Saint Valentine’s Day: Love in a Leap Year

Valentine was purportedly a priest who lived in Rome around 270AD. The Emperor Claudius II issued a decree forbidding military recruits to marry, in the belief that single men make better soldiers. As a Christian, Valentine believed marriage was a holy sacrament and continued to perform weddings in secret. He was brought before Claudius, who was impressed with his rhetoric and tried to convert him to paganism; but Valentine refused, and was sentenced to death. Whilst in prison, he miraculously healed his jailer’s blind daughter. The night before his execution, he sent her a note signed ‘From your Valentine’. So the first Valentine’s card was from a priest and a convict. Not an auspicious start for a festival of love….

The Feast of Saint Valentine was established by Pope Gelasius in 469AD on February 14^th. Because his story is rather unreliable, it was deleted from the  Calendar of Saints in 1969. But Amor vincit omnia – Love conquers all – and the festival has taken firm root in popular imagination. The day became associated with romantic love in the Middle Ages, when the tradition of courtly love flourished. In 1382, Geoffrey Chaucer composed a poem commemorating the betrothal of King Richard II to Anne of Bohemia (they were both only fourteen years old).  He wrote,

For this was on seynt Volantynys day
Whan euery bryd comyth there to chese his make.

(‘For this was on Saint Valentine’s Day, when every bird cometh there to choose his mate.’)

By the 15th century, Valentine’s Day had evolved into an occasion in which lovers expressed their affection by presenting flowers, sweetmeats and greeting cards (known as ‘valentines’). In 1797, a British publisher issued The Young Man’s Valentine Writer, which contained scores of sentimental verses for the young lover unable to compose his own. By the early nineteenth century printers were producing cards with poems and pictures, decorated with ribbons and paper lace. The introduction of the ‘Penny Post’ in 1840 made it feasible to post Valentines. That, in turn, made it easy to exchange cards anonymously – which accounts for the sudden appearance of rather racy rhymes in the otherwise prudish Victorian era!

Valentine’s Day is now big business in the greetings card industry. This is one area where the Internet has not made substantial inroads: you can’t make an anonymous Facebook declaration of affection. Modern symbols of love include hearts, doves, and the winged figure of Cupid firing his arrows. But a card will hardly suffice for the serious suitor. Chocolates, flowers and theatre tickets are least the modern miss will expect. And if a man fails to measure up, he only has two weeks to prove his worth….

For February 29^th is traditionally the day on which a single girl might propose to her partner. The day occurs only once every four years, because the earth actually goes around the sun in 365 ¼ days. (There’s still a discrepancy of 0.000125 days so in 4,000AD our calendar will be one day out. But lovers don’t worry about such things). February 29^th is an anomaly: according to olde English law, it had no legal status. Folks assumed that social mores were similarly suspended on that day.

The proposal custom is said to have started in 5^th century Ireland, when St. Brigid complained to St. Patrick about women having to wait so long for a man to make his move. St. Patrick was a man ahead of his time: he replied that women could take matters into their own hands on this one day in February. (Very prescient, seeing that Pope Gregory didn’t introduce his new-fangled calendar until 1582). Tradition states that any man who declines a leap year proposal must pay a fine, ranging from a kiss to a pair of silk gloves.

These days, women might prefer to choose their own gloves: at the very least, a man should get a gift receipt. But Valentine’s Day in many countries is as much about friendship as erotic love. It’s a chance to tell the people who matter – whether it’s your girlfriends or your grandchildren – how much they mean to you. And if you’re feeling cynical about the whole amorous affair, here’s a modern-day version of The Valentine Writer (feel free to add your own suggestions as comments)!

“Love me little, love me long.” (English Folksong)

“Love and hate are necessary to human existence.” (William Blake)

“Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but of looking together in the same direction.” (Antoine de Saint-Expury)

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Saint Brigid’s Fire: The Girl and the Goddess

Brigid was a slip of a girl with a mass of red-gold curls. It drove the nuns wild, that hair, for however much they combed it sprang back into a cloud. The girl ran wild too, although she had such a sweet nature none could not be cross with her for long. Not that she was often around to be told off. Brigid loved to be outside: she would slip out of the convent and dance barefoot through the long grass in a manner not becoming to a novice nun. She was a problem, that was for sure: daughter of a serving maid by her master, only their Christian charity had given her a home. The lord Dubhthach was said to be a wizard, one of the old faith who knew more than was right of mystery and magic. At least her mother had been baptised by the good Saint Patrick himself.

