A Story Wrought in Glass

A few days ago, Amber and I chanced on the old parish church in Croick. If you think Cottarton is remote, try out Croick which is fifteen miles from the nearest shops, in an empty glen and not a farm in sight. Only a few scattered houses. You can walk for miles and not see a human soul. The adjoining glens contain the Alladale Estate, the site of an ecological restoration project. It's an idyllic spot with a dark history.

While taking us on a safari tour of Alladale Estate, our guide John, told us about the days of the Highland Clearances, when hundreds of families were forced from their homes to make way for large sheep farms. In 1845, after a prolonged struggle, 18 families, some 90 people, from the glen of Glenvalvie were evicted from their homes. They sought refuge in the nearby church of Croick only to find that the local factor had locked the doors against them. The people spent the night in the churchyard, using tarpaulins to shelter from the wind and rain. Before they left, some of the women used their jewellery to scratch their names, and their story in the windows. We were able to make out a few of those scratches.




"Glencalvie people was in the churchyard here May 24 1845"

"Glencalvie tenants residing here"

“Ros James Borthwick”

“The Glencalvie tenants reside in the kirkyard in May 24, 1845”












"Glencalvie people, the wicked generation”




The latter scrawl suggests that the church leaders persuaded the people that they were being punished for their sins.

Interestingly a nearby plaque makes no mention of the doors being locked. Rather, it states that the people voluntarily decided not to enter the church as to do so would be sacrilegious. That’s not the story the locals have passed down to their children. Nor does it accord with the following letter to the Times newspaper in 1845:

Behind the church, a long kind of booth was erected, the roof formed of tarpaulin stretched over poles, the sides in with horsecloths, rugs, blankets and plaids ... Their furniture, excepting their bedding, they got distributed amongst the cottages of their neighbours; and with their bedding and their children they all removed on Saturday afternoon to this place. In my last letter I informed you that they had been round to every heritor and factor in the neighbourhood, and 12 of the 18 families had been unable to find places of shelter........

History is re-written by the winners.

We don’t know where the people went. Some ended up in cities, others crossed the Atlantic to Nova Scotia. It's sadly ironic that these days Glencalvie doesn’t host any sheep, in whose names the atrocities were committed. The sheep farming of old is no longer economical.

Happy Birthday to Gaia’s Children

Linella's Spread







It was the long expected party, with dozens of guests. Just about everyone we could think of was there, on a Thursday night too. The Texas/ Louisiana spread surpassed its legendary reputation. Chili, salsa, gumbo, queso, beer, spicy beans. You don’t find those in a Scottish restaurant, unless the chef happens to be Amber. Southern cuisine is in her blood, and she knows how to treat it well. For me, sharing the book’s birthday with friendly and supportive people was what it was about. And an opportunity to thank everyone who helped me prepare the manuscript: editors, reviewers, critics and supporters.

I can’t judge the book any more than I could judge a child who is born. It has everything right about it. I’m happy with the way it turned out, and that’s as far as I’ll go. I'm pleased that people whom I’ve never met reportedly like it. While I’m not expecting a bestseller, I hope that the book will please, inspire, provoke a thoughtful response, open a window to a new and awe-inspiring world.




Fiona Alden, Alastair Grant, Charles Ashton, Adam Archibald Charlie Roy, Rachel Ashton, Annie Ashton (All pretending to read)





It’s been a long journey since the sunny October in the French Pyrenees where I penned the opening chapters. The first seeds were kicking about much earlier. Questions about language, and how it shapes our thinking. How would we think if our thinking wasn’t wedded to language? In forming a sentence we already separate subject and object, you and I, I and the world, Catholics from Jews, Americans from the French and so on. Language fragments our world, chews it into small bites that don’t appear to relate to each other. We accept that fragmented reality as the real world when it is more likely an illusion resulting from our rational thinking --- a thinking chained by language. Is that modality of thinking inevitable? Is there another that doesn’t fragment our experience? If so, then it’s not common. Perhaps it’s experienced through meditation or an altered state of consciousness.

