It’s that time of year again. The supermarket aisles are filled with plastic pumpkins and however many other Halloween spin-offs the buying team was able to order from China. It always irks me to see an ancient and interesting festival being used to relieve consumers of their money for yet more junk to fill our attics and oceans.
The social and ecological objections may hold good but, as Jason Mankey points out, bemoaning the commercialisation of the ‘true’ festival makes little sense. Modern-day Halloween is a curious amalgamation of various traditions and customs which have evolved and overlapped over time: the Celtic festival of Samhain on October 31st and the Christian All Souls’ Day on November 2nd, plus All Saints’ Day, which begins with the ‘hallowtide’ vigil on the 31st.
Not much is known about Samhain’s origins in the Celtic pagan world, and there is little to suggest it was concerned with the dead and discarnate. But it seems reasonable to conclude that, in line with the other festivals that punctuate the agricultural year, Samhain marked the beginning of winter, the time when life became less certain and darker in all senses. As such, it was perhaps a time of cultivated fearfulness, with rituals designed to acknowledge and come to terms with forces beyond human control.
All Souls’ Day, on the other hand, is traditionally a time when good Christians remember their dead. Its association in the Catholic Church with the doctrine of purgatory – the state in which saved souls undergo a process of purification before proceeding to heaven – makes it a natural time for popular intercession. On All Souls’ of times past, the living helped to alleviate the suffering of their dead through the lighting of candles – soul lights – or the giving of soul-cakes to the needy.
Its calendar-neighbour All Saints’ Day also gives expression to this sense of a powerful bond between the living and the dead. Thanks are given for the lives and deaths of the saints who remain responsive to human prayers from their place in heaven. Today, in various countries around the world, observance of All Saints merges with the remembrance of the dead, with customs such as the taking of flowers to the graves of loved ones. In some countries, it’s a full-blown party in the graveyard, as held in Spain on the Dia de Todos los Santos.
The Spanish celebration of All Saints clarifies, for me, the meaning and function of Halloween in modern Britain: in a culture which has a profoundly uneasy relationship with death, the festival serves to preserve a connection with the dark and difficult. As Ronald Hutton puts in in The Stations of the Sun, ‘The fun consists principally of parodying or evoking two phenomena with which present-day industrial society is profoundly uneasy: the supernatural, and death.’
In this respect it’s perhaps not surprising that Halloween is close, in both date and mood, to another early winter festival that centres on our difficult relationship with modern, man-made death: Remembrance Sunday. My uneasy feelings about the militaristic way we mark that day in this country crystallised in the course of research for The Secret Life of God, thanks to a sermon given by Art Lester at Croydon Unitarian Church. The Revd Lester drew on his experience of the easy mixing of the dead and living on All Saints’ in Spain – see the full account here – using it to highlight the contrasting, death-denying attitudes prevalent in Britain. And so it was that the intertwinings of our festivals of the dark enlightened me.
But the last word, for those of us celebrating Halloween this year, goes to Ovid by way of a rebuke to the purveyers of Halloween plastic: “Ghosts ask but little: they value piety more than a costly gift”.
I’ve finally fulfilled a long-held desire to be a pilgrim and got my compostela (official certificate) for having completed a section of the Spanish pilgrimage route the Camino de Santiago.
I’ve long wanted to do the Camino, a contemporary form of pilgrimage which is undergoing a resurgence, attracting 21st-century pilgrims of all faiths and none. My first attempt at the Camino was deferred by the death of my mother in 2011; its taken me all this time to get back round to it and, since then, the numbers receiving the compostela have gone up by almost a hundred thousand, rising to almost 280,000 in 2016.
In late August I set out for Santiago from Ferrol, having chosen to do the relatively quiet Camino Ingles. The people I met on my first day confirmed the open, pluralistic spirit of the contemporary Camino. On the outskirts of the city I met a local who had done that route ten times because he loved it so much, and then walked a while with a group of Spanish students from Valencia. ‘Are you doing this for religious reasons or for the experience?’ one asked me. The latter, I replied, although I didn’t make a hard distinction between the two. It was the same for him, agreed the student; while not a religious requirement, the Camino is more than just a hike. That evening I had dinner – a ‘pilgrim’s menu’ for nine euros – with a Catholic priest from the Netherlands.
But the growing popularity of the Camino is also giving rise to a new type of pilgrim that I liked less. These focused, driven walkers tend to get up soon after five, filling the dormitories of the pilgrim hostels with flashlights and the sound of hurried packing. Then they take off into the dark, often arriving at their next destination by the middle of the morning. Those doing the ‘sports camino’, as a like-mind amiga de camino put it, are determined to win the race for beds which in the summer months, even on the Camino Ingles, are in increasingly short supply.
