Finishing strong

A friend just sent me this video.
A truly encouraging and inspiring message to anybody who might be finding life tough and a great example of someone focusing more on what he can do than on what he can't.

I am alive!

One of the reasons for my lack of blogging recently has been the number of funerals  I have had to prepare and conduct in the last couple of weeks. Since I try to make every funeral service as personal as possible, it often requires a fair amount of time to do all the preparation and (very importantly) to make sure that I don't mix up information about each of the deceased. So I had a lot of sympathy for an anonymous colleague of mine that one of my sister's told me about tonight.

A retired minister, he was filling in during a vacancy.  Conducting the funeral service of an old lady he was laying great stress on the fact that she was the very last of her generation; that she had outlived the rest of her family. "In fact" he intoned "it was some time ago that she last spoke to her younger brother, who sadly is no longer with us."

To the minister's utter shock and embarrassment, a voice cried out from the congregation "Ah'm no deid yet! Ah'm right here."

Oops!

Two Basins

It's been a pretty busy week with three funerals and a wedding (reception at the above Houston House Hotel.) And on Sunday we have three baptisms too.
Which newspaper was it that used to say "All of life is here" ?
And of course this evening we had our annual joint Good Friday Service.
For those of you who couldn't or just wouldn't come, I shared this reflection which I called "Two Basins" as the main part of the service. It's not based on any genuine historical or theological research: just a bit of imagination- but I think it worked.
After reading Matthew 27:11-26

Two Basins:

There are many symbols associated with the Passion story; from the palm branches at the start of Passion Week to the purple robe and crown of thorns and, of course, the cross itself.
But tonight, I want you to focus your thoughts on a simple metal basin filled with water.
This basin is being held by a 1st Century Roman soldier, one of the personal bodyguards of the Roman Prefect of Judaea, Pontius Pilate.
Pilate himself is standing behind the basin, about to plunge his hands into the cold, clear water.
Take a good look at him.
In his early 30’s; a career soldier; a cavalry officer; but now having to exercise a more political role as the procurator of a Roman province.
That office makes him a powerful man, because it carries with it all the might of the Roman Empire. But Pilate is not always comfortable or secure in this position.
He has made mistakes before, mistakes which have led him to be posted on this tough ten-year assignment, to one of the more obscure and troublesome corners of the Empire.
It is not hard to see why he is uneasy.
He only has at his disposal 6000 troops with which to control a population of two and a half million Jews. He dare not risk any disturbance or disorder.
He knows this, and knows it well. For although all his past training and experience have been in soldiering, necessity has forced him to become the archetypal politician.
Some may think, as they reflect upon his actions in this scene, that he is an indecisive man, some kind of weak ditherer who cannot make up his mind; or they may tempted to suppose that he is a man of conscience who is reluctant to cause the death of someone he knows to be innocent.
Such generous assessments ignore what Pilate has done in other times and places, and what he is yet to do, elsewhere. No—this is a man who would think nothing of sending in his troops to quell a riot and who would encourage them in the action to take no prisoners. This is a cold, calculating man who under certain circumstances would have no hesitation whatsoever in ordering the execution without trial at all of anyone who might be regarded a threat to the authority of Rome.
For Pilate life is cheap—especially the lives of these Judeans, whose culture he despises as primitive and uncivilised and whose governing he endures as a troublesome chore until he may be permitted to move on to better things.
Make no mistake—this Governor cares nothing for the man who stands on trial before him now.
He regards him as little more than a nuisance.
But, unfortunately, and very inconveniently, to Pilate, this Galilean who stands before him now might prove to be a particularly dangerous nuisance.
Hence the caution!
For, Pilate, above everything else is a pragmatist.
He has little concern for what ought to be done, but every concern for what can be done, and what will best preserve the stability of Roman rule.
To that end he knows what must be done.
And so, in a few moments’ time, he will sacrifice the Galilean in order to preserve Roman rule and at the same time preserve his own career.
But it will be a difficult balancing act.
For Pilate is shrewd enough to notice that the man who stands trial before him has sharply divided the opinions of the people it is his duty to govern.
There are supporters: and there are detractors.
Pilate has no interest in being drawn into their debate.
Only one thing interests him—that which is politically expedient.
So he will not take the blame from either side.
This is why he has ordered that a basin of water be brought to him.
He likes gestures.
Crucifixion itself is a gesture.
There are cleaner and quicker methods for disposing of those who get in the way but nothing has quite the impact of crucifixion for hammering the message home about who is ultimately in charge… in this God-forsaken backwater.
And so—with a flourish—and a declaration of self-absolution—Pilate, the ultimate political pragmatist, plunges his hands into the clear, cold water, declaring: “I am not responsible for the death of this man! This is your doing!”
And, drying his hands with a towel, he turns to leave the Galilean to his decreed fate.

