The Greening (6 page)

“Life was brief and horribly insecure. If you were poor, you were always hungry; you could get sick and die at any time, from any number of diseases. The water was polluted. The meat and fish were rancid – not surprising, since animals were slaughtered for the table in the ditches where sewage was dumped. Violence was casual and routine. Life was cheap,” said Alex.

“No wonder the peasants revolted.”

“Quite right. 1381, the Peasants’ Revolt. The King imposed a poll tax to raise money for the war against France, which was then in its fortieth-plus year. It was the last straw. People had had it with authority – and that included the clergy and religious orders, who looked after their own interests while the people suffered.”

“I’m trying to imagine this nice lady reflecting in her cell while the world went mad around her,” I said.

“She would have lived through a huge amount of turbulence and civil unrest. And she would have been aware of it. She wasn’t entirely enclosed, you see. In fact, she was a kind of agony aunt; people would come to her window to tell their troubles and ask her advice.”

“Amazing that she managed to keep her book a secret,” I said.

“If she hadn’t, she’d have been forced to recant and repudiate everything she had written or be burned at the stake. And Henry Despencer, the Bishop of Norwich, would have had a personal reason for discrediting her message. He was a Crusader, known as the Battling Bishop, and he financed his expeditions by selling indulgences. These were documents that bought you time off from
the sentence you were due to serve in purgatory in payment for your sins.”

“So Julian’s account of a God who is never angry and doesn’t need to be bought off would have put quite a dent in his trade,” I said. “She was a kind of revolutionary.”

“In a way. But she was also a sincere believer in the Church and its authority to deliver the Christian message. She had to struggle with that paradox, and it was a very hard struggle for her. But she did what she had to do and she didn’t compromise her integrity. Wish I could say the same.”

I said, “But she did compromise, didn’t she? But in a way that didn’t matter.” Our conversation had reminded me of something Michael had taught me. He had shown me a way of living peacefully with my aunt, and her endless criticism, without compromising my integrity. I told Alex about it.

I remembered it so very clearly, how I had gone to the wood to search for solace and Michael, feeling very sorry for myself after yet another bruising encounter with my aunt. I had found him digging out an overgrown patch of brambles in front of an oak tree. When I told him my woes, he had straightened up, rested his arm against the tree-trunk and looked at me very seriously.

“He started talking about my aunt,” I told Alex. “He said, ‘Not the sweetest cherry on the tree, is she?’ I was amazed, because he’d always spoken respectfully of her. He told me I mustn’t believe the things she said about me because they weren’t true; that she saw things the way she did because of the way she was. All the same, he said, I shouldn’t argue with her, just let her say what she had to say and not lose my temper. He said, ‘Learn to dodge the blows. Box a bit clever. Play the Joker’s card.’ Well, it worked! I let her rant on until she’d finished. And when I handled it that way everything just went much more smoothly. And I didn’t get nearly so upset.

“Michael taught me to be kind. He said, ‘Be generous with your kindness because the world can never have enough. And always remember that you’re a little star and your light will grow
brighter and stronger every day, till it’s strong enough to sustain you through anything.’”

Alex said, “Great bloke. So why are you always battling with Milo?”

“I’d forgotten. I’d forgotten a lot of things. Michael made me feel there was something in me that was worthwhile. He understood me and accepted me.”

Alex said, “And loved you…”

“Yes. What he gave me was love. Nothing else can make you feel that good.”

After rather a lot more red wine, we called it a night. When I arrived home I no longer felt tired. I curled up in bed with the journal, curious to read on in the knowledge of what Alex had told me about Julian and her world.

During those months when I was ill, Sister Mary Theresa often came to see me. I always looked forward to it. She filled the room with a comforting feeling of calm and repose. Even after she had left I sensed her presence. She made me feel that things could be different, that life could change. She made me believe there was genuine cause for hope. Where did that feeling go?