The other side of the Camino revival is the degree to which it is embedded in modern Spanish culture. Almost half the pilgrims are Spanish and, I heard it said more than once, that ‘most’ Spaniards are expected to do the pilgrimage at least once, while for the young, gaining a compostela is akin to getting a Duke of Edinburgh award.
For the pilgrim, this translates into a great sense of being supported along the way. Locals, seeing you plod past their house with your rucksack, often wish you buen camino, sometimes shouting to correct you if they think you’re about to take the wrong path. Much is made, in the literature about the Camino, about the sense of history you get from walking the paths trodden by the pilgrims of millennia past. But for me, the sense of being part of something bigger came more from having a living connection to the place I was in, one largely created by the understanding and acceptance of the people around me.
One Spaniard I met in a bar – a bicycling pilgrim from Valencia – attributed the success of the modern Camino to the Galician people. ‘Galicians are polite’, he said, adding that if the ancient pilgrimage route had lain in the south of Spain he doubted whether pilgrims would have received the same warm welcome. He attributed the Galician temperament to the region’s remoteness, which had shielded it from some of the perils of modernisation and the trauma of the Spanish Civil War.
And there’s no doubt that Galicia – which, like many rural regions of Europe, has suffered mass emigration – can do with the economic benefits of the Camino. Many empty houses litter its landscape, some bearing hopeful ‘SE VENDE’ notices, while others are fast going back to nature. Coming from a crowded, property-mad island, it made me sad to see so many idyllicly-situated homes being abandoned. So the fact that the modern Camino is a business which benefits the locals cheered me: what better form of tourism than one which feeds both body and soul in a way that stays true to the character of the place?
Arriving at the Cathedral in Santiago did, briefly, remind me of tourism-as-usual. In the early afternoon, the Praza de Obradoiro was awash with groups punching the air and cheering. An American woman next to me kept playing back a video she’d just made of her own arrival. The script went: ‘Wow. Wow. Wow. Amazing. Wow.’
But I wasn’t disappointed by the show the Cathedral put on at the twice-daily Pilgrims’ Mass. The music, provided by a powerful organ and some very good soloists, was the best I’ve heard in a Catholic church, and the priest officiating communicated a real sense that we, as pilgrims, had achieved something meaningful. Watching the botafumiero (giant incense burner) swing dangerously above the congregations’ heads to almost touch the ceiling – it took eight priests to pull the rope – was genuinely exhilarating.
Collecting my compostela in the Pilgrims’ office, I had to choose a column giving my ‘motivo’ for doing the Camino. On the page I filled out, eleven people had ticked ‘religious’, eight ‘spiritual’ and one the ‘tourism/sports’ column – further confirmation of the range of reasons for doing the Camino. So it was a shame that the alternative pilgrims’ ceremony I had been invited to en route didn’t, in the end, take place. Organised by a Franciscan monk in a spirit of ecumenicism, it seemed the right way to end a 21st-century pilgrimage.
Next week I’m planning to fulfil a long-held ambition to walk a section of the pilgrimage route known as the Camino de Santiago de Compostela.
In its heyday, the Camino was one of the great pilgrimage routes of the western world, with the Spanish city of Santiago joining Rome and Jerusalem as one of the three holy destinations for good medieval Catholics. Santiago acquired its special status after the apostle St James reportedly travelled to northwestern Spain to found the new church there, miraculously re-appearing centuries later to help save the country from invading Muslims, In the process, he won himself the title of ‘Santiago Matamoros’ – St James the Moorslayer – and the Cathedral of Santiago became his reputed burial place.
No one knows how a Galilean fisherman might have got to Spain, and no evidence of his remains were found there: probably the Spanish wanted a bit of early-church action on their soil, much like the English when they claimed that Jesus’ feet had trodden its green fields on the way to Glastonbury.
Of course, as a 21st-century pluralist, I’m not embarking on the Camino in the spirit of a traditional Catholic, much less one endorsing a Christian jihad. Instead, I’m taking part in the modern revival of the Camino that speaks to the rise of a more experiential spiritual sensibility, akin to the one chronicled in The Secret Life of God.
The numbers walking the Camino have risen dramatically over the past couple of decades, from a couple of thousand in the 1980s to almost 280 000 in 2016. Modern pilgrims walk for a variety of reasons: surveys attest to a whole gamut, from a need for exercise to the desire for a personal challenge.
Yet when broken down so starkly, the reasons seem not to capture the spirit in which people embark on the Camino. Comments by pilgrims in the growing Camino literature and fora suggest that the motivations are broadly psycho-spiritual, and centre on the resolution of a problem or the search for healing. It seems clear that even in its modern form, there is something special about a pilgrimage, a journey to a particular destination with no practical purpose, which costs the undertaker considerable effort but often brings an intangible benefit.
