Ashburnham 07

Photographs and writing from creative writing holiday at Ashburnham Place, E Sussex, October 2007

Left to right: Peter, Debra, Pennie, Gill, Marjorie, Janet, Stacey, Rachel, Susan, Judith, Colin, June (half hidden!), Tricia, Maggie, Sheila, Bea, Mandy, Isobel, Elaine, Krystyna.

There were 24 of us in all but some are missing from the photograph

We looked at the themes of WAYS, MEANS and LEVELS and people did some great and varied writing, some of which is beginning to appear further down this page. Could the rest of you who were there please send something in?!

Meanwhile here is a picture featuring levels on the lake as the mist rose through the trees early on our first morning at Ashburnham

Please note that the copyright of all work remains with the individual authors, who give permission for their pieces to be read out loud. If you want to duplicate one in another way, email Chris who will ask the author.

WAYS

Setting Out on a Journey by Tony Stayne.

What I can remember is -
steaming breath
in the cold morning air;
the stamping of studded boots
to get the blood back into frozen toes.
The knot of NCOs planning our discomfort.

Some poor chap would have to carry all his own heavy kit,
his rifle too
and the platoon’s so-called
light machine gun.
Light was hardly the best word in this situation.

“Fall in!”
We fell in.
“You soldier, take this.”
I might have guessed it would be me.
Should I sling it over my left shoulder
to balance my rifle on my right,
or carry it thigh-high by its handle
changing hands every few hundred yards?

What I can remember is -
the mixture of smiles from my comrades,
some kindly, sympathetic,
others amused or challenging,
one or two gloating.

“Face the front!”
We faced the front.

“Only 30 miles to go lads so let’s have you.
By the left, quick march.”

*************************************************

Mountain Walk by Isobel Poole

Clad with walking boots, rucksacks, compasses and maps; I was full of excitement and anticipation at the climb that lay ahead. Phew! Can I really make that? After all, it's been a year since my feet last set forth on these foothills.

Looking upwards, the rugged peaks set against the azure blue sky beckon; I catch a glimpse of the wonderful views that will soon come into view and pace myself to reach the goal ahead.

Suddenly, blue skies change to dark clouds; rain threatens. After the initial excitement, the way ahead seems uncertain. The solid rocky path is no longer easy to negotiate.

Grasping the sharp, craggy rocks on either side of the path, I struggle to find the footpaths carved in the rocks.

Fighting with the dense thorns that seem to spring out of the unwelcoming rocks, I feel my ascent is being blocked.

Can I really continue? There is now no end in sight.

The wind and rain exhaust my spirits; my limbs feel aching and heavy. Yet, I have no choice but to continue.

I catch a glimpse of the now blue tarn ahead; the sun is beginning to break through the dark clouds. The path starts to plateau; the views are magnificent. It's been worth the climb!

The gasps for breath and struggles of the past hours now become gasps at the beauty of God's Creation.

My feet now feel secure and I can wonder at the beauty and majesty of the mountains and be assured that there has been a purpose in my toil.

*********************************************************

Running! by Judith Standing

(Based on the line “Running away from what you do not understand” taken from the song Mysterious Ways by U2.)

She cautiously crossed the road, unhooked the gate which lay as a divide between tarmac and field and looking back over her shoulder for barely a second she ran, free as a bird. She ran until out of breath, panting and almost fighting for life she collapsed to the ground. Her eyes closed, she smiled.

This is the way to live; running towards the unknown, leaving the past behind, bringing the present forward and looking towards the future. She could feel the longing in her heart and she knew that this was the way for her.

Today she had begun to understand a little of what she had previously run from. From now onwards she was going to run towards what she did not understand, because now she knew she needed to understand. She needed to understand his way for her life. She would run towards that.

**********************************************************************

UNDER WAY by Tricia Elms

Travel far, it’s a long way to go,
the destination lures me but progress is too slow.

The earth is turning, the days move on,
if I walk from west to east I’ll quickly meet the sun
and so I see, my journey’s just begun.

My heart is yearning for distant lands,
but like an athlete on the walker, I only seem to stand.

So why pursue the distant dream when all I need is here?
Just savour every moment, then my vision will be clear.

