history

Walking our own transformation

Posted on Updated on

A walk in this part of the world is a reminder of two apparently contradictory things: the extraordinary impact of human society in the spaces it occupies and the fragile thinness of the landscapes that result.

A ‘landscape’ has long been understood as something difficult to define – its character, quality and boundaries all dependent upon perception, hence inevitably read and experienced differently by each person who encounters it.  What is common in definitions of the term is the truth that landscape in general is the result of interaction between natural and human forces.  This is as clear in Malhamdale as anywhere.

Here the frenetic dance between nature’s will and human craft shapes everything.  Here the very materials of human occupation seem to burst directly from the ground, while the spaces carved by ice, water and wind define the pattern of infrastructure and settlement.  The resulting complexity experienced as ever-changing crazily segmented vistas is as bewildering as it is mesmerising.

The part of the picture that always moves me the most lies between the houses and roads nestled in the deep of the valley and the majestic crags and hilltops of its heights.  In the ancient lynchets and stone walls we see the bones of a civilisation – our civilisation, apparently clinging by its fingernails to the surface of the earth.

In the past few years, the precariousness of the human-nature dance has become clear to most of us, as the human role in the dance becomes ever more dominant.  The consuming fury of our civilisation is laying waste to ever greater areas, making life for all the other creatures in our interdependent web at best challenging, at worst impossible.  Some have seen the Covid-19 pandemic itself as a direct result of that imbalance, arising as it did from the concentrated exploitation of wild animals for human gain – a sign of a broken relationship and an urgent call to healing.  It is at very least a reminder that we scrape away the natural part of the landscape not only at its but our own peril.

On thin ice: are we spiralling inwards to destruction or outwards to renewal?

The diagnosis may be clear but how should we respond?  What new steps must we learn in the dance?  Technological, practical ones yes, but I wonder if we are so entrenched in our ways and so addicted to gain that a far deeper change is required.  To relearn how to relate to the rest of our natural family, we need to transform our whole selves.  Instead of asking ourselves ‘how much can I get?’ we could ask ‘how much do I need?’ – and for this to be an authentic, critical analysis of need.  Rather than saying ‘what do I have to give?’, we could say ‘how much can I share?’ – thinking not only of those around us but of all whose needs are not met.  And where we’ve concentrated on satisfying the needs and desires of the day, however fairly we try to achieve that, it’s clear that we also need to pay forward from our present abundance into a future in which the pressures on resources may be even greater than they are today.

We can look to ideas and movements such as agroecology, permaculture, regenerative agriculture or transition towns to find practical responses to these questions – and the time is long overdue for those with power and influence to do so – but for really profound inner change I’ve found nothing more resonant and helpful than this mantra from the Jain faith, introduced in a talk I heard given by environmental teacher Satish Kumar:

I forgive all living beings on this earth
I beg forgiveness from all living beings
I cherish friendship with all living beings
I have animosity towards none.

A walk through any landscape with these words in the heart or on the lips is one that will transform at least one essential component of that landscape: yourself.

Skin deep: a landscape revealing its own thinness – and that of the civilisation that occupies it.

‘Don’t just pass by – stop and look inside!’

Posted on

So sang the children in the nativity play I enjoyed this week, having been drafted to accompany the renditions of ‘Jingle Bells’ and ‘A Merry Christmas’ on the keyboard to book-end the performance.  Not having children of my own, witnessing a school nativity from the outside (as opposed to being a tea-towel wearing shepherd the last time I had anything to do with one…) was a delightful first.  The children sang, shouted their lines and gesticulated with gusto, all in splendid costumes that rivalled the attire of anyone on a big-time stage.  A production worth stopping and looking in for sure (assuming you were a parent or had something to do with the school of course).

The line that stuck out brought to mind the dozens of times this year I’ve noticed walkers and visitors to Airton stop by at the Meeting House, accepting the implicit welcome of the open gate, and step inside our remarkable building.  Intentionally simple both inside and out, this humble pile of stones nonetheless seems to appeal, offering perhaps a moment of rest on a long walk, a fascinating peak into history or just shelter from the rain.  It’s meant much more to thousands of people over the centuries of course and to us who know it now, as a living Meeting House, a cultural venue, polling station (all too often of late…) and community facility.

But without the people, familiar or strangers, it is just a pile of stones – the contents page of a lost history perhaps.  It’s those who built, expanded, maintained and cared for these buildings whose story they tell; and principally, that story revolves around the obvious question of ‘why?’