I suspect that the enduring appeal of pilgrimage has to do with the human need for movement; the fact that we are, as Bruce Chatwin wrote in The Songlines, ‘a migratory species’ which has the experience of walking long and far mapped deep into its DNA. It was probably this impulse that Chaucer was referring to when he described the longing of ‘folk’ to ‘goon on pilgrimages’ that overcame the English in spring, an atavistic longing that pre-dates the traditional Catholic pilgrimage and is now evolving beyond the social and religious framework that gave it form in the Middle Ages.
My own pilgrimage will be modest. I’ve chosen to do the Camino Ingles, one of the lesser-known routes which, at about 120 km, has the advantage of meeting the minimum requirement of walking the last 100 km into Santiago to qualify for a compostela all by itself. It’s also reportedly much quieter than the last stretch of the popular Camino Frances, which has become busy with coach parties and tourists in recent years.
I like the fact that the Camino Ingles is the route that English pilgrims would have taken until the break from the Catholic Church put an end to pilgrimage as a socially acceptable activity. In times gone by, the ‘seafaring pilgrims from northern Europe’ would have sailed to Galicia’s northern coast before walking to the tomb of St James.
After arriving via Ryanair, this pilgrim will be taking it slowly. While an enthusiastic day-walker, I’ve never attempted continuous walking day after day, and have only moderate levels of physical energy. While I mean to complete my mission of walking to Santiago, I’m also aware that the Camino poses challenges in all sorts of ways, not least to our expectations and sense of being in control. (I’ve just read Rosemary Mahoney’s account of her Camino in Singular Pilgrim, in which her driven approach to walking is arrested by searing pain in her legs.)
So over the next week or so, don’t wish me luck, wish me Buen Camino.
School’s out, and as my summer offer begins – details below – my own summer reading is well underway. So far this year, my holiday reads are not so much the result of conscious choice as chance – books that turned up serendipitously in my life, embedded in their own little stories.
The first, Love Like Salt, turned up at a party, appearing out of the bag of its author, Helen Stevenson. We were at a writers’ party to which we’d been asked to bring copies of our books; after talking for a while about life and writing, we spontaneously swopped our own pieces of life-writing. Helen’s exquisitely written memoir centres on her experience as a mother of a daughter with cystic fibrosis and her decision to end what was, on the face of it, an idyllic life in France. But, like the best of its genre, Love Like Salt is really about love and the unexpected challenges life throws at us.
My second serendipitous read came via a back-handed recommendation from my godmother. She couldn’t say she enjoyed Chris Packham’s memoir about growing up with Aspergers, she said, but she found Fingers in the Sparkle Jar ‘an unusual book’ which made for painful reading at points. That got me interested, and so, despite the many other titles on my to-read shelf, I bought a copy.
But in the event, I aborted my reading on the second chapter, and herein lies a different tale about reading and writing. As a well-known zoologist, Packham has naturally not devoted much time to learning the craft of writing, while to this particular reader, style matters. It’s not that his book is badly written; it’s more that its voice is part celeb-memoir, part jolly-bloke, descriptive speaking style he tends to use on Springwatch – difficult to take in large quantities. Meanwhile, my own writing and reading background has heightened my awareness that, in fiction and non-fiction alike, the voice of the narrator is as least as important as the story itself.
I’ll certainly go back to Packham’s memoir; sometimes all it takes to appreciate a book is a shift in mode and expectation. And of course the subject – the relation between humans and animals – is bang on-topic for my latest writing project. But, lying in a field earlier this month, I chose to move straight onto the other book in my suitcase, a short work of fiction given to me by a friend last Christmas.
With a writer for narrator, The Guest Cat is very much a writer’s book. The story itself is slight – a cat starts visiting a couple; they get fond of it, and then [SPOILER ALERT]. But the voice of the storyteller has a still, matter-of-fact quality that takes you right into his distinctively Japanese world, something which the translation only seems to heighten. The novel explores an existential puzzle – why do the couple love this particular cat so much? – without ever reducing it to a simple answer.
If you’re noticing that common themes seem to be emerging out of my serendipitous summer reads – love, especially that between humans and animals, and the way life works on us, for better or worse – you’d be right. And perhaps that’s not a matter of chance.
SUMMER READING OFFER
Sign up to my email list and receive a free copy of one of the ebooks in The Secret Life of God series. Put your email address in the box to the right, and then claim your copy by sending an email to: alexklaushofer AT gmail.com with either DRUIDS, SUFIS, MONASTICS OR HERMITS and EPUB, MOBI or PDF in the subject-line. Offer ends 19th August.