THE HIDDEN WAY by Tricia Elms

When the words won’t come
and the brain is numb
when you can’t sing your song
and the way seems long,

don’t turn away,
don’t weave and sway,
new light is near
Yes ! near, very near - - -

MARY DIDN’T HAVE A LITTLE LAMB by Mark Picken

Travelling down to Bethlehem to register God’s Son in His line
Mary and Joseph the chosen ones to carry this flask of new wine
Poor and confused they trusted God, though the rich at the inn said ‘No space’
He gave them a place with the animals – the King was born bearing disgrace

Mary didn’t have a little lamb to sacrifice at the temple
Yet in this simple girl’s gentle hands, God’s Banner was being unfurled
Mary didn’t have a little lamb to sacrifice at the temple
But she was cuddling the Lamb of God, His perfect gift to the world

Sitting on a local hillside, humble shepherds guarding flocks in the night
Frozen with fear by a vision, of angels praising God in His light
‘In a manger you will find your Saviour, Immanuel is born as a boy’
They went to the King empty handed but left praising God with great joy

MEANS

MEANS by Stacey Burchell

(Pineapples symbolising prosperity appear on plinths in the grounds of the former stately home of Ashburnham)

Pineapple raised to the plinth
Soaking in a glaze of sun,
Uprooted by the creaking pulley,
Carving cost upon the stone
Bends the back, whips the muscle;
While you strain the day is long.
Spend your sweat - your coin is loyal
When there is bread for everyone.

*****************************************************

MEANS – write about something which is happy and sad at the same time.

Michael by Tony Stayne

(Or Something Worse is Bound to Happen
When Your Hopes are High.)

“When is he coming Michael?
“Tonight Sir.”
“What time?”
“Dunno Sir but he’s coming tonight.
He’s come from Jamaica specially.”
“All the way from Jamaica?”
“Yes Sir - I think he’s got other stuff to do too.
Can’t wait Sir.”

“When did you last see him?”
“Dunno, I was about three – just before my mum died Sir,
ages ago when we lived in Jamaica.”
”Is he going to take you out or is he coming to The Hollies to see you?”
“Dunno Sir, Val says he’ll probably take me out for
some fish and chips or something.”
“That should be good, it will give you time to be together
and to have a proper talk.
Have you got a photo of him?”
“No Sir, he was going to send me one but it never came.
I’ve got a picture in my locker of me mum and dad’s wedding,
my mum’s holding me
wrapped up in a blanket.
My dad’s quite tall Sir,
he could have played basket-ball for Jamaica but they were jealous of him and they wouldn’t let him play
so he left.”
“That’s a shame Michael,
perhaps that’s why you’re good at games.”
“Sir, my dad knows one of the Charlton players and he’s going to ask him to watch me playing and if I’m good enough I might get a trial for the Juniors.
I could be a football star Sir, ha ha!”
“That would be good Michael.”
“Yeah!”
“Good night Sir.”
“Good night Michael.”

***

“Morning Sir.”
“Hey Michael, how did it go last night?”
“He never turned up Sir.
Val says she’s going to write to him
‘cos he done the same last year as well Sir.”
“I bet he had something really important he had to do Sir.”
“I expect so Michael.”

******************************************************************

Some Disturbing Reflections on Science by Chris Poole

Provoked by a quote from George Braque: "Art is meant to disturb, science reassures"

When I was a young boy I once threw stones at a wasp nest. I was stung several times and haven't tried it since. But it taught me that provocation can be a means to an end! If you want to see someone react then throw a stone at them or give them a prod. And I feel like Braque has done just that to me.

I believe that science, like the best of art does many things; it can be surprising, shocking even, awesome, humbling, revealing the one through whom all things were made. Science is a path of exploration, of imagination, and of discovery beyond our imagining. And I think at times it will seriously disturb our preconceptions of the world that we live in.

Braque may have a point. If science is seen simply as a list of formulae and as something that neatly answers all our questions then there is not much room to be disturbed. He may have been thinking of the scientist Kelvin, who once announced that, "There is nothing new to be discovered in physics now. All that remains is more and more precise measurement". He was quickly trumped by Einstein and the pioneers of Quantum Physics.

So how disturbing can science be? I want to answer this question by describing an area of science - the world of atoms - in a way that the non-scientist can appreciate. This is not easy for the simple reason that in the world of atoms bizarre things happen which are almost impossible to imagine, let alone describe. Nevertheless perhaps a flavour of this world can be gained from football matches and sandy beaches!

Let us travel to Atomland. It is Saturday so we'll drop in on a football match. The Hydrogens are playing at home against the Heliums. We arrive at the Stadium. There is a row of turnstiles. Electrons are passing through them into the game. Let's join them. But there is something strange here: it's possible to go through more than one turnstile at a time, several of them if we want. Stranger still, if we go through one turnstile we can go to any seat. But if we go through more than one turnstile at the same time we can't get to some seats.

Apparently when the club installed cameras on the turnstiles to see who was going through them, the ability to use more than one turnstile at a time completely disappeared. This was something that happened only when no one was looking!

Can't get any stranger can it? Let's see. We'll find a seat at the Hydrogen end. Hang on though, some of the electrons seem to have neat trick: they are sitting at both ends of the stadium at the same time. There's even one over there with a couple of seats in the centre as well. Great way to see all the goals.

