Bedspreads, Saints and Sinners

I had a friend many years ago who I used to tease about her matching bedspreads, curtains and pillowcases. She laughed along with me and then explained her childhood had been something altogether different. Her mother had died of breast cancer and the four girls were left with an alcoholic father. When he became drunk, he became violent and his favourite activity for my friend, as a young girl, was to make her run the full length of the room and bang her head on the far wall. If she didn’t do it hard enough, he became furious. If she cried, he became even angrier. It seemed a very cruel act towards a very small vulnerable child who was missing her mother. 

They slept on beds with coats no sheets no duvets and somehow it suddenly made sense that as a married woman, she wanted her own child to sleep in clean sheets that matched everything beautifully. I was shocked beyond belief that my remark could have triggered such deep hurtful memories of a childhood cursed with alcoholism. Seeing my expression, she hurried to explain that the thing that gave her hope during those dark days was a book entitled ‘The Lives of the Saints’. My friend said this was her daily reading material and it inspired her. She grew to know about wonderful lives, like Saint Francis of Assisi and his love for animals and people. She read and reread these stories and as she described their effect her face became full of joy. I suddenly saw how, even in the midst of misery and suffering, the lives of the saints had shed a light on a spiritual path that led out of the darkness. 

St Jerome (347 AD - 420 AD) was born in modern-day Bosnia and Herzegovina but found himself a student in Rome. While young he enjoyed sexual experimentation among the students of that city and yet felt afterwards incredible feelings of guilt. In order to make his conscience feel better, he would visit the dark catacombs. This would remind him of the perils of hell and seeing the gravestones of the martyrs and the apostles reminded him that he should choose a better path.  He wrote of this experience later, quoting Virgil, 

“On all sides round, horror spread wide; the very silence breathed a terror on my soul”.

However hard he endeavoured to become a member of the local Christian community he inevitably fell out with the leaders describing them as blind men leading other blind men into a pit as in the biblical parable. Such disunity was also apparent in his family where he had accused his sister of behaving abominably and this caused a rift with other family members. Another significant personal crisis in his own life emerged and he felt his reputation had been sullied.  No one knows what actually happened, but he had evidently done something so shocking and offensive and completely unforgivable in the eyes of the local community of nuns that they never replied to any of his letters begging forgiveness despite his admission of his wrongdoing and asking for their pardon.

Eventually seized with a desire for spiritual growth and penance he travelled to a desert and there lived with many other hermits on spiritual path in utmost poverty in holes and caves. One hermit was said to have lived for 30 years on a diet of barley bread and muddy water. The idea of all this torment was to subdue their bodies, break their will and eradicate every carnal desire. To that end, eating and drinking were kept to a minimum and they would even take steps to make sleep very difficult. 

Saint Jerome, during this time, wrote many letters to those that he had offended in the past and to beg for forgiveness. Unfortunately, anyone who did not forgive him, was written another letter viciously attacking them. Gradually he learnt that even among the hermits in the surrounding area he was unpopular. He wrote to the Pope explaining the situation. It is interesting that his main complaint was how argumentative everyone around him was! This period in the desert left him with a dislike of monks, hermits and spiritual people who he saw as often being filled with hypocrisy and arrogance. When he left the desert, he chose to live with a dear friend whose hospitality he depended on for an entire year.

During this time, he chose to write a biography of an early Saint, who had lived to the amazing age of 105, in which he strongly disagreed with that already well-written by his friend and host on the same topic. The prolonged visit inevitably ended with his friend falling out with him and requesting him to leave.  A pattern surely emerges of someone who could not get on with his own family, his own religious community, could not get on with those nuns, could not get on with his neighbouring hermits in the desert, and even couldn’t get on with a hospitable friend who had generously accommodated him for a year for free.  

Fortunately, St Jerome won funding from the pope to undertake translation work on the Bible at which he showed real talent.  As a result of this, St Jerome at last found himself fashionable and much sought after, particularly by elderly women of wealth seeking a spiritual path. Some wrote to him for advice and he encouraged them to take the course of rigorous chastity and self-mortification. St Jerome felt that women had dangerous desires and appetites that needed to be repressed and suppressed.  His basic reasoning was as follows, since eating the forbidden apple in Eden (largely Eve’s fault) caused Adam’s fall, then logically fasting must be the path to chastity and salvation for women. He argued this so successfully to one of the daughters of a particular widow the teenager proceeded to starve herself and died within four months.  At her funeral her mother fainted in distress at the loss.  A horrible letter exists from St Jerome to the mother berating the widow for making such a scene at the graveside. He did not even spare the biblical prophets, remarking that the quality of their rhetoric made his skin crawl. 

By now like me perhaps you are disliking this saint a little?  It is fairly common now to attack people alive and dead and to use all information available, real or made up as ammunition.  In St Jerome’s case, a very real character emerges that while missing on social skills had a dedication and devotion that left a lasting legacy. There can be no doubt that he was a prolific biblical scholar, who wrote wide-ranging commentaries on numerous books of the Bible and strengthened the quality of his translation by referencing both the original Hebrew and Greek texts. I suspect all of us have our flaws and strengths and too often we learn to distract ourselves from our own failings by focusing on the vices of others. Part of the beauty in examining the lives of the saints is that they not only painfully remind us of our own weaknesses, but also inspire a powerful urge to choose a better and more noble path forward.