You’d never know. An unobtrusive Georgian townhouse on one of Bradford on Avon’s busiest roads, where the cars back up to squeeze through the town’s narrow streets, is home to a Buddhist monastery.
Founded in 1986 as part of a monastic order called the Aukana Trust, the monastery is only open to the public for an afternoon every other year. The house on Mason’s Lane, now called the Monastery of Absolute Harmony, is currently home to three monastics, with their spiritual director Paul Harris living next door. Having visited many Christian monasteries in Lebanon and Britain, I was curious to see what their Buddhist counterpart would be like.
So, on a sunny afternoon in June, a friend and I make our way down Mason’s Lane. The double doors that must originally have made way for a carriage have been thrown open, and the place is full of people. The first surprise is the extent of the sloping gardens that fall away from the house, divided by hedges to form ‘rooms’ for various purposes from meditation to vegetable-growing. There are clear views over Bradford’s distinctive townscape, and the onion-shaped dome of the Catholic Church seems only a stone’s throw away.
The other surprise is that among the many, largely female, helpers and greeters, my companion and I have quite a few acquaintance. They’re part of the monastery’s wider community who come to weekly meditations and on retreat; some have been doing so for decades.
Our shoes are collected through window as we go into the house, which is fully carpeted in a series of soft, warm colours – soft gold, muted pink and deep blue – to minimise noise. We are greeted at the top of the stairs by Sister Sarah, a smiley woman of perhaps fifty, with close-cropped hair, dressed in a navy karate-style trouser suit. I ask her about the monastic day.
‘Mornings are quiet, starting with a group meditation – one person takes it in turns to get the breakfast,’ she smiles. In the afternoons, the work of the house and garden is done, still in silence – a kind of ‘working meditation’. The evening meal is the talking time of the day. ‘Structure is essential,’ she adds. ‘It’s difficult to meditate on your own. There’s a part of us which is lazy and will always find something else to do’.
So far, so like the division of the day into work and prayer followed by the order of Benedictine nuns that I stayed with when researching Christian monasticism.
As we move through the retreat wing, we are impressed by the rooms offered to retreatants: generous-sized and simply but comfortably furnished. Each has a single colour theme: apricot-gold, pale green, powder blue, and can’t resist choosing our favourite room. Mine is the Crane Room, a large room decorated in shades of gold and with a triptych of windows overlooking the town. It reminds me of my own home but without the (psychic) noise created by my busy mind.
The attic rooms where the three resident monastics live are smaller but furnished along similar lines. There is no sign of personal possessions, apart from a few carefully-chosen Buddhist images and statues.
The interior of the monastery, we learn, is maintained according to the Buddhist principle of impeccability, which rules that everything must be kept simple and clean.
Barbara, a mutual acquaintance, a long-standing friend and beneficiary of the monastery tells us about the week-long retreats she does: there’s silence all day, including at meal times (retreatants are given a tray to take to their rooms). But there are three, pre-arranged sessions of twenty minutes with Paul during the week to discuss any concerns that come up through meditation.
Like children, we ask her which room she likes best. The blue one, she replies immediately. But, she adds, to avoid creating an ‘attachment’, retreatants are not allowed to stay in the same room twice. Emanating pride, she shows us the shrine which, she says, is ‘the centre of the monastery’. It’s a large room, almost a small hall, carpeted in rich blue, with rows of chairs facing the golden shrine.
Personally, I prefer my shrine carpeted with grass and with hedges for walls. We sit in several of the monastery’s garden rooms, ending up in the shade of some trees by a large leylandi hedge. On the other side is Mason’s Lane, with its never-ceasing traffic. An emergency vehicle screams past and makes the point about two worlds co-existing side-by-side. When I’m next in that traffic I won’t see this road in the same way again.
Amid the mass of coverage spewed out by my radio the day after the election, I was struck by one voter’s reason for rejecting the incumbent Tory government. It was the Tories’ plans to repeal the hunting ban, he told the interviewer; he just couldn’t stomach them.
The hunting ban, which became law under a Labour government in 2004, put an end to a ritualised blood sport that had become popular, with its red jackets and ceremony, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
In recent elections the Conservatives have generally supported the repeal of the Hunting Act, with May promising a free vote this time around. But with issues like Brexit and Austerity at stake, you would have thought it would be a pretty minor election issue.
Yet hunting seems to have had a significant influence on voters. According to one poll, half the electorate felt that a candidate’s position on hunting would affect the way they voted, while other research suggested that keeping the ban was Labour’s most popular policy. Corbyn no doubt expressed the feelings of many supporters when he characterised hunting as a ‘barbarity’.