How little it takes for a man to evade responsibility!
A basin of cold, clear water…and a towel!

Just a few hours earlier there was another basin…and another towel…
They looked much the same, yet in so many ways they could not have been more different.
Take a good look at the man with the basin in his hands.
In his early 30’s… a tradesman—though for the last three years he has abandoned his trade to take to the streets. This has been the toughest three-year assignment imaginable.
There is a weary, almost exhausted, look in his eyes and the strain of the last few days, and the next few hours, is etched into his face.
There is, however, a determined look about him. He is set upon a course from which he will not be deflected, even though it will require him to summon up more courage than the bravest soldier on the eve of battle. Shortly, as he wrestles with the responsibility which he has taken upon himself, he will even sweat blood—a condition known as haematohydrosis—which is the consequence of extreme stress.
Yet he is confident of the rightness of what he does, especially now, as with a towel wrapped around his waist he moves towards the men who have assembled together in the borrowed upper room.
These twelve men, and a number of faithful women, are just about the only fellow human beings in this hostile city on which he can depend, though he knows that most of them will also (and suddenly) become completely unreliable.
That leaves only his unshakeable faith and trust in God, the One whom he believes has driven him along this path.
He knows the value of human life, each single human life.
Even those whom others might consider expendable, worthless, or beyond redemption, he values as beloved of God.
He has sought to treasure, help, heal and save the least and the lost among them… but there were so many and time is running out fast.
Will any of those supporters whom he leaves behind truly understand what it had all been about?
Will they take up the mantle? Carry on the work?
He has little time for gestures.
He regards them as cheap and unworthy.
But he does know the power of symbols. And he has always had a unique talent for explaining the deeply spiritual using the plain and ordinary things of life.
He can make the unremarkable unforgettable.
Shortly, he will use the age-old traditions of his people in order to give to his friends some sort of explanation for the events that will soon unfold and through which his life will be brought to its brutal, unjust end. But right now he is about to use a simple domestic act to provide his friends with an explanation of the very life he has lived among them in these past few years.
He will be to them the humblest of servants and wash their feet.
And so he takes the basin, and without any flourish or fuss plunges his hands into the clear, cold water, declaring:
“I, your Lord and Teacher, have just washed your feet. You, then, should wash one another’s feet. I have set an example for you. So that you will do just what I have done for you.”
And when the feet of every last one, even those of his betrayer, have been washed, he dries his hands with the towel, turns back to the table set before them and prepares to drink the cup to its bitter dregs.

How much it costs for a man to take responsibility!
A basin of cold, clear water…and a towel!

(c) Iain D. Cunningham 2009

Welcome!

I'm not sure about everyone else but I enjoyed our Palm Sunday services yesterday.
For several years now along with our neighbouring churches we've held a joint Palm Sunday Praise Service in the evening, with the Praise Band & Singing Group taking the lead. Last night was no exception and I enjoyed it a lot - even though I had to play the trumpet most of the time when I would rather have been playing the fiddle.
But my favourite moment from yesterday came in the morning.
I went into the church about 15 minutes before the service and some of the youngest members of our church family were gathering down at the front - making sure they got a front seat. (We haven't taught them to be Presbyterians yet! In fact they are a very sociable bunch.)
Some of the under-fives in particular are experts at going up to new children, introducing themselves and then introducing their new friend to others. I was introduced to Heather, who, I was told, was visiting us from Canada. (I knew this already, of course, but it was amazing how much information the under-fives had managed to glean in just few minutes, and just how quickly they established relationships. I wish some of our adults would learn from them how to do it!)
It was all very appropriate because in the "Family Talk" I was asking the children all about welcoming others.
We got all the expected answers about saying "hello" etc.
When I asked what they would do if the Queen should arrive in Carluke at the door of their house. One wee girl had the perfect answer: "I would tell her to come in and ask her if she'd like to stay for dinner."
It was all leading up to another Palm Sunday song:

