. . . . a little western flower . . . . .

After all the raving and ranting I’ve done recently, not forgetting moaning and whining, perhaps it’s time I turned my attention to gentler topics. How about the humble pansy? Anyone interested? Thought not. See what I can do.

Let’s start with the common European wild pansy, viola tricolour, also known as Johnny-Jump-Up, heart's ease, heart's delight, tickle-my-fancy, Jack-jump-up-and-kiss-me, come-and-cuddle-me, three faces in a hood, or love-in-idleness. And that’s just a few of them in English.

 wild pansy

In German the wild pansy is called, inter alia, Ackerveilchen (viola of the field), Muttergottesschuh (Mother of God’s shoe), Maedchenaugen (maiden's eyes), Schöngesicht (beauteous face) or Liebesgesichtli (Lover’s face).

The English illustrator, Cicely Mary Barker (28 June 1895 – 16 February 1973) was best known for a series of fantasy illustrations depicting fairies and flowers. The wild pansy is one of the flowers used by her in her rather whimsical drawings.
Shakespeare mentions the wild pansy in two of his plays:   In Hamlet, Ophelia, who is mad with grief at the death of her father, rambles on about strewing herbs:  “And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts…” (Act IV, Scene 5.)
And in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Oberon commands Puck to bring him “…a little western flower / Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound / And maidens call it love-in-idleness.” (Act II, Scene 1.)   It is the effect of this natural aphrodisiac that causes the mayhem and entertainment of the entire play!  You could say that A Midsummer Night’s Dream is woven around the magical properties of heartsease.

Georgia O’Keefe produced a very beautiful painting of a black pansy and followed it up with a depiction of a white one.

Wild pansies were used as herbals, to cure venereal disease for instance, acc. to Culpepper; ditto headaches and dizzy spells. The ancient Greeks used it as a love potion and a symbol of fertility.

The violet has ever been the emblem of constancy. There is a French proverb which goes something like this: “Violet is for faithfulness, which shall in me abide, hoping that in your heart too, it shall not hide”.

The German name for the garden pansy is 'little stepmother’ Stiefmutterchen. There is a very sad tale attached to it:

Stepmother, symbolised by the large lower leaf, only allows her own children
to adorn themselves in colourful array.
Her stepchildren, the upper two leaves of the flower, have to remain in the background, clad in modest colours, or plain white.

Sorrow at the poor treatment his own children receive has turned the pistil, representing the father’s hair, white.

Lastly an explanation for the name in English, which is, as so often, a mispronunciation of a foreign name.

A small bouquet of pansies, given by a lover to his love, was called a pensée, - hence pansy - a thought, symbolising devotion and faithfulness, remembrance, honour, even humility.

But mainly it means: "I am always thinking of you".

In other words, the pansy is an all-round excellent fellow; humble though it is. we should plant many more of them, in spite of their dowdy image with some gardeners. The pansy will brighten any spot and is at home equally in the ground as in any kind of container.

Still reading? Well done. I’ll stop now.

Curiosities and Millie

Striking catkins dangling on a hazel tree are a reassuring sign that spring is on its way. These catkins are all male; watching them dance in the wind is a pretty spectacle all on its own, but knowing that this dance is also a fertility rite, and that the wind is busy pollinating them, gives added meaning to the display.

Squirrels have made good use of the fruits resulting from this annual period of mad procreation. Peering into a hollowed out fence post I found this cache of emptied hazel nut shells. I wonder if squirrels used the hollow for storing their autumn loot or if they came here to crack them open and eat the tasty kernels, leaving the shells behind?

A toothless tree witch watches over it all. Deep eye sockets, a bulbous nose and petrified braids of grey hair complete her picture. A sight to frighten children.

Millie isn’t frightened of anything, not even having her stitches removed. The vet and a nurse got hold of her between them, turned her over forcibly and went to work. Her hind leg trembled a bit but her tail kept thumping the floor. Funny girl.

The lump removed from her groin is a malignant Fibrosarcoma; the good news is that the likelihood of metastases is low and the sarcoma is not particularly invasisve. The vet has removed all of it, including a few millimetres of healthy tissue, which means that she is now probably clear of cancer. I sincerely hope so, both my previous labradors developed terminal cancer. As Millie will most likely be our last dog (famous last words) I hope that the lab report’s final sentence is true: ... "long term prognosis is good”.

Crumbs, or (In)consequential Trifles (1)

What do you want first, good news or bad news?

Some statements/headlines in the press or online are so stupid, outlandish, silly, ridiculous, horrifying, that they deserve no comment at all. Or no more than a sharp snort, a fruity snicker or a disgusted harrumph.