The answer to that question lies in the 17th century beginnings of Quakerism: a coalition of dissenting voices gathered from various parts of this country, particularly here in the north-west of Yorkshire and northern Lancashire, many of whose lives are documented in some of the older books on our library’s shelves.  Their spiritual journey had brought them to a point where they no longer wished to be bystanders in faith, receiving titbits of wisdom from priests and people in authority, being told what to find significant and finding that that included little about their daily lives.  For these dissidents, it was no longer enough to attend services, perform rituals, take instruction from above.  They believed they could be authors of their own journey, both as individuals and as communities.  So they gathered in simple, out of the way places, waited on the wisdom they found within themselves, shared their thoughts with each other and grew in confidence and faith.

Today’s Quakers might individually follow a variety of religious faiths and even none but that story of seeking one’s own wisdom and listening to the wisdom of those around you regardless of status or personal history unites them with the forbears who occupied this meeting place and the hundreds of similar places that quickly sprang up around the country in the latter half of the 1600s.

Taking the time to engage both with the world and one’s own thoughts in company is no indulgence.  It’s no less than an opportunity to stop and look inside.  And when that opportunity is taken, sometimes what is found inside is precious – no less than one’s own contribution to the peace and wholeness of the world.  Not just something to be passed by, whether in the busy-ness of Christmas or at any time.

Have a peaceful Christmas and come to visit us in the new year!

Memories recalled – Airton’s welcome then and now

Posted on

Saturday 28th September was a day of memories and reflection.  Our ‘Young Friends’ reunion brought together former guests who had spent many a magical weekend at Airton Friends Meeting House and Barn from the 1950s onwards.  Laying out fascinating old photos, they shared their stories of games by the river, muddy walks and evenings of camaraderie.
John Gilham recalls ‘…between 1995 and 2004 the young persons’ Link Group had an annual mountain-biking weekend at the Quaker “bunk barn” attached to Airton Meeting House. Conditions were Spartan, if not primitive, the cycling exhausting, exhilarating and incredibly muddy, yet many participated multiple times.

The barn had been stayed in by groups of, particularly, Young Friends since the 1950s but by 2005 was almost unusable, failing to comply with standards of health, hygiene and fire safety.  It was totally renovated and enlarged thanks to the efforts of local and regional Friends and re-opened in 2011.  On 28 September this year, Bone Jones and I attended a re-union of some of the people who had used the barn from the 1960s on.  What a contrast!  Clean, warm and spacious with modern kitchens well kitted out, comfortable-looking bunk beds and places to relax.  It can sleep up to 18 people in dormitory accommodation but also welcomes families to stay…

Of course, even more wonderful is the adjoining historic Meeting House, used for Quaker worship continuously since the early 1650s, always open.  Meeting for Worship on 2nd and 4th Sundays at 3pm.  And if that’s not enough there’s some of the most beautiful scenery in Yorkshire right on the doorstep!’

The evening gave a different take on recollection in the form of Debbie Cook’s wonderful rendition of two monologues from Alan Bennett’s canon of ‘Talking Heads’.  A feat of memory in itself, the performance brought two beautifully scripted characters to life and reminded a rapt audience why these pieces and their author are so warmly and widely loved.

When walls need to fall

Posted on Updated on

The Yorkshire Dales wouldn’t be the same without its rustic drystone walls, winding alongside roads and trackways, zig-zagging precariously up improbable slopes, patchworking the landscape in patterns often indecipherable to the amateur eye.  Stone on stone, carefully placed and replaced generation after generation, until for some the need for the wall disappears and time undoes the years of labour, leaving a slowly dissolving trace on a hillside reclaiming its substance for itself.

Walls give us definition and function, within an otherwise unscripted landscape.  In the presence of walls we know where we stand and whether we’ve the right to stand there.  Before the enclosure acts of the 18th century, walls and hedges were less common; according to the late Oliver Rackham, historian of the British countryside, as many field boundaries being created between 1750 and 1850 as in the previous 500 years*.  Then the 20th century fell out of love with them, with hundreds of thousands of kilometres of hedgerow being grubbed up between the 1980s and the present day.

