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Lenten musings - can't, won't, don't

When I say I can't eat something, I know what I mean. It's usually not "eat" so much as "digest", and I mean if I swallow that, there will be dire consequences. Perhaps not so dire as when my friend F eats peanuts, or A has wheat, but certainly messier than when S has chocolate.

But I don't mean that I've signed up to a set of rules that include not eating certain foods at certain times, or in certain combinations. If I want to say that I belong to a religion that believes some behaviours are wrong, I would like to think I express that by saying "We don't ...", "I won't ...", rather than "We're not allowed ..." or "I can't ...".

I do or do not do these things because of something I believe to be right, not because an old bloke inna dress said so, or my family would be ashamed if I were seen transgressing.

Some of the things Methodists used to agree about have lost their vibrancy - my grandmother wouldn't even have proper vinegar or Marmite in the house, as part of the temperance movement. But the links between coalmine and factory owners and the brewing industry aren't as powerful now, women have access to money to feed and clothe their children without having to fight for it on pub doorsteps, there's a greater expectation of sobriety in the workplace and in public.

Keeping the Sabbath isn't on the agenda as such anymore, but there is a growing understanding of the need to protect workers and families from the slavery of 24/7 zero hours contracts, of the need for individuals to have protected and structured downtime.

Gambling is still up there, and that's getting much worse. Constant adverts for online betting and bingo, televised poker and horse racing, and the use of lotteries to fundraise for charity. The latter is one I do find difficult to deal with - I've got an online Lotto account though I rarely use it anymore, and I do understand that it's an easy way for smaller charities to build income and support. Prize lotteries, tombolas, sweepstakes and pools, are all things you can't avoid in a modern workplace. And who can resist the Novacon raffle?

But these are my moral dilemmas. I own them, and I own the behaviour I choose to express my beliefs. The church provides me with impetus, support, information and ways to reach out to people who are having more personal battles with these issues. It's all a bit more practical than Nanna's Sunday Rules, and "Won't" is so much more positive than the punitive "Can't".
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Lenten musings - getting ready for death

The three pillars of Lent are fasting, penitence and charitable giving. The Muslim structure of Ramadan is far closer to the Christian origins of this, by the way. Ours has downgraded to denying yourself something you like to consume. There used to be an element of giving the money you saved to a charity, but I haven't seen anyone naming a good cause along with their lists of luxury items.

Like most medieval church traditions, it's not about this life, but the next. Preparing your soul for death was kind of the main goal of living. And it was a world where death was ever present - in your home, on the street, in any art that you happened to see, in any liturgy that you could understand. Women knew how to lay out bodies, men dug graves. It carried on for a long long time - only just this week there was a Facebook post showing 19th century family photos including dead children. Not having to deal with dead people is a new luxury in our lives.

Like most modern luxuries, we can't afford it. There are so many people on my timelines who are losing family and friends, and are suffering alone. Distance, smaller families, variations in care, ignorance of processes and terminology, inability to talk to the person who is dying.

So, here's an idea. For Lent, give up Not Facing Death. Make a will (not forgetting to include charities). Declutter your life - do you want your relatives to have to sort out your finances, your treasured tat collections? Talk to people about what you want to have happen to your corpse, and find out what they would like too. Make funeral celebration playlists. I read somewhere once that in Thailand, funeral goers are given privately printed recipe booklets of the deceased's specialities. Volunteer at a hospice. Offer respite care and support to a friend or neighbour. Contact local veteran organisations (like the British Legion) to ask about paying respects at funerals that might otherwise be sparsely attended.

Do just one of these things, and you can have a bar of chocolate. The good kind.
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Lenten markers - music

I really must strip my UK Godspell cast album cassette into a more modern format. It's very very old, and I'd like to listen to it without damaging it. I can't find a version of it online, even for ready money. I clearly remember going to see it, starring David Essex, Julie Covington, and Jeremy Isaacs.

(The Broadway version is all over the place, but it's ALL WRONG.)
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Lenten markers - John's birthday

Not always in Lent, but still.