British confirmed as world’s sexiest accent. Guardian online.  (Since when is ‘British' a language?)

Nine is a perfectly good age for girls to consider marriage. Islamic State All-Female Militia Manifesto.

Female martyrs to the cause are rewarded with the freedom to choose their favourite husband and to stay with him for all eternity.  Ditto. (Lucky ladies.)

Finland is to remove cursive writing from its education programme and replace it
with lessons in keyboard typing. IceNews (What next, no maths, just calculators?)


But then I came across this:

German teen’s simple anti-bullying message goes viral

No all-singing-all-dancing-fancy-tech-firewoks, just bits of paper with handwritten lines held up, coming from the heart.

People! Nobody is worth less than anyone else just because he or she:

Has a handicap /
May not have much money /
May not be very smart /
May not have the best figure /
Is gay, lesbian or bisexual /
Has a different skin color /
Has a different religion /
Comes from a different country/

Victims of bullying often feel lonesome and left alone. They hurt their bodies because they think they are different. They have thoughts about suicide!

How would – you – feel about that?

Only TOGETHER can we CHANGE things! =)

The boy meant to address his peer group but his message goes for all of us. Just because somebody is different doesn’t make them a justified target for ridicule, hatred, bullying.  Will we ever learn this simple truth?

Request for some Sporting Advice from my US Blogging Friends ....

please.

I understand you just had one of those annual events which change the history of your nation and put every citizen into a great excitement. I also understand that the following is something like:

“When they meet there is neither comparing of numbers, or matching of men; but a silver ball is cast up and that company which can catch, and carry it by force or sleight to the place assigned, gaineth the ball and victory. The Hurtlers take their next way over hills, dales, hedges, ditches, yea, and through bushes, briars, mires, plashes and river whatsoever: so as you shall sometimes see 20 or 30 lie tugging together in the water, scrambling and scratching for the ball. A play both rude and rough. The ball in this play may be compared to an infernal spirit, for whosoever catcheth it, fareth straighways like  a mad man, struggling and fighting with those that go about to hold him. You shall see them retiring home as from a pitched battle, with bloody pates, bones broken and out of joint, and such bruises as serve to shorten their days; yet all is good play, and never Attorney or Coroner troubled.”


They did that sort of thing in Cornwall at the beginning of the 17th century. There’s nothing new under the sun.

Lady in Mink

shovelling sh*t. Beloved is nothing if not to the point.

I should have had a camera handy,” he said, standing at the kitchen window, looking out, when I came in. Millie and I had been for a short walk and afterwards I grabbed a couple of hand shovels to clear up a small accumulation of detritus left by her over several days. She uses a particular area in the garden for her morning evacuations and normally I clean up after her the same day. But on cold winter mornings I like to forget. Hence the lady in mink hunting little piles this afternoon.  Hunter’s gumboots, a wooly hat pulled down low,

thick gloves, and Aunt Josephine’s mink coat completing the outfit, I was as warm as toast.

So, Millie walked, sh*t shovelled, birds fed, kitchen bin taken to the compost, meant my outdoor duties were completed for the day. I was glad to get back in. My, but that wind is cold.

As cold as a non-Quaker feels at a Quaker funeral. I had my first experience of a Quaker funeral service, which is not so different from an ordinary Quaker meeting, I understand. It didn’t help that we got lost in a maze of muddy lanes and arrived at the last minute. At one passing place (English country lanes are sometimes only a car width wide and need special passing places every so often) I imperiously flagged down a black car to ask directions and realised, horror-struck, that it was the hearse which had delivered my friend’s mortal remains to the chapel where the service was to be held. My friend’s husband, who is artistic to the point of lunacy, had given us directions which we seriously misunderstood.

Long silences were interrupted by a handful of people who felt moved to stand up and speak a few words, otherwise there was nothing except quiet contemplation. Even for a very infrequent churchgoer like me it seemed terribly bleak, lacking the comfort and reassurance of ritual. Afterwards we stood around in the biting wind (no mink coat this time) and watched the coffin lowered into the grave in silence. It was a green burial, in a field surrounding the chapel, there were no head stones, no flowers; no formal words were spoken. One of the bearers held a bowl of earth and a few people followed the family and threw a handful on to the coffin.

My friend, who suffered from Alzheimer’s for the past twelve years and whose death was, finally, a blessed relief, was a Quaker herself and she would have known many funerals such as hers. Personally, the thought of a humanist service and green burial appeals, but I would certainly like to have a little more fuss made over me, no matter how insincere. As is due to a Lady in Mink.