We may be less enamoured with the old materials for boundary-marking but the urge to define and defend boundaries seems stronger than ever in the present age.  And the walls and fences being erected around the world in the name of that definition are higher, less bridgeable and more aggressively defended than ever before.  From the convoluted security barrier winding through the Occupied Palestinian Territory of the West Bank cutting communities off from their farmland, neighbours and key transport routes; to the barbed wire migrant fences erected along the national borders of European countries in 2016; and the proposed wall-that-must-be-built for the United States to cower behind in apparent fear of the neighbouring states to the south – our love affair with national definition and protection from the other seems to grow in intensity the more we discover that in human terms there actually is no such thing as the ‘other’.

We’ve been here before of course – Berlin, Hadrian, the Great Wall of China: monuments to fear, control and yes to some extent the necessity of security.  But the reasons behind all historic walls have proved as transient as the people whose movement they sought to prevent.

I will always remember the reply of my Berliner host family in 1987 when, too young to know how little I knew, I asserted that all empires and governments fall, so the wall would eventually come down.  ‘No, this will never happen,’ they said.  Two years later I stood transfixed in front of the TV, tears streaming down my face as I watched a human wave break over the hideous structure, carve chunks from it and roar in triumph as they deprived it of all meaning.

 

And so we can again with the walls of our time – if we remember that the people on the other side of them are as perplexed, anxious, hopeful, loving, creative, determined and ordinary as we are. That starts with hearing their stories. When Leeds based Sound Company Choir visit us on Saturday 23rd February we’ve a chance to do just that. Come and listen at the walls – you might be surprised what you hear.

*The Illustrated History of the Countryside, Oliver Rackham / Weidenfeld & Nicolson Ltd 1994, p.81

Christmas every day

Posted on Updated on

This year’s Christmas tree (a Cob nut) and natural decorations from the garden…

Last week someone handed me a Christmas card whilst almost apologetically commenting that he didn’t know whether ‘your lot’ do Christmas but ‘here you go anyway’.  My lot being Quakers.  Well, yes and no…

It’s true that just as Quaker meetings in the don’t normally involve symbols or set prayers, they also generally don’t feature the marking of any festivals or saints days.  Today this is justified by appeals to our ‘testimony’ of simplicity; but its origins lie in the rebellious nature of the Quaker movement in the context of the religious turbulence of 17th century England.  One of many ‘diy’ congregational societies formed at the time, its members sought a means of exploring their faith away from the authoritarian oversight of ministers and the trappings and layers of church traditions.  In doing so, groups like the Quakers saw themselves as ‘friends of the truth’ and set about forming an understanding of Christianity drawn from what they read in scripture enlightened by their own insights.  When it came to the question of festivals and Christmas, seeing no basis for the annual celebration of Jesus’ birth on a particular day in winter, they simply abandoned the idea as a religious prospect.

So this sense of detachment from the significance of particular times and seasons is written into the DNA of Quaker worship and, for many Quakers over the years, interpreted strictly in their daily life as well.  But it would be incorrect to characterise contemporary Quakers as puritan, and I’ve certainly never met any who are immune to the Christmas spirit, or the comings and goings of times and seasons throughout the year.  Far from it: we might not decorate our Meeting Houses but you might find a ‘programmed’ Meeting for Worship here and there where the odd carol is sung, mince pies are enjoyed afterwards and yes, Christmas cards exchanged.

So what is the deal with Quakers and Christmas (and Easter, and any other national holidays)?  I can’t speak for every Quaker but the way I see it is this.  Festivals are a way for us all to unwind, celebrate each other, pause for breath, look back on our achievements and any number of other good and socially necessary things.  It just so happens that our major winter festival got wound up with the celebration of the nativity and became a time when the church focusses on Jesus’ birth; and the fact that this still permeates the secular celebration of Christmas is testament to the power of the story at its heart.

I see no reason to turn away from the telling and retelling of that story at this time of year; but to be conscious of the distance between the way in which it is commonly told and the likely facts of its origins or the implications of its message.  It doesn’t matter when Jesus was born.  It does matter that the narratives we have in the gospels have him born into an ordinary family of no status or wealth, outsiders far from home, with the birth being announced first to shepherds – workers doing one of the least respectable jobs available at the time.  It matters that the next people to notice were foreign travellers, looking for meaning in cultures beyond their own and seeking the common ground between those cultures.  The inference is clear: what follows in the life of this remarkable human is a message for all people of whatever rank or background.  Whether we’re interested in that message and what we make of it is up to us – and our conclusions are for life, not just for Christmas.