Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau - Old Land of My Fathers

SCOTLAND THE BRAVE

 

SHOULD WE DROP OUR PSEUDONYMS?

The ferryman spake: "Harbarth am I and seldom I hide my name." Thor spake: "Why shouldst thou hide thy name, if quarrel thou hast not?" Quotation from the Poem of Harbarth in the Poetic Edda Henry Adams Bellows (Trans. 1936).

This quote that appears so innocent and perhaps not at all interesting, hides significance within its brevity. When I first began to write I used a pseudonym. I did so quite deliberately to project a persona, to create a brand-name that would be easily recognised. I also chose a 'nom de plume' to hide my Pagan activities from my professional environment.

Today decades after first seeing my pen-name in print, I am less inclined to hide behind the mask of a pseudonym. Indeed I can go further, I don't actually mind if people dislike what I do, what I write or what I say, within the bounds of not wishing to cause deliberate offence naturally. I would prefer to have a positive reaction obviously but some negative reaction cannot be avoided. It is all part of the game.

I have grown in confidence. I feel that I am able to defend my position better than in the past and that my opinion may have some small worth. The risk of being judged opinionated, the risk of becoming the target of criticism; obviously increases with time. I can shoulder that burden. There is always going to be an element of 'tall poppy syndrome' at play and sometimes criticism is made purely for the sake of criticism. It would be a lie to say that criticism does not hurt and that it is not always constructive, yet is all part of the game.

The use of a pseudonym raises questions of what exactly are we hiding from and why? What is the need or desire for a pen-name? The use of a 'nom de plume' is hardly a new fashion. Many artists, writers, actors and entertainers, adopt a pen-name, a stage name or a pseudonym of some nature. It is common practice and has been throughout history. Sometimes the given name is simply unsuitable for the chosen career and it doesn't roll of the tongue.

There may also be a degree of social etiquette but that expectation has we hope, changed over time. None of the Bronte sisters wrote under their own names, Charlotte, Emily and Anne used the male pseudonyms of Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell. In Victorian times women did not write books of that 'genre' and it was advisable to avoid scandal. Mary Ann Evans wrote as George Eliot and going further back in time, Jane Austin wrote anonymously as 'A Lady' but probably for very different reasons.

Today a woman writing under a male or an ambiguous pseudonym, is not doing so to conform to Victorian manners. Rather it is common for writers of both genders, to use one pen-name for a particular style of writing or genre; then switch to another style under another name. J.K. Rowling has done this. Edith Mary Pargeter not only wrote under her own name, she wrote as Ellis Peters, John Redfern, Jolyon Carr and as Peter Benedict. A remarkable variety of 'nom de plumes' from a remarkably diverse author.

There are valid, sensible reasons for not writing under one's own name but there are also issues of inappropriate anonymity. To hide behind the dubious veil of anonymity, to deliberately cause hurt, controversy or trouble in any form; is very often the act of a coward. People have been known to use a pseudonym to remain anonymous and send harassing messages on social media, to write to newspapers and we have all heard of the physical poison pen letter. Such activity is beneath contempt. If one holds an opinion and that opinion is of worth, then one should have the courage stand up for that opinion in public.

For my own part, although I still associate myself with the 'brand' Chattering Magpie; I am increasingly using my chosen name as a standalone identity. It is noticeable that many publishers decline to use these 'fancy' these pen-names today. Many editors are of the opinion that they lack credibility, may reflect poorly upon the publication itself and lacking professionalism, are unsuitable for more serious works.

Are pseudonyms outgrown over time? Is it conceivable that as we mature as individuals, as artists and as writers; we no longer feel the need to hide behind a mask? As our confidence grows, our professionalism and our abilities, we are increasingly able to stand up as who we are. We no longer need a mask.

The Toxic Internet & Tall Poppy Syndrome

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/02/14/the-toxic-internet-tall-poppy-syndrome/

Lockdown Part 9 - Candlemas & Lambtide 2021

 

It is the first week of February, it is cold and it is raining. This is the week of Candlemas, Imbolc, Imbolg or as I choose to call it; Lambtide. It is a cross quarter day and still a festival period for many people. For some Lambtide or Candlemas, is the true beginning of the ritual year. This festival if perceived as a single day, will fall on a different date depending upon the individual choice of calendar. Some mark it on the 1st of February and others later in the week. Candlemas is both the Feast of the Presentation of Jesus at the Temple and the Purification of the Blessed Virgin in the Catholic Church, falling traditionally on the 2nd of February.