Why such strong feelings? I think that hunting is one of those symbolic issues which plays into our sense of who we are and who we want to be. A distaste for violence, along with a growing awareness of the natural world and our impact on it, is central to the values of a modern western society. Add to that the fact that the British, as the enduring popularity of Springwatch shows, are a nation of animal lovers, and it’s clear why the re-legalisation of a bloodsport would be seen as retrograde.
Foxes, as the hunters of live animals prey of choice, seem to arouse particularly strong feelings. In books they tend to appear as either villains or heroes – as the shyster in Beatrix Potter or the Robin Hood-style family provider in Fantastic Mr Fox. These attitudes manifest into equally polarised human behaviours, with tabloids reporting ‘attacks’ by urban foxes on the one hand and extraordinary attempts by animal rescuers to help foxes on the other.
For me, this election campaign has coincided with a chance to experience the world of animal rescue at first hand. At Secret World Rescue Centre I’m learning how orphaned foxes are reared and, once fully grown, returned to the wild.
In particular, I’m following the fortunes of one trio of cubs who illustrate the extremes of attitudes towards foxes. With their (still lactating) mother shot by a neighbour of the land where they had their den, the cubs are now being cared for by other humans. It’s tricky work because human contact needs to be kept to a minimum so that the foxes will remain wild enough to survive in an environment in which humans – ban or no ban – remain a key predator.
If all goes well, by the end of the summer the cubs will be released into the wild, as will, soon afterwards, a short book telling their story.
Meanwhile, I hope that May, for as long as she’s around, will have more on her legislative plate than creating more vulpine orphans.
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This spring, I’ve been getting closer to birds than I ever dreamt of by volunteering at the wildlife rescue centre Secret World.
At this time of year, the centre is full of young birds who need help from humans to make it to adulthood. Generally orphaned and sometimes injured, they will be cared for until, having spent the latter stages of their stay with minimal human contact, they are released back into the wild. Depending on the day, the hospital section where I’ve been working might house groups of blackbirds, pairs of robins and dunnocks, pigeons, a magpie, a couple of crows and a nestful of tits – the range of birds typically found in British gardens.
The love is in the detail. The birds have to be fed at regular intervals – between one and four hours, depending on age – and the details of what they consume recorded in their patient notes. Each is weighed daily, so that weight loss or a failure to gain can alert staff to an underlying medical condition. Birds who share cages are distinguished by Tippex marks on their heads and dubbed ‘White Mark’, ‘Two Spots’ or ‘No Mark’.
Blackbirds are given a mix of tinned cat food, mealworms and bogena – a dry mix of crushed insects – on a paintbrush or a wooden coffee stirrer. Most other species are fed live mealworms or waxworms on tweezers, chopped into beak-sized pieces.
On my first day, my fellow-volunteer teaches me the technique of holding the stick almost vertically above the bird’s head and, when its beak gapes, popping the food in. (Think the ‘and here’s an aeroplane …’ trick when feeding a baby). You might persuade a reluctant bird to gape, she adds, by tickling the sides of its beak with the stick.
Many of the birds are eager to feed, hopping around, literally gaping, and would willingly consume more than the maximum six helpings thought to be good for them at any one time. One group of blackbirds practically queues, those at the back waiting until the front one has had his fill. One of a trio of large, hungry birds seems to work out that his chances are better if he separates himself from the other two, hopping to a part of the cage where I can feed him without competition. As Secret World’s founder Pauline Kidner says: ‘wildlife knows when you’re trying to help it’. Then again, some birds seem not to, fluttering away from the stick in fear.
Feeding a sestet of long-tailed tits is a challenge: they huddle together in their woollen nest. They are truly tiny: their wingspan is half the length of my thumb, a delicate construction of little bones and feathers. I am supposed to chop their waxworms into thirds, but this is tricky as the caterpillars compress their fat bodies at the touch of the scissors, and the chopped segments join up with other bits. But I find that surprisingly large chunks of caterpillar disappear down into the tiny beaks; the nestlings will eat whole insects in nature, after all.
But a bird won’t feed if it’s cold. A newly-arrived blackbird with an injured wing needs warming up, and I’m asked to make a ‘hot glove’ – a glove filled with hot water which will act as a hot water bottle.
Then there are the ‘blobs’, as birds so recently hatched so as not to have grown any feathers. A robin, bald apart from a bit of fluff on his head, was brought in that morning after being attacked by a cat. The general view is that he’s unlikely to survive, but valiant attempts are made every half-hour to get him to take a creamy mix of neonate from a pipette.