Malta - reconstruction, recollections and reflections

 

St Julian’s in Malta is a picturesque spot.  Walking to the love statue along the coast from Sliema is a therapy for mind and body.  The scene of the colourful boats lying at anchor add to the colour and drama of the occasion.   

But if you could have only seen it a couple of centuries ago perhaps you would have been more impressed still.   Before the onslaught of modern hotels, businesses and contemporary apartment blocks there was a beauty that was unique.  However, when you think of the hammering Malta received during the war it is amazing how much still remains to be admired.  The extent of this bombing is difficult to get your head around but some old photos do speak volumes.

So I suspect we should be grateful for the beauty that remains. But some of the slightly older photos of St Julian's show us another side to this familiar spot that deserves remembering.

This aerial view of the approach to St Julian's from Balluta bay is still recognisable despite the age of the photograph.  But other photographs of St Julian's suddenly begin to show the changes that have occurred.

In particular, the lovely old buildings on the other side of the bay look stunning and I suddenly see what this area has lost with time.  There is a simplicity and loveliness in this shot that surprises and the two boys with their bicycle seem from another more innocent age.

Going back a few more years this close up of Spinola Palace shows that it is missing the crown on its facade that had been removed in 1798 during Napoleon's visit to signify the Knights Hospitaller of St John's expulsion from Malta. The palace itself was originally built in 1688 by a certain Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola, Grand Prior of Lombardy, on a piece of land he obtained from his brother Frangisku Nupuljan Spinola de Roccaforte, Marquise of the Holy Roman Empire.  

Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola's nephew was appointed Ambassador of the Order to the Court of King Philip V of Spain, to the King of Sicily and to the Court of Pope Innocent XII. In 1733 the Palace was passed on to him and he enlarged and embellished it. This later construction was designed by Romano Carapecchia, and is considered a masterpiece. We can see his original plans for its construction below.

This building also had at the time of its construction a number of ancillary buildings including two boathouses, a church, a belvedere and a building serving as stables. They still survive today belonging to different private owners, with the palace belonging to the Maltese government. Originally the building had also large extensive gardens, including baroque gardens and vineyards.  Over time these were reduced to an enclosed back garden and a small front public garden. Today the palace is barely visible from the bay, being obscured by apartments and other modern buildings.  Which is a shame as it is still an impressive building.

The original church, across the road, is also still there but has a new facade.

The stables are now inhabited by Pizza hut and have undergone considerable reconstruction.  However, the original belvedere still exists.  I had no clue as to what this was, but have since looked up its definition  "an architectural structure sited to take advantage of a fine or scenic view".  It looks a little neglected but still an impressive building.

Spinola palace's original wine cellar now houses the L-Għonnella Restaurant while the two boathouses, whose structures largely remain, host two other restaurants as well.  The original boathouses can be seen more clearly in the photograph below.

The Palace has had a colourful history passing to the church and then in the 1830s, it was used as a residence by the artist Charles Allingham (c.1778-1850).  The British military rented it for £20 a year as a hospital and during the 1860's it became known as Forrest Hospital.

It was after named Dr John Forrest who was the Inspector for Hospitals of the period and it served soldiers and was divided into nine wards on different floors. Following the cholera epidemic of 1865, when three patients there died, a sanitary report pointed out that the building was not suitable as a hospital as the building had serious issues related to a bad drainage system and poor ventilation. The following photograph shows the building with its extensive gardens still in existence.

In the 1940s, the Palace was used as a shelter for people whose homes had been destroyed by aerial bombardment in World War II.  Following its restoration between 1984 and 1986, it was used to host the Museum of Modern Art rather unsuccessfully and then by the Ministry for Tourism for a period. Spinola Palace was restored once again between 2006 and 2007 and this time the crown on the clock, which had been missing since 1798, and the expulsion of the Order was reconstructed in 2012.  The following photograph is not a very old one but shows the Palace still clearly visible in St Julians before it became largely hidden by new buildings.  The two boathouses can also be clearly seen here at the waterside along with the traditional buses in the foreground.

I find it a little sad that Spinola Palace is not really visible from this perspective today and it is perhaps reflective of much that has been knocked down, built on and obscured in the rush to commercialise. When Malta's heritage was demolished by bombs during World War 2 there was a need to rebuild and reclaim in a tangible way what had been lost.  But in modern Malta, the pace of change seems so very fast that there is almost no time to appreciate what we have before it is cemented over and lost.  The beauty and bravery of Malta and the Maltese deserves to be remembered and respected.  Sometimes it is by looking back we find the things we value and also the parts of ourselves that need preserving in order to create the future we truly deserve.  In these odd, unpredictable days of a pandemic perhaps we all need to dig deep and reflect on the individuals, communities and institutions that Malta needs now.