 

Festivals do not always have fixed and unchanging dates. Christmas itself may never move but as we all know, Easter is a moveable feast. This is true for the equinoxes and the solstices. People do not necessarily appreciate that the Cross Quarter Days may also move, when seen as being dependent upon astronomical phenomena. Our modern society fails to recognise and to appreciate the interconnectedness of calendar cycles. Modern life has forced upon our society an unfortunate separation and the concept of a gradual seasonal change is often overlooked by that secular society. The dual lunar and solar symbolism of the seasonal calendar, remains a mystery to much of the population.

 

Most people reading this post will be aware that the Spring Equinox can fall between the 21^st and the 23^rd of March and marks the beginning of Aries.  That the Summer Solstice can fall between the 21^st and the 23^rd of June and marks the beginning of Cancer. That the Autumn Equinox can fall between the 21^st and the 23^rd of September and marks the beginning of Libra. That the Winter Solstice will fall between the 21^st and the 23^rd of December and marks the beginning of Capricorn. This is all well known.

 

What is perhaps less well known is that it is acceptable to observe or mark Imbolc, on the Full Moon of Aquarius or at 15 degrees of that star sign. Beltaine on the Full Moon of or at 15 degrees of Taurus. Lughnassadh on the Full Moon of at 15 degrees of Leo. Samhain on the Full Moon of or at 15 degrees of Scorpio.

 

Clearly the equinoxes and solstices have an associated solar symbolism, symbolically representing in order; sunrise, zenith, sunset and nadir. The Cross Quarter Days mirror this pattern with a lunar symbolism. Imbolc is represented by the astrological or visible New Moon; the Waxing Moon of the First Quarter. Beltaine represents the Full Moon.  Lughnassadh represents the Old or Waning Moon of the Third Quarter. Samhain is represented by the Dark Moon, the astronomical  and non-visible New Moon.

 

The ritual calendar of the Hearth of the Turning Wheel, incorporates the common eight festivals of modern Paganism and follows the progression of the four tides of the year. We begin with Lambtide or Candlemas as our starting point, it is the tide of Lustration or sowing. Maytide or Roodmas is the tide of Activation or growth. Lammastide is the tide of Consolidation or reaping and Hallowtide is the tide of Recession or death, thus leading to new growth and the start of the cycle once more.

 

It has been a year now since the Hearth of the Turning Wheel has met in fellowship. Many groups are in the same predicament of course. Socially distanced meetings are not as easy to organise as some would think. This is particularly true when people are shielding or actually have COVID. Which does of course lead us to ask, has the Coronavirus killed the Hearth? Time will tell but we as individuals struggle on as best we can.

 

The United Kingdom has been in and out of a series of Lockdowns for almost a year. Officially we are in Lockdown number three but depending on your geographical location, if taking regional lockdowns into account; the tally may be different. Many are of course feeling the strain. The situation does not appear to be improving and people wonder when the crisis will end. Many of these concerns I have referred to in previous posts. I provide links below.

 

We all hoped of course that a New Year would bring a fresh and uplifting new start. Yet just because a year ends and another begins, does not mean the evils of the past year can be swept away. The artificial and arbitrary adjustments of the calendar are not in concurrence with natural phenomena, whether it be a disease or a season.

 

My own New Year and new start was a new job. I moved to a new department in the first week of January but I was there for only two weeks. A move to another unit was in some respects inevitable, I had been expecting such since before Christmas. The worsening situation within healthcare is palpable to those of us inside the environment. I have now been redeployed to help with staffing issues caused by the crisis and I am now on a RED unit. That is to say a ward designated for the care of patients with Coronavirus.

 

My life is a rollercoaster ride. In November of last year I was a nurse in Orthopaedic surgery. I moved to Endoscopy at the beginning of January and now in February, I look back on my first two weeks on a COVID ward. It is a busy unit, it is heavy, hard-work and the patients are very unwell.  Things do appear to be slowly improving. Instead of losing one every day, we lose one every other day. Sorry but there is little we have to laugh about these days.

 

I do not mind moving. I feel a sense of duty. I feel we must all do our best and play our part, to counter this awful disease. Since I live alone, if we do not include my two black cats. There is no one else to be put at risk and I had my vaccination prior to my transfer. I would much rather it was me redeployed, than one of the women with young children at home. Yes I know. I am terribly old fashioned, old chap!

 

Family and friends have voiced some concern regards my transfer and I am aware that I have put myself in harm's way. Some of their concerns revolve around my own auto-immune disorder but since this illness is not respiratory, the risks are manageable. This is my tour of duty and although I had some contact with COVID patients last year, this environment is rather more acute. Now I can to look my colleagues in ED and ICU/HDU in the eye, a little easier. They have been in the 'thick of it' from the beginning and have my admiration.