Feeding a bird is a peculiarly absorbing activity, one that makes the world around you disappear: briefly, two entirely different species come together in a common project. But, working in the animal hospital, it also strikes me how soon the sense of wonder at being close to wildlife disappears behind the round of tasks involved in being a bird-nurse. The cages must be cleaned and disinfected daily; piles of towels are sent to the laundry, fresh greenery cut to ‘enrich’ the birds’ living quarters … and then it’s time to start feeding again. I imagine nurses faced with a ward full of humans feel similarly.
At the same time, I notice that almost everyone who comes into the hospital rooms talks to or about the birds in affectionate, humanising terms. It’s a sign that, despite the conservation orthodoxy that carers should remain aloof around animals destined for release, a relationship is in progress. Humans are vocal animals, and our biophilia needs expression.
One lunchtime, having moved to another section to work with mammals, I return to the hospital to visit the birds. I am taken by a trio of gold finches, identifiable by the distinctive colouring that is beginning to form out of the browny-grey mass of feathers. ‘So you miss the birds’ observes my former trainer, and invites me to feed them. Two of the finches are keen, but third third one gapes and then turns his head away every time the food comes close. Feeding becomes a two-woman job – my companion holds the reluctant feeder while I proffer the food. He keeps his beak firmly closed. ‘I think he’s blind,’ she says. ‘If he doesn’t eat, he won’t make it.’
At the end of the day I pop back to see how he’s doing, and find that he’s finally fed.
Last weekend I was fortunate enough to do something I’d been wanting to do for some time – attend a death cafe. The death cafe movement, which aims to address the western stigma against talking about death and dying, has been going from strength to strength since the first British death cafe was held in Hackney in 2011. In the South West, writer Sue Brayne has now run over thirty on her canal boat Mystic Moon.
I can’t write about Sue’s death cafe better than Sue herself, so her blog, with her kind permission, is reproduced below.
Well, how long IS it going to take for them to die? Guest post by Sue Brayne
Mystic Moon rocked gently on her moorings as participants climbed aboard, making one participant a trifle uneasy. But we soon settled down to talk about what really matters with Noo Noo, the cat from next door’s boat, purring blissfully on someone’s lap.
Our conversation began by discussing the difference between Eastern and Western attitudes towards death and dying.
One participant had lived in India and Indonesia for many years and is a practising Buddhist. She has only recently returned to the UK, and now works in pastoral care at a local hospice. ‘I am saddened and shocked by people’s attitudes towards death and dying over here,’ she said. ‘There seems to be such reticence to talk about end of life issues. People seem to be so fearful of speaking about it. In Asia death is accepted as part of life. When someone dies the community comes together to celebrate their life, and it’s normal for members of the community to lay out the body as a mark of respect.’
“I think it’s because so few families live together these days in UK,’ said a participant. ‘We have lost community and what community means, especially when people die.’
‘Lack of community and accepting that death is a normal part of life makes people worried about doing the wrong thing or saying something to make things worse,’ said another participant. ‘I agree,’ said someone else. ‘The dying are also afraid of upsetting their relatives, so they hold it together for the family and nothing important is mentioned.’
‘A big problem is that death has become so medicalised,’ said an end of life care worker. ‘People mainly die in hospitals these days because lots of families don’t want to, or can’t cope with caring for a dying relative at home. This is beginning to change, especially for those with cancer because of Macmillan nursing support. But you don’t automatically get that with other terminal illnesses like Motor Neuron disease or heart disease. People have to get on with it the best they can if they want to be cared for at home.’
‘The decision to care for someone at home is a very personal thing,’ said a participant. ‘I’m not that sort of person, so for me it is out of the question. My mother knows this, and I don’t feel bad about it. ‘
‘I really didn’t want to see my father naked,’ said another participant. ‘I never did when he was alive, and I felt really uncomfortable about seeing him naked as he was dying. So I was very relieved he was in hospital being cared for by nurses. They were fantastic.’
Other participants also felt uncomfortable about washing their dying parent, or caring for the body after they had died, although some felt better about doing this for one parent more than the other. ‘I feel okay about caring for my mum,’ said a participant, ‘but I had a very difficult relationship with my father, and I couldn’t imagine wanting to do that for him.’
‘In my experience of working in palliative care,’ said the end of life carer, ‘sons are more reticent to see their mother naked than daughters seeing their father naked. But it does depend on the kind of relationship they have had.’
The end of life carer went on, ‘Because we have co-opted death to professional agencies, and it is now expected that professionals will care for the dying, it removes families for the reality of death or being able to cope with caring for a dying relative. Instead, I have experienced many family members expecting us to stop death from happening. They assume that if we are in the nursing profession our job is to make their relative well again. This might not be what the dying person wants, by the way, because they may be wanting to die but not saying it for fear of upsetting those around them.’