In the end, the wise old abbess let the girl have her way. Brigid was put in charge of the convent flock, and spent long happy days playing in the pastures. Under her care, the sheep gave thrice as much milk as they had before. The nuns were not the only ones to benefit. Brigid was a kind-hearted child, always willing to help those in need. She would let any thirsty passer-by drink his fill, but miraculously the milk-pails were always full at the end of the day. The nuns saw the good-will this earned them in the village and sensibly held their peace.

As she grew older, Brigid remained just as kind but she became cannier. One day the lord of Leicester was visiting, and she asked for alms to feed the poor. When he refused, she begged him for a patch of land – “Just as much as I can cover with my cloak”. Now that cloak was woven of fine Irish linen but with a weft as loose as a baby’s bowels. Four of the sisters took hold of the hem and began to stretch it out like a fishing net. He laughed as they backed away and promised to give enough land to keep them in food for a year. Another time, thieves stole cattle from a local farmer: the river rose up to block their escape, and as they swam across their clothes were washed away. The men returned dripping naked to beg for forgiveness. Brigid brewed ale for the poor too – rumour said she changed her own bathwater into beer: and her example inspired the local innkeepers so that none ever went without in that part of the land.

She learnt what she could of namesake, too. Brighid  – ‘Bright One’ – was a Celtic deity, daughter of the great Dagda and a reknowned poetess. She was born at sunrise as her mother walked over a threshold, so that she belonged ‘both within and without’. Brighid was said to have two sisters, one of them a physician and the other a craft-smith: but more likely they were all one person, a triune goddess of creativity and healing and sacred fire. She presided over the festival of Imbolg (In belly) or Oimelc (Ewe’s milk), when the sheep drop their lambs. This was celebrated on the ‘quarter day’ midway between the Yule solstice and the Eostre spring equinox, and was a time especially sacred to women.

When she grew up, our Brigid became Abbess of Kildare herself. She was known both for her wisdom and her compassion. She kept the old ways in Christian fashion: she was said to have power over both fire and water, and many stories are told of her healing miracles. Where the hem of her robe touched the ground, snowdrops and crocuses sprang up. To honour the hearth fire that women tend in every home, she kept a flame tended by nine maidens burning in a sanctuary that no man was permitted to enter.  Brigid was eventually consecrated as a bishop, which was unusual in her day too. When she died, she was made a saint – the patroness of poets, blacksmiths and healers. She is often portrayed with a cow at her feet, holding a crozier (bishop’s crook) and a lamp. The Feast of St Brigid is held on 1^st February, the day before Candlemass. It is a festival of song and light and purification. And if Gaelic Brighid is honoured too at this time, there is no conflict in those celebrations.

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The Story of Writing: From Stone Age to Kindle

In the beginning was the Word… and it was Good. Mmm. Nice. Followed soon afterwards by Ugh! That’s yuk! At first, these were the only words that people had. Then someone combined them to make a suggestion. Umm? How about it? You and me, babe…?? And that was when things began to happen.

For a long time, no-one bothered to write words down. Eventually the Ancient Sumerians started to scratch marks on clay tablets. This was just to keep track of their trade transactions: how many sacks of grain for how many camels? Then some bright spark thought of putting pictures on the tablets too: it was worth getting your sacks and camels the right way round. They were pretty basic markings, made with a reed stick. If you look at a Sumerian tablet, it looks as though a bird had walked over the wet clay. But this was the first time that words had been written down.

So, strictly speaking, accountancy is the father of literature.

The earliest cuneiform (‘wedge-writing’) tablets date from around 5,500 years ago. Early scribes had to memorize hundreds of signs used to represent common words. At last someone had another good idea, and developed a system of phonograms. This meant you could spell out strange words, like foreign names, from their sounds. Our modern alphabet is based on a system of twenty-two letters used around 1200BC in the Phoenician city of Gebal. It became known to the Greeks as Byblos, the Place of the Book.

Early books were written on papyrus or vellum. The invention of paper came much later, and even then, books had to be laboriously copied out by hand. This was thought to safeguard the transmission of knowledge. When William Caxton set up his printing press in 1472, he was accused of corrupting the public by distributing bawdy ballads.

After this protracted start, the printing trade began to speed up. In 1525, William Tyndale published his English translation of the New Testament. The Church tried to suppress it, but to no avail. Across Europe, knowledge was no longer the preserve of the educated few. Classical works in Latin were replaced by writing in local languages. By the nineteenth century, steam-powered rotary presses made production possible on an industrial scale. Scientists could share their discoveries through academic journals. Reading became a popular pastime for the emerging middle classes. In 1935, Allen Lane was stranded without a good book in his pocket, and Penguin paperbacks were born. By the late twentieth century, personal computers provided printing technology in private homes.