Shout Hosanna

Shout 'Hosanna! Welcome to Jesus our King!
Welcome to Jerusalem.
God bless him who comes in the name of the Lord.'
Wave palm branches and be a disciple.
He is coming to save his people.
Shout 'Hosanna! Welcome to Jesus our King!

Line the roadside, welcome the Son of our God!
Welcome to Jerusalem.
Make a pathway, welcome him into your heart!
Wave palm branches and be a disciple.
He is coming to save his people.
Sing his praises, welcome the Son of our God.

(c) Iain D. Cunningham

Holy Week, which began yesterday, is a very significant time for Christians when we reflect on matters at the very heart of our faith culminating in the Easter Day celebrations. For us Easter has got nothing to do with eggs and bunnies and chocolate...
...but, all the same, I couldn't resist sharing these pictures with you.
You've probably seen them already.

Hymn for Palm Sunday

[A palm tree in Kenya, 2005]

Last week I did my quickest ever piece of song-writing.
I am chaplain to a school for children with severe and profound learning difficulties and every month I take an assembly there.
When I arrived on Friday morning to take this month's assembly the Head-Teacher informed me that one of the children who had been in the school for many years would be leaving that day to go to another school. There had been very little advance warning that this was going to take place.
The Head-Teacher asked me if I knew of any song we might sing to the girl as a sort of farewell, but I couldn't think of anything. Then, for some bizarre reason, I impulsively suggested that I might write something to use at the end of the assembly. This gave me about five minutes to come up with something. I borrowed a pen and quickly scribbled down some lyrics, refining them as best I could, but it left me no time to come up with a tune in advance of singing it. So the 'music' was 'composed' on the fly as I was singing it. To my amazement it worked.
But, of course, it was the ultimate in disposable music as I am not sure if I could remember now what the tune actually went like.
I spent a little bit more time on the following hymn for Palm Sunday.
It is based on the understanding that the word "Hosanna" is not so much a shout of praise as a cry for help - "Come, save us!"
I can only show the text here but if anyone wants a copy of the music I can supply it by email- if you leave an email address.

Blessed is He

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

Comfort the people weighed down by their grief;
Comfort the sad and the tearful;
Come to bring joy and a welcome release
and new hope for the troubled and fearful.

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

Challenge the people entranced by their power;
Challenge their easy indiff'rence;
Come to bring justice and truth to the world
and establish a new kind of kingdom.

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord.
Hosanna!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

(c) Iain D. Cunningham, 2009

Addressing the Issue

[waves of bubblewrap crashing on the shore!]

I’ve just emerged from a tsunami of bubble wrap!
I’d been wrapping up my daughter’s laptop so that it can be returned for repair. There’s so much bubble wrap… and boxes within boxes… that I’m beginning to wonder if I actually remembered to put the laptop itself in! Now I just have to wait for the courier to find my address, uplift the parcel and take it to the correct address.
Nowadays with GPS Sat Nav and all sorts of online mapping software there should be few excuses for anyone being unable to find an address in the UK.
Real life, of course, is rarely ever as simple.
My wrestling match with the bubble wrap was interrupted by the sound of my doorbell. It was the engineer from Satchwell come to check out the electronic control panels for our church’s heating system. Having eventually found the church keys under the pile of wrapping materials, I went over to the church with him to give him access to the boiler room. He asked me how the heating was working. I replied that, as far as I knew, everything was pretty much ok at the moment but I confessed that I try to take a back seat in such matters, preferring not to know very much about how it all works, in case I ever get left with the job of setting timers etc.
So I opened the boiler room for him, left him the keys, and went back to my parcel tape.
About 30 minutes later the doorbell rang again. It was the engineer, not just returning the keys but also asking me directions to a neighbouring church; the one he was supposed to have gone to and which, coincidentally, has the exact same Satchwell control system for its heating. Ooops!
But I’m not complaining. Our system has been thoroughly checked over and is working well. I have the engineer’s word on that score… and there won’t even be a bill to pay.