"Therefore strive that your actions day by day may be beautiful prayers."

Bahá’í Writings

Hug the important stuff to you and cut out the rest

I am just back home in Malta from a three week visit to Northern Ireland. Apart from the luxury of soaking up my mum's company and seeing friends and family including my two grandchildren there was much to appreciate. Usually, I would dwell on the disasters of the trip, of which there were a few, but I will close the veil over those and speak only of positives.

I visited an elderly friend of my mother's, Jean. She has just been given the diagnosis of terminal cancer so it was with some trepidation we approached the neat bungalow in Portrush. When we were ushered into the bedroom we were startled to find a smiling radiant Jean sitting up in her bed on oxygen and weak but full of joy. She greeted us both with outstretched arms and hugged us  close. After asking about our family she explained how she come to terms with death. She had done everything, lived a full life and was happy to end the show. Talking about her funeral she explained she didn't want some clergyman wittering on about how she was a good wife, mother or grandmother. So she was getting the music ready and picking poetry she liked and was hoping her grandchildren would be willing to read on the day. Laughter was quick to bubble to the surface and Jean beamed her goodwill around the room. At one point, she pulled down the bed covers and showed us her swollen pregnant looking stomach. “I'm calling him Elijah”,  she laughed pointing at the growing belly. We left her bedside blown away by her courage, radiance and her ability to shower love even at this time. Such people raise the bar of what it is to be human and I wish all of us knew more about these gems rather than the doubtful specimens that stride down corridors of power in this country. Nobility is so far from what we have grown to expect.

My mother, in her eighties, was full of gusto and energy as usual despite two broken toes. Keeping her home and garden immaculate. Weeding out with unforgiving remorselessness dirt, untidiness creases, dust and disorder. When she turns that glance upon me she notices the haircut I administered to myself with a large pair of kitchen scissors. Also, the fact that I had resown my size 16 pair of trousers to accommodate a recent loss of weight. Not being a dressmaker I had simply taken the same kitchen scissors (aforementioned) and sliced off a corridor of material from the inside legs all the way around. Then, on resewing by hand (in large and irregular stitches) I somehow created an unsightly bunch of material at the crotch. It was not a good look, for any woman, as it appeared as if I'd suddenly grown testicles but no penis in my mid 50s.   My mother notices too much and set about bullying me into improvement. Later, with a proper haircut, her size 12 trousers and a comfortable pair of shoes from her wardrobe I am transformed like her house and the garden. Then, each night we played sudoko with an intensity of competition seasoned athletes could not match. The winner gloats with satisfaction and the loser complains about distractions like visitors /TV or a phone call. 

My Mum and Northern Ireland people in general are always concerned what others think of them. They're convinced the populace is taking notes on all their misdemeanours. Neighbours may well have a telescopic lens trained on your front windows. This phenomenon of course is not limited to Northern Ireland. In the north of Greece my friend lived in a remote village where the neighbours took note of how often you washed your bed sheets. The lack of crisp clean sheets regularly blowing in the wind would be discussed with forensic intensity by the women of the village. I take after my father not my mother in such things and have fond memories of my dad, who cared little for the public’s opinion, opening the front door of the bungalow completely nude (just out of the shower) apart from a small hand towel strategically placed. 

I returned to Malta after midnight a couple of days ago and fell eventually into a fitful sleep. The flat is very noisy and creaks and I require darkness to sleep properly. However, I'm unused to the emptiness and so kept my bedside light on. As my grandson Charlie so eloquently declared when put to bed,  “Charlie doesn't like the dark.”  I love the way he always talks of himself in the third person.  Not having slept well I rose to a flat devoid of food. Accustomed to breakfast in bed, a dreadful habit, I decided to go shopping in my pyjamas in the neighbouring supermarket. I just put extra layers on top and bought all the food I needed. Then, got back into bed and resumed my normal breakfast routine. Now, I'm sure there were people who noticed my state of dress, bed hair disarray and panda eyes but fortunately I did not notice them! 

Something however I did notice this visit to NI was how old I have become. I cannot tell you how shocked I was by my mother’s magnifying mirror on her bathroom window ledge in Northern Ireland. There, for the first time in four years, in blistering sunlight I could see my wrinkles and hair growing everywhere it shouldn't particularly in places were really there seems no actual need for it. I mean nose hair serves a useful purpose but why should it proceed to grow excessively outside the nostrils like an overgrown hedge? In addition, because I've lost weight my face looks like a half deflated balloon and as if to take pride in its sprouting set of nostrils my nose has taken up immense proportions dominating my face in a fashion I neither recognise nor appreciate. But I'm being too negative. I’m mobile, I have loved ones and I am loved. There are times in your life you just hug the important stuff to your chest and take the kitchen scissors to the rest.

PS I have just realised that my interpretation of concentrating on the positive seems to consist of death, dying and the disintegration of old age with hair and wrinkles thrown in…sigh...

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind carries me across the sky."  Native American Saying