This started a discussion about DNRs (Do Not Resuscitate) statements. The pastoral carer voiced concern about whether DNR requests were respected by medical staff. ‘One patient told me how terrified they were of their DNR request not being followed when they started to die. They said in considerable distress, “I don’t want to be half way up the stairs, and to be brought back down again.”’
‘The difficulty is that these days doctors are terrified of not offering life extending treatments – to show they are doing something to the relatives,’ said another participant. ‘Paranoia about medical mal practice is becoming as bad as it is in the USA.’
‘I had a different experience,’ said someone else. ‘My mother was given a DNR by the doctors, but she didn’t want it. She was terrified of death, so she wanted the hospital to do anything and everything to save her life even though there was nothing they could do for her. When I approached the doctors about this, they just fobbed me off. I found that very distressing. If a patient wants to have life saving treatment, they should be given it without question.’
This turned our conversation yet again to the importance of making an Advance Directive. ‘It’s all very well talking it through with your GP,’ said the end of life carer, ‘but if you don’t actually have it in the house, or beside your bed, it doesn’t mean anything. So if it’s not there and the ambulance is called, they are legally bound to resuscitate you even if you have requested a DNR’.
‘That’s a big issue for paramedics,’ said a participant who works as a front line responder. ‘We have to resuscitate people unless the person has their Advance Directive on them. Which, of course, they don’t if they’ve been knocked down in the street or involved in a car crash.’
This prompted a discussion about the difference between providing solace to those who are terminally ill and those are involved in fatal accidents. ‘There’s often a lot of panic around when there’s been a harrowing incident,’ said the first line responder. ‘So it’s about containing that, and also providing support and care for the person who is probably dying in acute trauma. I often see fear in their eyes, but rather than using a platitude like, “You’re going to be okay,” I just hold their hand and say, “I’m here with you.” It seems to give them comfort. I have discovered over the years that people, even when in major distress, know if you are lying to them.’
‘I agree about the important of being honest with those facing the end of life,’ said the end of life carer. ‘But over the years I have noticed how stressed relatives can be, so they often don’t really connect with what’s going on. I’ve had relatives ask me things like how long is it going to take for Mum or Dad to die because they need to get back to work. They will have a look of alarm on their face and say something like, “I can’t possibly take six weeks off – so how long is it going to be?” I’ve also known some relatives say, “But I’ve got a holiday booked”. Or even, “It would be better for them to die now because it’s the school holidays soon.” I have to explain that dying from a terminal illness is a process not an event, and the person dies when they are ready.’
‘What would help people to deal with the fear of death?’ asked a participant. ‘I don’t know,’ said someone. ‘I was brought up to be terrified of death. My mother was Jewish and used to tell me, “Death is the Enemy.” Over the years I have got used to this fear, and I actually like it now. I think the most important thing to realise is that death is part of the creative process. There are peeks to every facet of life. Eventually everything comes to an end, because that’s what happens.
‘Life is like a wave, said someone else. ‘It’s follows the law of physics, and everyone’s life has a beginning, middle and end to it.’ ‘Can you imagine if life never ended?’ said someone else. ‘How ghastly that would be. Everything would just fall apart. We need to know there will be an ending to value what we have right now, and to give our lives structure and meaning.’
We all agreed with this, and it was a poignant moment for the pop-up Death Café to conclude.
Sue Brayne’s The D Word: Talking about Dying: A Guide for Relatives, Friends and Carers is available on Amazon.
Alex Wright’s short book Exploring Doubt is bang on zeitgeist. Situated firmly in the terrain between religious faith and unbelief, it turns on the thesis that ‘it is in hiddenness, not transparency, that life’s meanings may most eloquently be expressed.’ Along with a growing number of voices pointing to the limitations of a society which defines meaning in terms of the certain and the measurable, Wright calls for a recognition of ‘the practical value of mystery’. In this, the most literal of times, he argues that people ‘have lost sight of how to refer to the divine analogically, with meaningful – and therefore truthful – reference to symbol, metaphor and creative approximation.’
Whereas most modern thinkers of agnosticism tend to look for the locus of non-religious meaning in art – see Alain de Botton, among others – Wright choses two issues which we twenty-first century folk typically struggle with: the breakup of a relationship and the loss of a home. Drawing on his own experience of divorce and concomitant move from his beloved landscape of Norfolk, he illustrates how loss and uncertainty are bound up with the birth of new life and creation of new meanings. It’s an argument by analogy: as in human life, so in the experience of the divine.