I believe it dwindled away long ago as I became accustomed to living with meagre expectations. Since childhood I have used familiar routines as a refuge from pain, from engagement with people.

I had to leave Cambridge and the stifling, protective routine of my academic world. I felt as though something inside was withering away. My survival depended upon moving on. In London I have felt as though a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I am so lucky to earn my keep from what was once a hobby. I love the world of theatre. Being a legitimate part of it has allowed me to create a new image of myself, a new identity almost: someone who can be a little more daring. But at heart
the sense of isolation has remained. Now, though, I feel I am being invited out of the shadows and into the sunlight.

This new feeling of lightness has come into me since my visit to the tiny, simple chapel on the site of Julian’s cell. I have, in quiet moments, recaptured the gentle peace I discovered there. The spirit of the place – a presence of its own or the imprint of a personality or events that marked it for all time – remains with me. I feel that Julian is still close by, a woman out of time with a message I need to hear and understand.

I sat at my window this evening and watched night stealthily overtaking day in the park, making the trees shadowy masses that reflected the shapes of the dark clouds. I closed the window but did not draw the curtains. I took up my copy of
Enfolded in Love.

The preface reminded me of what I had learned from the leaflet I found at the entrance to Julian’s cell: she had written an account of her visions of the crucifixion, first a short text and then, after many years of meditation, a longer version. At the heart of Jesus’ message was God’s assurance of his abiding love. “Wouldst thou know the Lord’s meaning in this thing? Know it well. Love is his meaning,” she was told.

The darkening gloom of early evening was making me feel a little sad. I lit some candles. I closed the book and pressed it between my palms, moulding it gently, my fingers sliding and pushing against the cover. The book filled me with a desire to know every part of it, and I felt instinctively that I would not penetrate its meaning with my intellect. I knew that I must find some other way to take it into myself.

I handled it urgently, as though its meaning could be squeezed out through its fabric, through my skin and into my innermost self. As I did so, something informed my spirit that to take the knowledge within I must find the place where it already resided. I handled the book and let my imagination wander.

Julian.

I hold the book now flat on my upheld palms. I open it. I am in her cell. This is the city of Norwich. The year is 1383. I see sunshine in a pale sky with soft clouds, and a carefree cluster of spring daffodils, thrust into a jug. The water surrounding the stems is limpid and cool, and there is a quietness enfolding the flowers and spreading further now into the room, which opens up around me, tiny but infinite in space.

My eyes are drawn to a candle’s flame, and as I look the heavy white wax becomes translucent and the steady gold of the flame burns brighter and stronger, creating a light that is spreading, penetrating every corner of the room, and outwards, farther and higher, reaching and filling every heart, so that every man and woman and child, every animal and tree and plant and flower, every part of the sea and sky and every piece of the earth receives and trembles as the light enters it.

This little light from this plain wax candle radiates its power from this small place throughout the world, and the stars, and infinity. The flame draws me into itself, and I come slowly from the heavy grief and disappointment of my life towards that inner peace and calm and understanding that lives within the heart of the flame.

I hold the book open now, my hands pressed on its pages as though in prayer, awaiting benediction. Through closed eyes I seek the place. My heart beats faster. Have I found the place where I can begin? I read “He who made man for love will by that same love restore him to his former blessedness, and yet more.” I read the passage again. “He who made man for love…” I find it hard to believe that I was made for love.

I hold the book gently. It feels like a fragile bird, resting lightly upon my palms, my fingers barely touching the pages. I wait in the silence. I am afraid. I open the book again, at random.

“I saw that pain alone blames and punishes, and that our courteous Lord comforts and succours, ever being gladness and joy to the soul, loving and longing to bring us to his own
blessedness.” Pain alone punishes? Indeed, pain does punish. But it is surely the price of sin?

“I saw in truth that God does all things, however small they may be. And I saw that nothing happens by chance, but by the far-sighted wisdom of God. If it seems like chance to us, it is because we are blind and blinkered.”