 

The year moves on slowly and the seasons gradually change. Yet as others have noted (link below), with the Lockdown of last year we were forced into a period of rest and consolidation. An artificial period of reaping, recession and dare I say death; long before the tides came. Our lives have been out of synchronisation since the spring of last year, we are figuratively out of tune with the seasonal tides and this is far from beneficial. We all of us now face challenges and a need perhaps, to find our place in this difficult and changing world.

 

In the last week of January here in Derbyshire, we had a heavy snowfall. Heavy enough to cause some mild disruption on the local roads. I took a walk to the neighbouring village, appreciating the beauty of the land about me. The fields and hedges were draped with sheets of bright, white snow. It looked like a layer of think icing sugar had been rolled over the land, while the roofs and hedges had an attractive light dusting. The local churchyard looked like a Christmas card illustration. The thatched cottages of the village, looked like houses made from gingerbread and marzipan. The world about me looked pure and clean.

 

I took delivery of a case of mead from a local supplier that same week, timely and in advance of the Lambtide. Included with the order was a complementary gift, a bottle of 'Little John' mead. Appropriate as the symbolism of the 'Shire-wood' plays some part in my own practice. It is a gift well received and very much appreciated. It shall be put in a safe place, ready for when the Inner Court of the Hearth of the Turning Wheel can safely meet again.

 

This week we have had rain and in the gardens there are shoots visible. I can see the green lush growth of bluebells and snowdrops. These are all signs of hope but the week is tinged with sadness. On the 2^nd of February Captain Sir Thomas Moore died from COVID. This man has been an inspiration to many here in the UK, raising money for the NHS during the crisis. He served this country in WWII but his fund raising has made him a hero a second time over. He was 100 years old.

 

As stated above it has been a year, since the Hearth of the Turning Wheel has been able to meet physically. The restrictions placed upon us by the pestilence, together with illness, quarantines and safety concerns; have curtailed our activities beyond our original expectations. With this in mind I invited all members and friends of the Hearth, to light a single candle at 8pm on the night of the 2nd of February. No words, affirmations or prayers were provided or judged necessary, unless the individual felt such to be appropriate. I simply asked that people should light a candle, to connect with other members and supporters of the Hearth.

 

Candlemas is in the Catholic Church, the Feast of the Purification of the Blessed Virgin. For many it is the beginning of the ritual year and a time when the land stirs again, after the long sleep of winter. Purification and spring cleaning, first snow and then the rain; to wash away the grime of winter. The 'Virgin' land is alive again and perhaps the plague will be swept away in our spring clean.

 

Lockdown 24th March 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/03/24/Lockdown-24th-march-2020/

 

Lockdown Part Two & Clap for our Carers 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/04/09/Lockdown-part-two-clap-for-our-carers-2020/

 

Lockdown Part Three – Clap for Boris & Easter Weekend 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/04/18/lockdown-part-three-clap-for-boris-easter-weekend-2020/

 

Lockdown Part 4 – Maytide & VE Day 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/05/18/lockdown-part-4-maytide-ve-day-2020/

 

LOCKDOWN PART FIVE – MEDIA LIES

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/06/02/lockdown-part-five-media-lies/

 

Lockdown Part 6 – When this is over

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/09/07/lockdown-part-6-when-this-is-over/

 

Lockdown Part 7 – Autumn 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/10/21/lockdown-part-7-autumn-2020/

 

Lockdown Part 8 – Hallowtide 2020

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2020/11/16/lockdown-part-8-hallowtide-2020/

 

An Introduction to the Hearth of the Turning Wheel

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2019/05/21/an-introduction-to-the-hearth-of-the-turning-wheel/

 

One Pagans Perspective of the Covid-19 Pandemic

https://knotmagick101.wordpress.com/2021/01/31/one-pagans-perspective-of-the-covid-19-pandemic/?fbclid=IwAR3JVWiWrOpD7FNTnnJ23KvhmPcEkONbNvhfnS_pv4LfaR-QrxlFrdRIhMc

 

TWENTY – TWENTY VISION – A YEAR IN REVIEW

https://chatteringmagpie.wordpress.com/2021/01/10/twenty-twenty-vision-a-year-in-review/

 

Apothecary Mead

https://www.apothecarymead.com/

The Female of the Species (1911) a poem by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

 

WHEN the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,

He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.

But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,

They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.

'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

Man's timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,

For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;

But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other's tale—

The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—

Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.

Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact

To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

 

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,

To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.

Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex

Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

 

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame

Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;

And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,

The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

 

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast

May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.

These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—

She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

 

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great

As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.

And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim

Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

 

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;

Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—

He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,

Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

 

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,

Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,

Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw

And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

 

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer

With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her

Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands

To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

 

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him

Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.

And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,

That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.