Sad farewells

[Tide creeps over silver sands on Islay]

I have just returned from the funeral of Robert Young who until very recently had been the Principal teacher of Drama at Carluke High School. Only a few months older than myself, Robert had recently taken early retirement but, sadly, never got the time to enjoy it, dying very suddenly and unexpectedly.
Robert was much loved by staff and pupils alike at Carluke High. He was an inspirational teacher; enthusiastic, passionate and conscientious. He brought the very best out of the young people in his care, developing the self-confidence of many young adults. But, then, he always saw the best in others and brought the best out of everyone he met.
He was a sincere and committed Christian whose faith was most evident in the way he treated other people with kindness, respect and genuine warmth, all summed up in his disarming and open smile. We shall miss him.
On returning home, I also learned for the first time of the equally unexpected death of one of my colleagues, and fellow hymn writer, Rev. Leith Fisher, who was also a respected author and broadcaster. I first met Leith in the late 1960's when he was still a Divinity Student and I was still at school, and I have always had the greatest admiration for him. More recently we worked together on the Church Hymnary Revision Committee and a number of Leith's own hymns are, thankfully, included in the latest Church of Scotland hymnary, known in this part of the world as CH4.

Sudden deaths like these certainly make you stop and think about the fragility and brevity of human life, but they also make you realise the importance and value of human friendships, and the eternal significance of love.
Leith's own words from one of his hymns, says it so much better than I could:

[HYMN 689 in CH4]

Just as the tide creeps over silver sand
flooding the bay with slow and steady gain,
like brightening dawn across the eastern land,
certain and sure is love that comes again.

When empty eyes stare at the vacant chair
and none can touch or fill the heart's deep pain,
into our void of desolate despair,
Jesus, pour out the love that comes again.

When every road ahead seems blocked and barred
and doubt corrodes our will like acid rain,
reveal your wounds to us whom life has scarred,
and help us see the love that lives again.

When threat and fear conspire friends to betray,
and bitter failure every hope has slain,
when broken trust makes dark the dismal day,
Jesus, speak of the love that comes again.

As sure as tide and dawn your love has come,
come to redeem our failures and our pain;
Jesus, come now, and find in us a home,
revive us with the love that comes again.


Leith Fisher (1941-2009)

Words: (c) Leith Fisher.

MBBB

I first set up this blog as a medium for reflecting on some of my favourite photographs and also sharing in some random thoughts that might come into my head from time to time. With that in mind, I have to apologise for the photograph above- not for its content but for its quality!
The trouble was that I didn't have my camera with me on Friday evening and had to resort to using my phone (in very low light conditions) to capture the absolutely brilliant Michael Brawley Big Band.
(The boyfriend of one of my daughters plays trumpet in the band but last Friday night was my first opportunity to hear them for myself.)
Take ten saxophones, five trombones, five trumpets, drums, bass and piano... mix in some great arrangements of big band classics along with some more contemporary numbers, stir in a heap of slick playing, huge dollops of rhythm and a dash of musical energy and fun ... add a couple of solo vocalists on occasion... and you have a recipe for high quality entertainment. If you like that kind of thing!
... I loved it.

Reaching Up

There so much doom and gloom in the news these days - the global economy, natural disasters, crime, war and political oppression, climate change.... etc. etc. - that I decided to cheer myself up by posting another picture which shows that winter can be colourful.
I just loved the way the feathery clouds in the blue sky seemed to mimic the upward sweep of the bare tree branches, not to mention the strong contrast between that blue sky and the rich golden browns and reds of the foreground.
To get the full effect you have to click on the picture and see it full size. No - change that - to get the full effect you needed to have been there, to breathe in the crisp, clear air at the same time. Any photograph is a poor substitute for the real thing.