As an exercise in experiential theology on similar territory to The Secret Life of God, I found plenty to enjoy and agree with. But, for me, the main interest of the book lies in what it says about the direction of contemporary non-fiction. Part academic essay, part memoir, and with some sections of beautiful nature writing, Exploring Doubt is an example of a trend that has blossomed over the last decade of books crossing conventional genre boundaries. The best examples of this genre-weaving non-fiction take a ‘home genre’ such as travel (The Hare With Amber Eyes), or a starting subject such as gardening (The Morville Hours), and work out from there, expanding to include other styles and subjects to create a read that is more than the sum of its parts.
The result is the emergence of a capacious form of non-fiction eminently suited to exploring modern meaning-making: a diverse, evolving field that spans human relationships, nature, self-actualization and spiritual growth, articulating them from different perspectives and in different ways. This blend of thought and lived experience is what traditionally defined the essay, a form which has, since its heyday, been sieved through the specialisms that confine books to specific categories and spurred into narrative by the popularity of the novel and is now undergoing a creative renaissance.
I’m not sure how successfully Wright’s book melds together its constituent generic elements; its form certainly owes more to the academic essay than narrative non-fiction. But it’s a welcome addition to a vibrant literary form which expresses the questioning, questing character of the other twenty-first century.
Alex Wright’s Exploring Doubt is available on Hive.
Sometimes it’s hard, to misquote Tammy Wynette, to be in publishing. There’s so much talk about the opportunities opened up by the digital revolution, but most of it is set against a background of change in which the struggle for readers and sales is greater than ever.
But for me, there’s one digital-age development that stands out as an unqualified opportunity: the rise of the midform. Shorter than a book but longer than an article – generally 5000-30000 words – the digital short is becoming an increasingly popular format for writing historically ruled out by the economics of publishing full-length print books. Now pieces whose natural length meant they saw the light of day in collections of short stories or essays, if at all, have found their form.
It’s not hard to see why the digital short suits the needs of the times. For writers and publishers, it requires an investment of time and resources proportionate to the likely rewards of certain projects; for indy authors it accords with the marketing practice of selling multiple, linked products and ‘cross-fertilising’ sales with giveaways. And it offers on-the-go readers the satisfaction of finishing something on their tablets within a train journey or two.
In non-fiction in particular, the emergence of the digital short represents a liberating trend. Figures on the decline of authors’ incomes show that, on average, writers of non-fiction earn half of the revenues from fiction, with travel and academic writing paying the lowest of all. It’s not surprising, then, that the digital short is finding favour in academic publishing, providing scholars and presses with a handy format to get research out into the world quickly, and in a form more accessible to readers than a full-length monograph.
In my own genres of travel writing and reportage, there are signs that the digital short may provide part of an answer to the challenges. Traditional travel writing is notoriously consumptive of time and money – the research and trips involved means that a full-length book usually takes years to produce, and that’s without counting the publication and marketing processes. And twenty-first century readers have many ways of learning about far-flung places other than investing hours reading lengthy armchair accounts of journeys by others. The crisis in journalism, meanwhile, has cut pages and budgets for foreign affairs, with the result that there are few outlets in which to publish in-depth writing about the wider world.
In this context, an economical digital read – short in publishing terms, longform if viewed from journalism – is a less daunting proposition. The ‘reporting’ category of Kindle Singles is host to pieces of reportage that would never find their way into a news paper or website. An early success story comes from Libya with The Shores of Tripoli, while A Syrian Wedding reveals how life goes on amid one of the world’s most intractable conflicts. Beyond Amazon, a range of sites are bringing the articles that magazines now rarely print to a readership hungry for longer reads. My own first foray into midform led me to hope that the ‘travella’ – my name for a midform travelogue – may help to save the genre from extinction.
To be sure, the digital short throws up marketing challenges of its own. As Joseph Esposito points out in this excellent piece, the original short is particularly hard to publicise because, as a standalone, it has to make its way amid a sea of other digital-only publications with any connection to what’s already out there. Hence the appeal of ‘chunking’ – the breaking up of a full-length book into publications on specific subjects which can then be marketed to niche readerships.
Chunking was a natural next step for me when I released sections of The Secret Life of God on monasticism, Sufism and Druidry for readers interested in particular aspects of British religiosity. The approach effectively constitutes a sibling trend of post-publication serialisation which, as award-winning author Victoria Noe describes, helped her find readers for her niche writing on grieving for friends.
But, the benefits of niche marketing aside, there is no silver bullet for publishers of midform. As Esposito points out: ‘What’s important to realize about shorts is that they are native to digital media … Good creative work takes time. The Internet may be impatient, but we must allow creative people the time to develop a new publishing ecosystem.’