Pills, Potions And Piety

The Guardian

The remnants of Gonzalo landed on these shores last night and today. It had long blown out its destructive fury across the other side of the world and the gales and rain storms it brought our way were unpleasant but not deadly, although a woman was killed when a tree fell on her.

Sitting in the conservatory this morning,  looking out at the high winds playing with trees and shrubs and listening to small twigs, beech mast and leaves cluttering on the glass roof, I felt snug and warm and safe. Breakfast over, but the day not fully begun I was counting out pills and capsules - all supplementary vitamins, minerals, fish oils, plant sterols, glucosamine and chondroitin, etc. etc. for the next twenty days, thinking how soon daylight will end at four pm again and I will once again struggle to cope with SAD.

It’s my name day today, Oct 21. I don’t celebrate it as I would in Germany, in fact, I usually forget it. Ursula was adopted as a Christian saint and a great embroidery of innocence, piety and sacrifice was stitched around her in a long, involved and frequently changing legend, (depending on who is telling the story).

A more interesting story can be read in a 6000 year old script, 'Old Europe Script’,  symbols invented by ancestors of the Celts,  seen by some as the earliest proto-language. which refers to the ‘Bear Goddess’ : The Bear Goddess and the Bird Goddess are the Bear Goddess indeed. It could mean that the bear goddess and bird goddess merged into a single goddess.  Some archaeologists have claimed that the bear is the oldest European deity. I like this historically equally unproven story better than the legend of the holy maiden who was martyred for her piety.

Looking into the Perpetual Almanack for inspiration I found this short entry for Oct 22:

**By Tradition, the anniversary of Creation:

“In the beginning God created Heaven and Earth. Which beginning of time, according to our Chronology, fell upon the entrance of the night preceding the 23rd day of October, in the year 4004 before Christ.”

James Ussher  -  The Annals of the World 1658**


I thought that William Blake’s work “Europe a Prophecy"
The Ancient of Days, copy K from the Fitzwilliam Museum, would be a fitting end to Ussher’s pronouncement and to this rather cobbled together blog post.

It’s been one of those days.

Women in Medicine

Mediaeval Illustration

They say you can tell you are getting old when you see policemen getting younger. You know you must be old when your doctor, who is younger than you, retires.  In our time here the head of our country practice has always been a woman, although we also have a much appreciated and very popular male doctor. My lovely female doctor has retired, another female practitioner has taken her place. Even the most old-fashioned and hidebound countryman now accepts these providers of medical care without turning a hair.

From earliest times, women have nursed the sick and cared for newborns and the elderly in their homes. Childbirth was entirely in the hands of trained midwives; but it was not until the 1900s, and after much struggle, that women won the right to study and practice medicine in the same way as men. Even so, this right is still not granted in all parts of the world.

Women have always been central in providing medical care, whether in the home, nursing or acting as herbalists. However, the medical profession has been male dominated for most of its history. In Europe this came about from the 1400s, when many cities and governments decided that only those trained in universities were allowed to formally practise medicine. As women were not allowed into the universities they could not gain a licence.


In my copy of 'The Portable Medieval Reader' I found “The Case Of A Woman Doctor In Paris”. (1322)  A certain Jacoba Felicie was prosecuted by the medical faculty of the University of Paris for practicing without their degree of the Chancellor's license. :

“ . . . . in the inquisition made at the instance of the masters in medicine at  Paris against Jacoba Felicie  and others practising the art of medicine and surgery in Paris and the suburbs without the knowledge and authority of the said masters, to the end that they be punished, and that this practice be forbidden them . . . . . “

The Court produced a whole range of indictments, i.a. that Jacoba visited many sick persons, afflicted with grave illnesses, touching, feeling, holding their pulses,  examining body and limbs, and inspecting their urine.  Not only that but she also said to these sick persons:  "I shall make you well, God willing, if you will have faith in me”, making an agreement concerning the cure with them and receiving money for it."

Many witnesses came forward to testify that Jacoba had indeed healed them whereas, although enduring the care of very many expert masters in the art of medicine, they had not been able at all to recover from the illnesses, although the masters applied as much care and diligence to these as they were able. And the said Jacoba, called afterwards, had cured these sick persons in a short time, by an art which is suitable for accomplishing this.

In their wisdom the medical faculty accepted defeat and Jacoba was allowed to continue to cure the sick. It is a pity that it took the medical profession another 600 years to come to the conclusion that women could do more than wipe a fevered brow.

Curiosities

Wordless Wednesday

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