Where the air is clear...

*As with all the photos on this blog, click to see full size.

Quite by accident, while driving home from hospital visiting, I found myself this afternoon listening to Radio Four. The programme was "Gardeners' Question Time" (and entertaining it was too.)
One of the gardening "problems" discussed had to do with lichen growing on a gooseberry bush. A member of the experts panel observed that wherever the questioner lived there must at least be clean air because lichens only thrive where the air is unpolluted.
With that in mind the above photo is surely perfect proof of the pure air of the Scottish Highlands!

Radiance and glory in the darkness

This week the predominant "colour" around most of the country has been white, with heavy snowfalls in places that are not used to it any more. (I couldn't believe it when the main evening news at the beginning of the week made such a fuss about the snow. Out of a 30 minute bulletin of 'national and international' news, 18 minutes was spent talking about snow in London! So there was nothing more important happening in the world??)
Anyway, the picture above has no snow in it. It was taken a few weeks ago in the north of Scotland near to my sister's home when I had gone for a walk with one of my daughters. It wasn't the best photograph taken at the time but I like it for a very simple reason- the colours.
For many people winter in this country is a time when colour seems to disappear, both literally and metaphorically. Everything becomes drab and grey.
There are no flowers to brighten the landscape. Most trees have shed their leaves.
There is usually lots of rain (not so different from the summer then...)
It is also a time when many people feel pretty down and even depressed. The colour seems to drain out of life itself.
What this photograph says to me, however, is that there is colour: it has just become much more muted and subtle. It requires a closer look. It's impact is not so immediate or so strong, but the colours are there.

I'm reminded of a 'letter' allegedly written in 1513 by an Italian called Fra Giovanni (Brother John.)
I may have quoted it before.

I am your friend
and my love for you goes deep.
There is nothing I can give you which you do not have,
but there is much, very much, that,
while I cannot give it, you can take.

No heaven can come to us
unless our hearts find rest in today.
Take heaven!

No peace lies in the future
which is not hidden in this present little instant.
Take peace!

The gloom of the world is but a shadow.
Behind it, yet within our reach is joy.
There is radiance and glory in the darkness
could we but see —and to see
we have only to look.
I beseech you to look!

Life is so generous a giver,
but we, judging its gifts by the covering,
cast them away as ugly,
or heavy or hard.

Remove the covering and you
will find beneath it a living splendour,
woven of love, by wisdom, with power.

Welcome it, grasp it,
touch the angel's hand that brings it to you.
Everything we call a trial,
a sorrow, or a duty, believe me,
that angel's hand is there,
the gift is there,
and the wonder of
an overshadowing presence.

Our joys, too, be not
content with them as joys.
They, too, conceal diviner gifts.

Life is so full of meaning and purpose,
so full of beauty–beneath its covering–
that you will find earth but cloaks your heaven.

Courage, then, to claim it, that is all.
But courage you have,
and the knowledge that we are
all pilgrims together,
wending through unknown country, home.

And so, at this time, I greet you.
Not quite as the world sends greetings,
but with profound esteem and with the prayer
that for you now and forever,
the day breaks,
and the shadows flee away.



This photograph was taken on the same morning.
Amazing what a little bit of blue sky does to the landscape!

Whistling in the dark

[A mockingbird on an orange tree in Cocoa, Florida]

While recovering from my bout of labyrinthitis, I haven't felt much like working on the computer at all. In fact, all I seemed to do during my two weeks off was read - nothing too taxing though - mainly novels from the Rebus series by Ian Rankin. TEN of them in fact!! (Just seven to go.)
For variety I did read one other book, "Being Emily" by Anne Donovan. It was good fun, although for those of you who are not native to the West of Scotland, but would still like to read the book, it might have been helpful if there had been a version with "English subtitles."
But...whatever... the reading is over. This week it has been a case of 'back to work.'
I still get tired so I'm trying not to do too much.
Extra sleep, of course, is usually beneficial when recovering from any illness.
I wonder how I can get that point across to some of the feathered residents of our garden? Four o'clock this morning they began their 'dawn chorus.' (In other words, long before the dawn.)
It seemed kind of strange to me, given that the temperature was about -5 degrees and there is still snow on the ground. But some of our local birds have already decided that spring is on its way.
They must have read Shelley: "If winter comes, can spring be far behind?"
Actually, for me this thought is a central theme of the Christian faith. Sometimes it seems as if Christians are simply "whistling in the dark" but, like the birds, we whistle and sing in the dark only because we know the dawn is on its way.