Nowadays, if you are a writer, you have a huge range of options to get your work into print. From the gilded behemoths like Oxford University Press to innovative independent publishers like John Hunt; from ponderous leather-bound tomes to Kindle and e-books. The publishing world is changing at lightning speed: the internet means that the smallest minority interests can find their target audience.

But there is no substitute for a real book: slightly dog-eared, the pages turned down at the corners, scribbled comments in the margins. A date and place on the fly-leaf, to remind you where you were. The dry weight of paper, balanced in your hands.

And that’s the story of writing. ‘LifeWorks’ is launched today. 12^th January 2012. Celebrations!!!

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New Year’s Resolutions: Doorways in the Mind

What are your New Year’s resolutions? Not the ambitious ones you announce, slightly tipsy, when someone asks you at a party on the big night; nor the virtuous ones you make, feeling slightly wistful, when the next day dawns and finds life much the same  as it was before. So many people focus on their shortcomings: things they want to remedy about themselves. But as any trainer knows, criticism alone is a poor motivator. Surely it’s better to focus on doing something positive: a new skill (learning a language), a dream (becoming an artist) or a long-held ambition (running a marathon). Things on your bucket list, that you want to do before you finally kick it. That way, we find fresh energies and start to change our selves. Instead of being merely remedial, our resolutions become another step on our life path. And this just could be the month to make it happen.

January is the month of Janus, the Roman god who presides over the turning year. Portrayed with two faces, he looks to both the past and the future. He is the guardian of gateways (modern keyholders are called janitors) and his image was carved over doors. Doorways imply the entrance to a new domain: they are associated with birth, death and initiation. On a practical level, they are important for marking boundaries. A ‘front door’ separates our private lives from the public domain. Within the house, doors demarcate areas of personal space from rooms for general use. We use doorways to categorize our thoughts: sometimes you forget why you came upstairs until you go back to the hallway. Cicero coined the term ‘memory palace’ in 55BC for the technique of memorising a list of items by visualizing them in a series of rooms. Passing through doorways, whether physical or imaginary, helps us to organize information in our minds.

The resolutions that matter are the groundswell ones that creep into your conscious from below, that you find lounging in your mind like intruders because you had no idea you felt that way. Once formed, they seem inevitable and undeniable, a natural extension of your self.  Suddenly it’s obvious what you should do next. You can see it all clearly in your mind now. Everything we do, from making a drink to founding an empire, starts as a picture in our image-ination. This is the right direction: you just need to take the first step. And you know it is a good decision because once you’ve made it, life feels back on track.

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Christmas Cards: Season’s Greetings!

Christmas is coming! Today is the shortest day of the year, the mid-winter solstice. Everything has been done to ensure that the sun comes back again. Each house is filled with lights and greenery. The tree is up and the turkey has been ordered.  Neighbours call round to consume mince pies – eat one in a friend’s house for a happy month next year. Cards on red ribbon festoon the house like strings of Tibetan prayer flags.

Cards at Christmas are a good tradition, albeit a relatively new one. They only date from Victorian times – after all, they presume a postal service and high literacy rates. The first commercial Christmas cards were produced in 1846: they were condemned by temperance enthusiasts because they showed a family drinking wine.

Christmas cards perform a very different  function from e-mail or Facebook: each envelope is a small gift, representing a quantifiable investment of writing time and money. Of course, card etiquette is fraught with difficulty. Is a hand-written note preferable to a round-robin letter? How many years should you continue sending if there is no reply? Why do people always send you a card the year when you finally cross them off your list? What does my choice of charitable cause say about me? (Oxfam this year: ‘caring and interesting’). But this is as naught compared with the problems of presents, especially the annual potlatch* festivities with the relatives…. Seasons Greetings! May you have a joyous and peaceful holidaytime this year.

Skating Choirboys at Hampton Court Palace

(*Potlatch:  Native American celebration where big chiefs distributed status goods; compared here with modern ritual of gift-giving involving conspicuous consumption).

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St Nicholas Day: Is Santa Claus Real?

In northern Europe, children put their shoes neatly by the door last night. If they have been good this year, St Nicholas fills them with sweets and toys; if not, they will find a lump of coal and a hard stick. For others, he will come on Christmas Eve, soaring through the night sky in a flying sledge. Many centuries ago Nicholas lived in Patara, in modern Anatolia. His father was a rich merchant and left a fortune to his only son. But why did he start leaving gifts in this way?…

… It had been a good night. The wine was sweet and the barmaids obliging. Nick staggered slightly as he stepped into the street. A full moon hung low above the rooftops. The cool air was welcomely refreshing. Nick waved away the servant who stood waiting and set off alone through the quiet streets. His way passed through a poorer part of town. He stumbled on the rough ground and bumped against a wall. As he steadied himself, he heard a girl’s voice from the window high above.

