many I really do not need.  No antibiotic cream.  I searched the floor beneath the table and beneath the chair.  No antibiotic cream.  This fruitless search occupied another half hour of my life...

I finally realised I had to search the rubbish bin.  Not only was it there, but it had wormed its way into an empty food container.  Nothing could have been more disgusting... well, actually I can think of something worse but this was fairly disgusting as the bin had not been emptied for a couple of days.  I am not certain why it chose that spot for its walkabout destination.  In any case, it now has been brought to bay.

The reason I needed it is in itself another cause of vexation.  Basically, when one is going for an operation of this kind, the part of the body where the incision is to occur is inspected like a side of beef.  If there are any cuts, bruises or abrasions, the whole thing will be called off.

Having cats, and wanting to spend as much time with them as possible, I have been a nervous wreak essentially, fearing that I will receive a minor scratch from one of them in the process of grooming them or simply cuddling them.

I have been extremely careful but lo and behold, there now is a tiny pinprick of an abrasion or scratch or something on my upper thigh where it cannot fail to be seen.  (I wondered about the inspection before actually.  They scrutinise the FRONT of the thigh, but not the back.  Surely if it is such an enormous problem, they would look at the entire side of beef and not only the bit that is easily seen!)  So here I am, slathering neosporin on this tiny pinprick, this wound that barely would register at any other time, praying that it will vanish before Wednesday.

Meanwhile, when I dressed this morning, there was yet ANOTHER one of these tiny pinpricks on the same thigh.  What the deuce???  I haven't even been with the cats since I retired to my chair for the night.  I do not know if the Fates are determined to keep me from having this operation or if it is sheer bloodimindedness on the part of Life.  I might as well throw caution to the winds and groom the Puttikins to my heart's content.  They will not do worse to me than the invisible attacker!

So where do we stand in terms of readiness for D-Day?  The dead Tree was finally carted off on Sunday.  The Blue Spruce has taken its place.  Freya, with many protestations did help me with the fairy lights, so it has two little strings of light on it, and I think it is glorious.

I did not wish to really TRIM the tree this early.  I deprecate the marketing ploy that places Christmas decorations and paraphenalia in the markets immeidiately after Hallowe'en.  On the other hand, I have no idea when I will be mobile again.  It would be horrible if there had been no Christmas Tree this year at all.  If I did not insist on it, no one else would do it.  The fact that there was a sad little corpse from yesteryear in the corner made it absolutely imperative that a new, vibrant Christmas Tree be brought here BEFORE my operation.  Lights are common on trees even when it is not the Advent Season so I felt that was justified in the circumstances.

What I should not have done was birng out my little pewter ornaments from Germany but I did... and discovered that one of my oldest and most beloved ornaments is cracked.  I do not know if that happened when I dropped it (yes, I dropped it!  Surprise, surprise!) or if it occurred at some point in the past, but it breaks my heart.  It is one of my favourite Christmas symbols:  an evergreen surrounded wih wild creatures.  It really is a Tree of Life symbol, transformed into a Christmas symbol.  There are deer, squirrels and birds... and the tree is trimmed with lit candles.  And now there is a crack on one of the branches.

I bought this ornament in Munich many years ago.  It means a great deal to me.  Nonetheless, if I could buy a new one that had no crack, I would do that, and keep the old damaged one in a box now.  Unfortunately, I cannot find another remotely like it.  The new trend is to make pewter representations of cities evidently as well as various market stalls.  I  suppose the firms that knock out these little objects want to find something new to dangle in front of the customers who have more than enough of their old offerings.  And so they have moved forward to less sacred symbols.