42 years ago today, johannes_d mixed a jug of Black Velvet (champagne and Guinness) to celebrate his birthday. And has done so virtually every birthday since. Some have been missed because of illness (hospitals don't like it), some have taken a bit of finagling (con hotel breakfast managers can take a LOT of persuasion). Friends are often invited, but if you come you have to have at least a mouthful of the potion.

I particularly remember my first John's birthday, which was 25 years ago. Mainly because I was painfully aware of what was to come in the morning. We wanted to get married on the 26th May, which was a Saturday that year. And therefore the most popular day of the year for register office weddings, and a half day with a seriously limited number of slots. In those days, a decree went out you had few alternative venues, and you had to book in person. Booking opened three calendar months beforehand, and the office had warned us to get there early. As in while it was still dark and blowing a gale and you had to shelter against a wall behind the couple WHO HAD STILL GOT THERE BEFORE YOU early.

Lent meditation - as we're getting older, birthdays bring a greater sense of mortality. Not just for the celebrant, but the world around us passing away. Cards and presents that don't come anymore, phone calls and meetups that used to be routine, people at the feast who are only there by the grace of God and modern medicine.
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Lent

We didn't "do" Lent when I was a child. The symbolism of it, from Ash Wednesday through to the Stations of the Cross was a bit, well, Papist. In Mam's Austerity household there wasn't a lot to give up, anyway. We usually spent Lent in England and Easter in Wales, so we missed out on the continuity in a worship community. My first real experience of that was in 1987 when I moved back from America and Mam and Dad were living in Llangattock and belonged to the village Church in Wales.

The first years I spent with John we went to the Norfolk Broads on our boat Penny Star at Easter, and then I got involved in running Eastercons and that was that. For 20 years my Lenten markers were publication dates, hotel booking deadlines, programming workshops. Themes for meditation depended on what current crises were sweeping the fandom world - gender parity, clomping feet of nerdism, bondage, harassment, what to do about the masquerade.

Now I'm free of all that, and would like a Lenten calendar that is as much a part of my year as my Advent one. Advent for me isn't all happy happy joy joy. It is bracketed by Mam's death at the end of November and Dad's during January, for a start. But the calendar includes the kittens' Gotcha Day, our now annual Girlz Trip to Chatsworth for the themed tour, as well as the less secular markers.

The Christian path through Lent is well signposted, there's something nearly every day. Otherwise? Depends a bit on when Easter actually is. There's Six Nations Rugby, of course, and the Easter tours. John's birthday. Mam's snowdrops, which are flowering in a big pot outside my new house front door. Other signs of spring in the new garden - so far there are crocuses in flower, and a lot of thrusting greenery. It won't be nice, but there'll be the anniversary of the Gang's first kill in their new territory. If it's a late Easter, the anniversary of the death of Poppy, our last dog, which was also when I first joined LJ.

I'm sure other things will come in time.
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The Rest of my Life

Today I am 55. I have just served on my last convention committee. I spent quite a lot of Lent thinking about what my life would look like now - how much I wanted to stay connected with fandom, what I wanted to do on a daily basis, project priorities, health issues, all sorts.

So my birthday present to me today is ... a fridge. I need a fridge because as of this evening I am moving into our "new" house in Halfway. There's a lot of work that needs doing to it, and I will come back here to camp out while that's actually happening. But the garden and sun room call to me, the lack of clutter, of TV, even of a cooker. I'll go to and fro on visits, for laundry and such like. John and I never dated, so we're looking forward to how arranged evenings (and illicit-feeling overnight stays) might work. He is staying here with his Worldcon office and the Cats. We decided it would be unfair to move the boys to a building site, especially as in its current state there are no catflaps.

I like jumping off cliffs, and I haven't done a really big one for nearly 25 years.
  • Current Mood: optimistic
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Signal Boost - Memento mori

Originally posted by la_marquise_de_ at Memento mori
This is long, but please read this. And, if you like it, please pass it on.