Consider the lichens

There is an immediate and obvious beauty to the more spectacular specimens of the plant world, such as large brightly-coloured orchids and tall cheerful sunflowers, but if you take the time to stop and take a closer look you may discover that there is an impressive, even breath-taking, beauty to be found in all sorts of places.
I know virtually nothing about lichens but I do know that looked at closely and carefully some may demonstrate a strange and wonderful beauty of their own.
(assuming my photograph above is of a lichen on a host plant)
When it comes to people, it is no doubt infinitely more important to recognise that there is more to most folk than meets the eye at first glance.

A new dawn

[Sunrise in Ardross- my sister's garden]

Along with millions of other people in Washington and around the globe, I found the Inauguration of President Obama very moving. I even allowed myself the audacity to hope that things could definitely change for the better.
Could they get much worse than under the last presidency?
(By the way, do you think President Bush completely lacks self-awareness or is simply very good at hiding his embarrassment? Obama did not "miss him and hit the wall.")

As I said in a sermon a few days after the US election, once of the reasons that Obama won is that somehow he managed to convince a lot of people in America that he was less interested in the hope of power than he was in the power of hope.
To quote a little bit from that sermon, speaking of the story of Jesus:
"Someone who was totally innocent, and who preached only love, was made to suffer unspeakable torture, and his life was snatched from him in the cruellest of ways. At the time, it must have seemed to the followers of Jesus that all the dark forces of evil and injustice had won the day. They'd come out on top.
Might is right. Power prevails. Evil wins.
Darkness has swallowed up the light.
Or so it must have seemed at the time.
Until the resurrection of Jesus turned that assessment on its head and gave to the first Christians an unquenchable hope, a hope that nothing, not even death itself, could ultimately defeat the purposes of God. A hope, a confidence, that eventually the way of love, not the way of power, would win the day.
The light had overcome the darkness... and always would in the end.
As the title of one book puts it: "And the Lamb wins!" *
That HOPE, which the first followers of Jesus had, a hope solidly based on the resurrection of Jesus, turned out to be an unstoppable force. Not even the might of the Roman Empire could hold it back- no matter how many Christians were put to the sword. Because the power of hope is ultimately stronger than the hope of power."
No one should ever underestimate the power of hope.

On a more mundane level, I was amused, and vaguely reassured, when the new President seemed to fluff his lines on taking the oath of office. [It turns out that the original mistake was by the Judge administering the oath, Chief Justice Roberts, and just to be sure they did the whole thing again afterwards. ]
But, whoever was to blame, it showed that the people participating were only human after all and the occasion had got to them.
It happens sometimes in wedding ceremonies too. I've had brides (and bridegrooms) bursting into tears (disturbing) or into a fit of giggles (even more disturbing) and, on more than one occasion, had a bridegroom promising to be "beautiful" rather than "dutiful" (which sometimes I reckoned would have been an impossible vow to keep.)
Returning to the Presidential Inauguration, however, I allowed myself (naughtily) a wry smile and chuckle at the sight of Dick Cheney in a wheelchair. Apparently he had hurt his back moving books out of his White House Office. As someone who occasionally has back problems himself, I sympathise with him and have no wish to see him, or anyone else, in pain.
But all the same... how are the mighty fallen!!

* I haven't read the book, so I'm not recommending it or otherwise - I just liked the title.

Staying vertical

In spite of my bad start to the CWW Conference at Aviemore, I did manage to do my bit, helping with the worship, and taking part in a seminar (above) on Overseas Partnerships. Anyone interested in what it was all about can download the main talks etc. from the website.
Thanks to Peter Johnston for the photograph.

Something round again

In response to several requests from my younger readers... here is another "mystery object."
This time, I think it may not be too difficult.
What do you think it is?