Those who know me have had to put up with my tirades about global warming. I’m not one for political action. I’m convinced that humanity’s devastating effect on Gaia goes back to our basic psychology, to our tendency to see ourselves as separate from our environment, and from each other. We only exploit nature without regard to her needs when we feel separate from nature. Which is where the lupans come in, showing us the way to heal the troubled Earth. Less rational than us more empathic, lacking “the ego”, they may at first appear remote to us, however they are humanity’s unrecognized alter-ego. I won’t say more here. Song of the Earth, the sequel to Gaia’s Children will answer some of those questions.






Back to the book launch and to Linella Sienkiewicz’s table. The outside temperatures aren't warm enough yet to dine al-fresco in March but within fifty years time that will change. Unfortunately no lupans showed up after the guests were gone to take away the leftovers. They haven’t been born --- not yet. This party was only their baby shower.

We all wish the lupans anticipated Happy Birthday!

Train Journey

“What station is this?”

She looks up at me, her head raised from the pillow, eyes fixed on something I can’t see. She wants to know where the train has stopped. Is this the station where she must get off? She has no doubt that she’s on a train, and is headed where she needs be. But on which train?

I tell her, “You’re not on any train. You’re in your house --- 98 Stormont Road.”

My words don’t mean anything to her. She’s on a train. Regardless of my rational explanation, the train is her only reality.

“I’m not on a train?” she says.

“No.”

She shrugs, as if to say, "Whatever you say."



I return to my breakfast, my toast and coffee. Soon I hear her mumble. The same word repeated rhythmically.

“Ches … ches.. ches…” Over and over and over.

When I wake up at night I often hear it. Sometimes during the day, or evenings while waiting for lights-out. We don’t have any idea what it means.

In Polish “Czas” – means time. “Czesc!” means Hi.

But “Ches…ches… ches…” ?? Perhaps it’s more like a nervous tic. An obsessive compulsive pattern.

Last night when I kissed her good-night, she said, “What carriage are you in?”

“Carriage?”

“Are you in the next one?”

“I’m not on any train. I’m sleeping in the bed over there.”

I’m not sure she sees the bed. When I mentioned the train to Agata, who stays with her day and night, she said, “Cocia's always imagining that she’s getting on a train.”



While Amber and I drink our morning coffee, I hear the rhythmic sound of a steam locomotive:

“Choo … chooo…choo…” Then, “Are we at the station?”

What is this train? A memory of something that happened long ago, when Poland was occupied by the Germans? A short while ago she couldn’t sleep for fear that a massacre was taking place. She called out, “They’re killing the women!” It's likely that during the occupation she could have witnessed a bloodbath from a train window.

Or is the train her life? Years back during a retreat she attended, the priest described Earthly life as a train journey: traveling toward the station where you finally get off. Never sure which station it will be, you have to be ready for it. She told me about the image; said that she liked it. When I talk to her about death, I feel that death is still an abstraction that she can't relate to. But the train journey is real. She and I are on that train but in separate carriages. She wants to know what station we’re at. What station is coming up.

Simon Magus --- New Light on an old story

Disputation with Simon Magus by Fillipino Lippi


Episode 4 of Sophia Through Time takes place at the time of Emperor Nero. The Gnostic teacher Simon Magus is reunited with Helen, whom he recognizes as the incarnation of Thought, separated from him before time began. Together they must face their greatest trial in which one of them must die.

Click here for the story

Of Wolves and Donkeys

The chief question posed when debating the return of the wolf to Scotland, is how to protect livestock. Since the days of the Highland Clearances,Scotland is a land of large sheep and cattle farms. Economic enough but not lucrative. My neighbours often tell me that only with EU subsidies can they turn a profit. Many farms aren't fenced, and those that are wouldn't keep out a wolf. So, is the prospect of returning the wolf to Scotland total lunacy?

Perhaps there’s another solution to coexisting with wolves that doesn’t involve covering the entire country with eight-foot tall electrified fencing. Ranchers in Minnesota, Montana  where the wolf has made a strong comeback are finding that donkeys provide considerable protection against both wolves and coyotes. Apparently donkeys are more effective at keeping the wolves away than the more traditional method of shooting the wolves on sight.  In care you think this is an April Fool column, here’s the lowdown from the Ontario Ministry of Agriculture. Could a strategic addition of donkeys in Scotland safeguard sheep from wolves?