I have said this before: I have said this for years, if Baroness Thatcher is given a state funeral, I will leave the country for the day, because what her policies did, what her belief did, what her legacy did, is doing to this day are things that are anathema to me.
But we must not speak ill of the dead. (Not unless they are poor or powerless or long gone or far away. Not unless they are of no use to our masters, the oligarchs of wealth whose trans-national networks run our world.) And I did not, in her declining years, wish Baroness Thatcher harm -- dementia is harsh enough. I wished her only obscurity. It was her legacy I wanted -- I still want -- to see dead.
And that legacy lives on, on blunderbuss, cudgel limbs, on heavy crushing feet marching one and on over the poor, the disabled, the disenfranchised, the outsiders, the misfits, those with mental health issues, the disadvantaged, the underprivileged, those without important friends or influence, women, QUILTBAG people, people without UK citizenship, the powerless. The hunger of holy free market capitalism for new flesh is limitless, and it has no feelings. It has no empathy. It has only the drive to acquire, to grow, to possess -- and the devil take all but the winners.
Alive or dead, Baroness Thatcher doesn't matter any more, because this great devouring ideology outlives her, infests the policies and actions of our masters on all sides of the political spectrum. It gave birth to the over-heated banking bubble and its consequences. It trailed our double dip recession on its wings. It lies heady on every word uttered by Cameron and Osborn and Gove and Duncan Smith, just as it pervaded those of Blair and Blunkett. It handed over utilities and hospitals, newspapers and infrastructure to the moneyed few and left them free to treat those things as simply sources of profit. It left them free to plunder, to cheat, to evade taxes and responsibilities -- and to publish as truths self-serving (power-serving) lies about benefit claimants and immigrants, trans-people and asylum seekers, lone-parent families and people with serious mental health issues.
It tells us that there is no money for schools, to help the poor and those who are socially, physically or psychologically disadvantaged, though there is money to help banks. There is no money for compassion, for help, for support, but there is money for tax cuts for the rich. There is no money for low earners or the unemployed -- and these groups must be pursued and measured and harassed to ensure they get even less, whatever the cost --- but the cost of pursuing those individuals and companies who evade and avoid tax is far too high.
And there is £10 million available to pay for a ceremonial funeral for a multi-millionaire.
And we must not complain or protest, because we must not speak ill of the dead. We must accept censorship, because we must not upset or offend.
Though it's fine to upset and offend the relatives of the dead poor, the dead weak, the dead powerless. It's fine to upset and offend those who still live in the communities that Thatcher's policies, Thatcher's legacy have destroyed. It's fine to upset and offend those who have suffered through care in the community, lost relatives to superbugs created by the outsourcing of hospital cleaning, lost people to poverty, seen sisters, daughters, mothers abused and killed because the refuges were closed. It's fine to insult and offend victims of domestic abuse, asylum seekers, the homeless, the unemployed, those driven to illness through year-on-year 'efficiency gains' and institutional bullying in the public sector, those burdened with debt due to student loans and fees, to wages that are below the living minimum.
Those people don't matter. They aren't influential. They need to remember their place -- which is in silent acceptance, without protest.
I am not downloading songs. I am not dancing in the streets. There is nothing to celebrate in this death. But I am protesting, loud and clear. But not about the memory of Baroness Thatcher. I'm protesting about the insult this ceremonial funeral represents to all those her legacy has harmed and still harms.

This is how.
I don't have £10 million. I don't have anything approaching it. But I can find some spare money, and, on Wednesday, when Cameron is trying to ensure he stays in power by pandering to the right, I'm going to make a donation to a charity that works to help those groups that Thatcherite economics and Thatcherite lack of compassion is harming, day on day. And I'd like you to join me. You get to choose your charity -- there are many to choose from -- Shelter, MIND, Help The Aged, women's refuges, charities that work with underprivileged children, MENCAP, charities that help those with physical challenges, charities working with asylum seekers, any group anywhere that is fighting to undo or at least mitigate the effects of Thatcherite 'I'm All Right Jack, Greed is Good, cut help for the weak and give more to the strong' policies. I'm going to be donating to MIND, because Care in the Community was wrapped up as inclusive but turned out to mean little more than abandonment and abuse, because mental health services have faced 30 years+ of cuts and these cuts kill.

Please join me.
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The Pillowcase Gang

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The Pillowcase Gang, a set on Flickr.

These two guys were tied in a pillowcase and left on the street. They luckily came into the care of Rain Rescue, which is a splendid small local charity. Now they're about 11/12 weeks old, and are testing out our living room to see if it makes an acceptable forever home. Flynn is sulking.