So it's the kick-off. Score is nil-all. The Hydrogens lead the attack. The ball is an electron, passed between the atoms. Funny how my eyes are playing up; somehow it seems at times as though several players have the ball at the same time. The Hydrogens continue the attack. The ball is centred. A good strike. The crowd roars. It's one-all. ONE ALL! But that was the first goal; the ball seems to have gone into both goals at the same time.

Great match. Time to relax. Now let's join Lithium on the golden sandy beach in Atomland doing what he loves best - watching the waves come in and guessing where they will break. You see, waves in Atomland are not like waves we normally see : here a wave breaks in only one place on the beach and it's impossible to guess where on the beach it will break. Lithium watches the incoming wave sweep in across the bay. Foam flecks across the bow as it races in. The crest of the wave rises in the shallow water along the length of the beach, and then just at the last moment vanishes everywhere except in one place, where the full force of the wave crashes upon the shore. The following wave does the same, except that it breaks in a different place.

Now how disturbing is that?

***************************************************

THE WAYS AND MEANS TO BE MEAN by Debra Elsdon

It was not out there for everyone to see, but everyone felt it all the same. Breathed it in; tasted it. It revealed itself in not quite enough sugar in the teatime cake; the silence after the end of a meal when the friendly enquiry ‘Seconds, anyone?’ would have been most welcome. It was present in the hem of a pair of trousers taken up just a tad too much; the hair clipped over the ears a touch too close.

The actions of a bountiful woman who served her family from dawn to dusk with not a word of complaint or censure. Yet they felt famished, parched the threadbare blanket of care and attention chafed. And they felt ungrateful for feeling so. Asking nothing for herself she was a martyr, a saint. The very devil in a striped blue and white apron.

Everything she said was coded, so that for the children:
‘Careful, I’ve got floury hands,’ actually meant ‘No, you can’t have a hug.’
‘It’s getting late,’ meant ‘’There will be no stories tonight.’
For her husband:
‘Your slippers are by the back door,’ meant
‘You’ve mucked up my nice clean floors once too often,’
And:
‘My goodness, is that another library book you’re starting?’
translated as:
‘You’ve ruined my life and you will pay, pay, pay.’

How they had come to learn this code was easy to explain a foreign language may be acquired, even without grammatical texts and specialised teaching, out of necessity. And it was necessary for them all to learn her language, her codes, the meaning behind say changing the sheets so often that you never got into an entirely comfortable bed. Starchy folds would catch you in tender places and remind you that you were beholden, cared for within an inch of your life by a forensically thorough authority.

They never asked ‘why’ there was no vocabulary for the question in her coded behaviour; she did not ask to be understood, she never asked anything but she got it anyway.

Fear and then an uneasy dislike grew into a shame-faced heartfelt, bone deep loathing. She lapped this up like a cat does cream and grew fat on it.

****************************************************

THE MEANS OF GRACE

Values by Marjorie Kiddle

Have you ever been struck by the diversity of treasures brought to TV’s ‘Antiques Road Show’ for the experts to value? Sometimes these have been long forgotten, found in the loft, the garden shed, or some other unlikely place. Delicate porcelain has been in daily use, and wonderfully survived casual treatment! Valuable works of art, exquisite jewellery, finely wrought silverware, beautifully bound books, and historical records excite the connoisseurs. It is amusing to see the amazed, dumbfounded expressions on the owners’ faces when they are given totally unexpected high valuations for their possessions. However, the value of all these wonderful things is transient. ‘We can’t take them with us!’

Have we thought of our value? We may think we’re of little worth because of a bad start in life, or failure to reach our full potential, or have been badly damaged by life’s buffeting. On the other hand, we could be successful high-flyers, own a lovely home and choice possessions, but feel dissatisfied, searching for inward fulfilment. What a blessing to know that it’s not our ‘failure’ or ‘success’ in life which determine our value to God. Each of us is unique, our inmost being fashioned by God, the Master Craftsman to whom we will always be of priceless worth. (These thoughts were triggered off by the lyric ‘Grace’ by U2 – try Googling for them!)

Perfect grace comes to us in the person of Jesus, who came ‘Full of Grace and Truth’. He came to take the blame for the things we do wrong; to cover the shame, remove the stain of things that have spoiled our lives. He sees how beautiful we are and holds us in his hand like a precious pearl. We can receive all this lasting treasure as a free gift.

Grace is ‘Great Riches At Christ’s Expense’.

***************************************************

The ways and means to a limerick by Judith Standing

There once was a lady called Chris,
To be a writer was all that she wished.
A story one day was thrust in her way
‘A Giant in Ghana’ had started her list.

So to Ghana she went right away
To tell the story that had paved her way
The publishers they liked it, it was printed so fast, (Note from Chris - you must be joking!)
It made her an author that day. (Further note from Chris: time has been warped considerably here!)

So Chris, she continued to write
She never took leave or took flight
But God had other ideas; he ran it past her ears
And now she teaches others to write.

