Uphill struggle
HOW hard is it meant to be? It was Ash Wednesday, and I’d found myself halfway up a hill in a snowstorm, gloveless, cashless, and in my camel coat, wondering whether taxis were running to West Malvern. The local bus service — already minimal — had been “on diversion” for weeks, and the nearest source of refreshment, not to mention shelter, was a good two miles away. Or was it?
As I stumbled onwards through the darkening air, the cold plash of snowflakes against my cheek, I could not but be relieved at the sight of blurry lights through the fog. A hostelry! And one called the Star, no less. I felt like a cross between Jane Eyre and a potential victim of the Wreckers. Could I trust myself to whatever human warmth and welcome I might find within? More importantly, for one habituated to twice-daily (if not continual) examen, should I? Lent had barely begun, the ashes were not yet dry on my brow, and it was only six o’clock.
Suffice it to say that, faced with a night on the bare mountain and possible death from exposure, I succumbed, and found my way to the bar and to a Guinness Zero, sitting alone in the semi-silent pub, hoping my alcohol-free choice of beverage might be “accepted on God’s altar” in the economy of penitence.
Only when the Carpenters came on the sound system, and, with jaunty imperviousness, the words “Not a cloud in the sky, got the sun in my eyes” set my feet tapping, did I begin to relax, sense myself safe, and decide to order a half of something stronger. Total abstinence was not among my Lenten resolutions, after all, and “Top of the World” had to be a nudge from on high to take it easy. So, take it easy I did, thankful that the Star — unlike the taxi drivers — took plastic.
Sign of the times
ONE of the core monastic practices that I have been reviving recently is sewing, by which I mean not the creative stuff, like patchwork quilts, but the mending of variously tattered items of clothing lying around the house.
Loose buttons have proved a hazard when cycling around Oxford, and my camel coat has nearly got snarled up in the inner workings of my bike more than once when the lower flaps have come adrift, thanks to button failure. Securing those handsome horn discs and toggles has been upgraded from luxury activity (how often does one really have the time?) to potentially life-saving precaution.
Out comes the sewing-and-mending box, populated by several reels of near-identical white cotton, a random selection of Sylko colours, three “quick-unpicks”, and an assortment of my late mother’s thimbles.
Fitting a thimble to one’s middle finger is a quietly satisfying action, and these days comes with a momentary jolt as I realise the shape of my finger has changed since handwriting has given way to typing in my routines. The (ink-stained) bump that used to mark me out as a frequent writer has all but vanished. I am not sure whether to be pleased, or to grieve its passing.
Be prepared
AMONG the joys of early spring in our household is the fact that the marmalade has been made, and the larder is lined with non-identical jars of what must be one of the most delicious substances on earth.
We like it chunky and with reduced sugar, which means that it comes out dark, the colour of good cognac. The Bonne Maman jars, with their signature red gingham lids and impossible-to-remove labels, sit happily alongside the tiny hexagonal jars and larger Kilners: three batches, and one to spare for Christmas presents, which means a plenitude of pots to cheer the soul.
On one level, I know that such domestic adaptation means that I have lost at least some of my old monastic grit, and that, with growing older, I have become a little better at making provision for the morrow. Time was when I would have considered it a fault. Which saint was it that counselled against soaking beans overnight, given that one might be swept away any minute, like the grass that springs up in the morning?
Saint or no saint to advise me, planning was never my strong suit — witness the “caught in a snowstorm” scenario — but now I can at least concede the necessity of making provision, just in case.
Designer asceticism
THIS brings me back to the perennial question, how hard the “path that leads to life” is meant to be. I was raised on a not-for-ever-by-still-waters spirituality — if spirituality is the right word for the mode in which we girls belted out our school hymn.
As a musical child, I sang with gusto, and loved the idea of being able to “Smite the living fountains From the rocks along our way”, only vaguely intuiting that this might not be child’s play when the time came.
As a novice, I discovered the joy of lingering contemplatively “in green pastures”, but soon enough the “steep and rugged pathway” beckoned, and the hard lessons of spiritual growth were learned — or, perhaps, thrust upon me. The real penances, of course, are the ones that we have not chosen. The idea that we can personally design our own trials and tribulations, in a sort of bespoke package of discomforts, is itself a luxury.
In the monastery, indulging one’s own will and whims in these matters was seen as no less an imperfection than reading after lights out, or insisting on one’s own way in community matters that demanded a little give and take. “Man proposes, God disposes” was an apt refrain.
God of small things
THANKFULLY, a night on the bare mountain was averted. As I hummed along to the Carpenters, nursing my half, I mused on providence and the wonderful ways in which life takes us by surprise.
Who knew that the Star also served Chinese food? Why had I never before noticed the extreme beauty of snowflakes under street lights? Actually, I had, but in a painful way. My father died one February, long ago. This Ash Wednesday happened to be his anniversary, and the news first came to me on just such a night as this. The drift of white across the dark, the delicacy of the wind-driven snow against the brutal, monolithic background, wrenched my heart.
Now, decades on, I could thank God and sip my beer, and recognise that “I’m on top of the world” even here — perhaps even anywhere — whatever the circumstances. Jesus died on a bare hill, which means that all the hills of the world (like everything else) have been sanctified.
The word “Malvern” comes from an ancient Celtic-Welsh root, meaning “bare hill”, and I cannot help loving those stark and grassy peaks, within easy reach of home in Oxford. I often cycle to the station, keeping my camel coat oil-free, and make it breathlessly to the train, thanking God for needle and thread, and chunky marmalade, and all the other small redemptions with which he mends my life, and turns my unplanned-for days into a story of his own creation.
Catherine Coldstream is a writer, mentor, editor, and former Carmelite nun. Her book Cloistered: My years as a nun is published by Chatto & Windus (Books, 8 March 2024).