How can it be that nothing happens by chance? When I think of all the mistakes I have made, my fearful hesitation and timorous withdrawals, all the disappointment and loss… All this was planned? It makes no sense. All the pain and suffering of the world, planned? If my failure to understand this is blindness, I am indeed blind.

I am beginning to feel light-headed. The room still feels so gloomy. The sky has become overcast and I think there will be a storm. Perhaps I am allowing my imagination too much rein. I shall close the book.

But this place is so calm and quiet. This place. Julian’s cell, dark, peaceful, candlelit. Outside it’s a lovely, sunny spring day, I can see it over the heads of the daffodils on the sill, and they glow in their thick deep and pale transparent yellows, they glow and glory in the sunlight. Why would she want to stay indoors, in this small room, when outside there’s an earth and sky filled with glorious sunshine? The book seems to call to me.

I read, “I saw, too, that his unceasing work in every thing is done so well, so wisely, and so mightily that it is beyond our power to imagine, guess or think.”

Does this mean that I am not intended to understand? Perhaps if I concentrate on the candle I’ll be able to get a grip…

“As by his courtesy God forgives our sins when we repent, even so he wills that we should forgive our sins, and so give up our senseless worrying and faithless fear.”

If I could forgive myself would I lose my fear? But I do not feel forgiven. I do not find it in my heart.

I begin to feel sad. I need some air. I go and stand at Julian’s little window onto the world. That’s better. You have a lovely view, Julian, plenty of trees. I thought you would have been lonely, enclosed in your cell all day and all night long, but I can see so many people about, I expect they often stop by for a chat. It’s such a beautiful atmosphere in this place, calm and restful and loving, they must feel drawn…

I can well understand the appeal of a peaceful, quiet corner, a place to be safe and free of the world… but how safe could it really have been? A woman writing theology in an age when women were forbidden even to speak in church – a dangerous undertaking.

I strike a match to light a cigarette and look into the blade of molten flame. I wonder about this woman who risked death to do what she believed she had to do. She embraced and lived a paradox: pursuing spiritual truth that had to be kept secret from the Church, whilst remaining faithful to it and believing in its authority to deliver God’s message to humanity. What kind of person would have the moral integrity to make and maintain such a choice?

My questions seem suspended in the air. I hope for answers, but there is silence. The flame flickers gently. I feel very tired suddenly. I feel as though the weariness of years has settled upon me. I will sleep for a little while…

I slept and dreamed, or perhaps it was all a dream. I awoke and looked out of my window, across the park and up into the starry night. I opened the window and listened to the rustle of the wind in the trees, felt its cool caress on my forehead. I felt calm and refreshed.

A thought formed in my mind: I desired to know, so I was taken to the place of knowing, and knowledge was made mine.

I awoke with a start, suddenly catching my breath. I had dropped off to sleep in an awkward position and now my neck ached. The journal had fallen to the floor. I glanced at the clock. It was midnight.
I felt exhausted –
wedi blino’n l
â
n
, clean tired-out… the Welsh that expressed the feeling so well came into my mind. My first language as a child was my treasure house, providing the depth and subtlety of meaning I sometimes failed to find in English.

I bent down to pick up the book and noticed a folded sheet of paper that must have fallen from it. I picked up the paper and was astonished to see written on it a song in Welsh. I hummed the tune that was annotated on the paper. It was a strange, plaintive melody, in keeping with the words. The song was about the spirit of the woods crying out to the spirit of the mountains of its weary longing for the sun. I was puzzled and a little disturbed. Why had providence dropped this Welsh song into my lap? Was there a connection between the song and the book? Why on earth would there be a Welsh song – and one I had never heard – in the journal? These thoughts bothered me as I lay in bed. I sang the song softly to myself –
“Mae ysbryd y coed yn galw ar ysbryd y mynyddoedd, mae’r gwanwyn yn ymdroelli ynddof i a dw i’n ysu am yr haul…”