So to Ashburnham we all went and trot
To hear Chris in the morning slot
Her inspiration was given, our writing had risen
And now we all have a new plot.

Chris showed us the ways and the means
To develop our writing with ease
The level we were didn’t matter to her
As long as our faith didn’t cease!

LEVELS

Ducklings by Tony Stayne (Write about something funny)

One of the most satisfying moments I can recall during almost thirty years of teaching in Catholic Primary Schools was the involuntary reaction from both boys and girls when, having ordered a dozen day old ducklings for the children to study in class, I placed the box in which they had arrived on my desk and lifted off the lid.

There was the most beautiful, delicate, vulnerable bundle of exquisitely fluffy, wide eyed, soft brown miniature bird life I, or the children had ever seen. My gasp was as genuine as theirs. From that moment something jelled in the class and I do believe we were never, ever quite the same again.

We kept the ducklings in a big watertight area at the back of my large classroom. Children were begging to observe them, feed them, draw them, write about them, discuss them, weigh them and measure them. This is it! I thought. I could get a book out of this on integrated studies – Maths – English – Natural Science – R.E. You name it, the whole curriculum could be taught via ducklings.

Perhaps this is what God has been planning for me, to introduce into urban schools a new naturalistic approach to teaching which could be carried out within the classroom. However I remembered the temptations in the desert and tried not to get carried away by my own genius. But worse temptation was to come!

As the ducklings began to produce what seemed to me to be disproportionate amounts of wet mud and very smelly droppings, their influence spread rapidly through the school. Teachers heading for a well-earned rest and a cuppa in the Staff Room, children trying not to run on their way out to the playground, even people passing in the street came to know of the existence of our ducklings. The result was that the cleaners in the evening could not cope and I had to allow children to take the ducklings home each evening and bring them back fed and groomed next morning.

One particular morning I was calling the register and when I came to Francoise’s name; she appeared to be absent. However at that moment I heard a sniffle from the open doorway and there was Francoise, holding in her hands a small fluffy bundle, tears running down her cheeks. From one end of the bundle hung a long fluffy neck and a duckling’s head with eyes closed.

The whole class “Oooed!” and Francoise advanced towards my desk. “Oh dear, whatever happened Francoise?”

“He’s dead Mr. Stayne. He fell into his cornflakes this morning and drowned.”

The children, especially Francoise, were inconsolable.

I took the dead duckling in my hands and looked carefully at it, as I did so I noticed a very slight movement in its gullet, a kind of feeble swallowing movement as if it had swallowed a large piece of bread. Where there’s life there’s hope, I thought. Thank God for clichés, sometimes they come in handy.

I gently squeezed the duckling’s body, trying a duckling kind of artificial respiration – nothing! Next I thought I should try mouth to mouth, but how? A milk straw was soon inserted into its beak and pushed gently further in. I blew a few small puffs of air into the straw and after a few moments the little body jerked and the class “Oooed” again. Somebody shouted, “It’s alive – Mr.Stayne has brought it back to life!”

I wrapped it in a soft cloth and laid it on a radiator. Francoise was smiling from ear to ear adoringly at me. Gradually the little creature recovered, almost to normality.

But now there was talk in the playground about the possibility that I was really Jesus come again, rumours which reluctantly I felt I had to scotch by saying that I was more like Doctor Doolittle who did remarkable things with animals. However, my standing with the children shot up – although it wasn’t quite the same with the staff.

The little duckling was at a grave disadvantage from then on and was finally adopted and taken home for good by a rather quiet boy called Robert. Its disabilities were rather inconvenient as it had suffered minor brain damage from its ordeal. When it tried to walk forward it found to its surprise that it went backwards, which was frustrating when it was trying to head for its breakfast cornflake dish.

But the power of love triumphed and Robert loved it from the depths of his little boy’s heart. The last I heard was that it was still alive well into Robert’s Secondary School years.

I couldn’t have given it the same love and attention – it would have driven me quackers!

**************************************

LEVELS by Tricia Elms

Where love is, there is God .

Some Christians experience more love and caring from their neighbours than they do from their church fellowship.

If, in essence, evangelising is spreading the Love of God .ie, making his nature better known and experienced by others; then what should these Christians do?

Invite their neighbours to come to church?

Invite their church friends to come and get to know the neighbours?

Who is evangelising whom?

Is it possible that many non pew - sitters are making a better job of spreading the love of God around in their communities than many of the churchgoers?

This raises two questions:

Where is God ?

Where do we go from here?

“ Life is Beautiful” by Tricia Elms

   Lift the eyes and the heart will follow,
   tall trees
   spreading
   ‘cross the summer sky;

my heart is rejoicing
I’m a comet not a tombstone,

the ‘world’ is my inheritance,
but I move on,

I am free !


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