Round and round we go...

[Foggy Morning on the Black Isle]

Apologies once again for my prolonged absence from the blogosphere.
This was partly due to my being away at a "Church Without Walls" conference in Aviemore, where I did not have internet access (or, to be more precise, where I grudged paying for it!) the real reason, however, is that while I was at the conference I took ill and have been off work since.
Turns out to be acute labyrinthitis. More frustrating than serious. (Frustrating even for my GP who wasn't sure how to spell it!)
It all began on a Friday morning when I became totally deaf in my right ear; a bizarre experience, since I am used to being partially deaf in my left ear. Now I had to rely entirely on my "bad" ear. A recipe for confusion! Whatever sounds I did manage to hear were impossible to locate. A good lesson all the same in the old truth that "you don't know what you've got till it's gone!"
I was just getting used to the idea of being responsible for all the music at the conference while being virtually deaf (ironic really) when on the Sunday evening I had my first (and pretty scary) attack of labyrinthitis- in front of 300+ people, of course!
It was a bewildering experience all round... come to think of it "all round" is not too bad a description. Everything seemed to start spinning uncontrollably in all directions. I couldn't stand up any more. I broke into a cold sweat and apparently turned the colour of semi-skimmed milk (i.e. only a hint of cream...)
I spent the next hour and a half, lying shivering on the floor, wrapped up in a foil blanket like a Christmas turkey waiting to be popped into the oven. Thankfully I was also being attended to by a very helpful and friendly "NHS 24" Doctor, called in by the hotel, as well as a very kind nurse and another doctor I already knew, both of whom were attending the conference.
At the time the symptoms were so severe that the doctor didn't want to confirm a diagnosis. But - hey - I'm still here! and for that I am glad.
I've since had one other bad attack but otherwise everything is just a little bit wobbly and foggy from time to time... and some of the hearing has returned to my right ear.
I got a nice long explanation from my own doctor about what was going on inside my inner ear; something to do with debris in the semi-circular canals. Personally, when an acute attack comes on, it feels to me like someone has dumped a couple of supermarket trolleys in my canals!

Doubt your doubts

[the rolling landscape of South Lanarkshire near Wiston Lodge]

A colleague of mine sent me this link to a fascinating article in the Times by Matthew Parris.
There's a refreshing honesty about it, and it seems to me to be a perfect example of why it is always useful, from time to time, to question your certainties and to doubt your doubts.

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Oh... I know... it's already the sixth day of 2009 and this is the first time I've blogged this year. Just as well, I didn't make any New Year resolution to post a blog every day.
Do people seriously make New Year resolutions these days?
I know myself too well even to kid myself on about it.
New Year means very little to me... except that is when I get to go away for a couple of nights to the Fiddle Force Winter School, held for the last 9 or 10 years at Wiston Lodge. [the photograph above shows the low afternoon sunlight casting shadows through some of Wiston's woodland]
It has been a busy end to 2008 and start to 2009 for me with lots of funerals to conduct, so the chance to go away and forget things for a day or two is virtually irresistible.


Highlights of Fiddle Force 2009?

• some excellent tunes, great advice and good laughs from tutor Alasdair White

• improvising to some great old-time stuff from some of the Wiston folk, a mixture of blues, skiffle, American folk and who-knows-what-else

• playing tunes till 3.30am

• catching up with friends, many of whom I only see once a year

• some great conversations

• good food and plenty of it

Lowlights?

• it was cold!!! And I mean, cold!! (Outside and inside the house, in spite of the log fires.)

• leaving on the Sunday afternoon I managed to reverse my car into a big block of sandstone that was just too low to be visible in my wing mirrors... crunch!! So it turned out to be a pretty expensive weekend after all.

Anyway, I still think it is good to start the year with music.

If anybody still reads this stuff, may I wish you a VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR.

Behold the duck

Talking of symbols...Manchester seems to have decided to celebrate Christmas without too much reference to Christ.

I apologize for the slightly fuzzy picture above. Maybe I was still shaking with laughter at the giant Santa - or perhaps it is a giant duck in a red coat? Who knows?