“That’s all I really want….”  Without thinking, Nick paused to listen. What women really want: that would be good for a young man to know!

Another girl answered, speaking softly.  “Three gold coins! Father will never find so much for each of us. And unless you have a dowry, his family will not let him marry you.”

A third voice chimed in.  “There’s only one way for girls like us to make money.”

“And he would never want me after that…”  The first voice dissolved in tears.

Nick bowed his head in confusion. Three gold coins: he had three times that in his purse    at the end of a night out. To these sisters, it was the difference between life and despair.   He pulled the little bag of money from his belt. Should he call up to them, throw it through the window? But they might be scared, ashamed at having been overheard. Better to leave it secretly, where they would find it in the morning. He only had one purse: how to show their father that this was for his girls to share? Nick stood on one foot: wobbling, he pulled off one silk slipper, then the other. Swiftly he filled them with coins, twisted each into a ball, tossed the three little sacks over the courtyard wall. He heard them land with soft jingling sounds. Then he ran down the street, his bare feet thudding on the ground, laughing like a schoolboy.

From that night onwards, Nick was a changed man. He still liked the good life: he could drink and sing with the best of them. But he seemed gentler, more interested in other people. When he heard a story of hardship, there was often another tale next night of unexpected generosity, an unseen benefactor who had helped in hidden ways. No-one knew who gave these gifts: they were left in secret, without the expectation of thanks.

Nicholas joined the Christian Church and rose to become Bishop of Myra, in south-west Turkey. He was eventually canonized, although his full title sounds a little formal: the children whom he loved shorten Santa Nikolaus to Santa Claus. The three bags of gold are echoed in the three gold balls found outside a pawnbroker’s shop, giving people another chance in life.To this day, millions of people around the world help Nicholas in his work. At Christmas time they give gifts to children just to make them smile. Forget about magical flying reindeer: now that’s what I call a real miracle.

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Thanksgiving Traditions: The Pilgrim Fathers

Thanksgiving is a time of praise and plenty. Surrounded by friends and family, we celebrate the fruits of the past year. But what did this feast mean to the first inhabitants of America?

The Pilgrim Fathers landed at Cape Cod on 21^st November 1620. They came ashore at Provincetown, just inside the tip of the rocky headland. It was not a good place to found a colony: a few days later they moved the boat to New Plymouth, Massachusets. The winter weather in this new world was worse than their wildest dreams. They crowded back aboard the boat and lived there for the next three months.

These early settlers were English folk. They were not Puritans; the Founding Mothers (of whom we hear less) wore colourful dresses with full skirts. They were not Quakers, so-named several decades later. They were Protestant Dissenters, leaving their homeland for the freedom to worship God in their own way.

The passenger lists of the Mayflower give 102 names: a mixture of men, women and children (including several fosterlings of illegitimate birth). The Mayflower was a merchant ship, square-rigged with three masts, about 100ft long and 25ft wide, sailed by about 28 crew. The quarters were cramped enough during the nine-week voyage; almost unbearable in the three months that followed. The people were weakened by hunger and disease. Half of those on board died during that first terrible winter.

They would all have perished were it not for the generosity of the Native Americans. A Wampanoag leader named Massasoit gave them food when their own supplies ran out. Tradition says that at one point, they were surviving on five grains of corn a day. The following spring, a man called Squanto showed them how to plant the ‘Three Sisters’ – the staple local crops of maize (sweetcorn), beans (legumes) and squash (marrows and pumpkin). He taught them to fertilize the corn with a fish-head under every shoot. That autumn, the settlers brought in an adequate harvest. They knew now that they could survive in this new land.

The First Thanksgiving was a feast to thank God and the Indians. Actually, New England colonists regularly held thanksgivings, but these were more usually days of prayer and fasting. The Christian Eucharist of consecrated bread and wine is literally a thanks-offering (Greek eucharistos, grateful). Thankfully for us, prayer and fasting was not the Native way. Ninety Indians arrived with turkeys for a three-day festival, expecting song and dance. The Thursday start gave the Pilgrims time to enjoy themselves before the Sabbath observance.

Thanksgiving was declared a national holiday by President Abraham Lincoln in 1863 during the Civil War. It was originally celebrated on the last Thursday in November; this was moved to the fourth Thursday in 1941 to extend the Christmas shopping season. It is now the biggest holiday in the most powerful country in the world. The festive meal includes maize, beans, turkey, cranberry sauce and of course pumpkin pie. Five grains of parched corn on every plate remind us of the hardship of those early days. Happy Thanksgiving!

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