Wolves and Donkeys don’t get along. The enmity between the two species, the canidae and the equidae is legendary. Donkey owners know that they need to keep their dogs away as the donkey will kill them. Not only dogs. The donkey, with its kicking and braying is one of the few domestic animals that can fluster a wolf and send it running. The nasty-tempered donkey has been known to trample many a wolf. Llamas apparently also share the same animosity toward wolves.

What is it about donkeys that instead of hightailing it when wolves appear, they’ll stand their ground and indeed move in to attack? It’s not a lack of intellect; it may be their innate stubbornness. Or a lack of fear. Have you ever tried to fluster a donkey? There’s even a report of farmers in Namibia using donkey to protect their stock from leopards. Wow! Next time I go on a safari, I’m taking a donkey with me for protection.

Donkeys are herbivores. They don’t eat wolves, but nature has endowed them with a good kick, fearlessness and  long ears that give them  acute hearing. They’ll hear a wolf or coyote when it’s far away and respond with loud braying. The wolves evidently respect animals that stand up to it; a donkey’s bray sends them running. Not always though. Wolves have been known to kill young donkeys.

Then there’s the story of the poor wolf and donkey cooped up in the same cage near Tirana, Albania. The pair of them decided that it would best for them to be friends, and so they learned to live together for a while. Fortunately as a result of a petition from various humane societies, the two were set free.

Will it work in Scotland? Donkeys and llamas alone won't totally safeguard a flock, however they are part of the solution. In Colorado where coyotes frequently attack sheep, 99% of farmers use donkeys as guard animals. They also use fencing.

Additional references

The Wolf Army

 

Video from Switzerland 

How do you write a novel?

It’s the question that many people ask me at a book-signing, at newspaper interviews or upon hearing that I’ve published a novel. I’ve been writing since my teens. finished ten novels of which two have been published. I can answer the question --- How I write a novel but other authors will have very different responses.

The old cliché that writing a book is like having a baby is not far off the mark. It gestates for a while, grows inside you, then there’s pain, labour and the child appears. I can’t do outlines, synopses and the like. After the book is finished I’ll struggle to produce a synopsis for a publisher, but I hate them.

Each novel begins with a strong feeling, about something in particular; sometimes for a while not identifyable. A student wakes up to find four eyes in his head. How does he feel about them? God on Texas Death Row. Could it happen? With Gaia’s Children, gestation began with the vision of a country torn apart by climate change, climate refugees hunted down by skinheads, and of a woman who stood up for the refugees. The human race was close to finished. The planet was ridding itself of a deadly virus --- us. The evolutionary torch would be passed on to a new race.

In presenting the new race it seemed to me that the role of human language is critical. It shapes our thoughts, attitudes to the environment. In greater part it affects our psyche. Language cause us to divide subject from object, you from I, outside from the inside. It gets been me and what I observe. Our attitude to the Earth as a dead thing to be exploited follows from language and our thought structure. We can try to change things by creating peace movements or doing environmentally friendly things. All window dressing. Our behaviour will not fundamentally change as long a the old psyche remains. Could a radical change happen if we were shown the way? If we lived alongside a people with a different, non-verbal psyche?

While those thoughts and feelings bounced about, I didn’t put anything down. The character of Linella (inspired by Amber) took shape. Some of the others too but no more than charcoal sketches. The unborn book was growing even when I didn’t give it much attention. I wrote the opening chapters. I had to work out how to present events from the point of view of people who don’t verbalize. Several versions of those chapter went into the rubbish bin. Finally the plot skeleton emerged as a series of chapter headings. I still didn’t know details of what each chapter would contain.

The rest tended to flow. Chapters appeared without my knowing of where or how they came from. But they made sense. Whenever I was stuck, I returned to the original vision and to the characters. After the first draft came the hard part, checking the plot and characters for consistency, voice and motivation. You have to be draconian about throwing out stuff that doesn’t work. No matter how much you like it. Then there came endless editing. Sometimes Polish dialog that makes no sense in English sneaked in. Amber’s ear for dialog caught those. She’d tell me: “Nobody speaks like that.”

Other books followed a similar course. In each case the initial vision was key, the place from which the story flowed. I’ve found that as long as I adhere to it, the rest of the writing process takes care of itself.

Aristotle in Love

In Episode 3 of Sophia Through Time, Sophia gives the venerable philosopher a lesson in love. Not only his syllogisms fail to rescue him when he most needs them. He discovers aspects of himself that he cannot readily categorize.












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