Watching the royal wedding on telly? Here’s what you need to know about St. George’s Chapel and Windsor Castle

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As I boarded the train at London’s Waterloo Station, I could not get that infernal pop song by the Dixie Cups, out of my mind.

I was indeed going to the chapel, but not to get ma-a-a-rried. I was going to get a good look so that when the clock strikes noon on Saturday, I can toast my TV with a glass of bubbly knowing a bit more about the site of Meghan Markle and Prince Harry’s royal wedding.

St. George’s Chapel is on the grounds of Windsor Castle, the oldest continuously inhabited royal residence on the planet. With 13 acres, the castle is also the largest.

William the Conqueror chose this spot overlooking the Thames in 1070, and since then, it has been home to 39 monarchs.

On the early spring day I visited, the clouds spit intermittently and cast a gray light. From the train station, I followed the tall, fortified walls of the castle, and although I was here to check out the chapel, I couldn’t resist following signs to the State Apartments. They’ll give me extra context, I told myself, but really, I was just curious.

Grandeur and glitz

They were even grander than I had expected — shimmering gold furnishings with satin and silk upholstery and wallpaper in ruby red and emerald green — the result of Charles II’s attempt to outdo France’s Louis XIV in splendor.

The ceilings, painted by Antonio Verrio, show gods and goddesses in shades of bubblegum pink and baby blue frolicking above the Queen’s Audience Chamber, the Queen’s Presence Chamber and the King’s Dining Room. It is difficult to imagine that these are working rooms regularly used for ceremonial occasions and not film sets.

Amid the glitz are paintings by Holbein, Van Dyck, Rubens and Canaletto. I was particularly struck by Rembrandt’s thoughtful “A Young Man Wearing a Turban” and his 1642 “Self-Portrait in a Flat Cap” with its earthy palette. What would he make of his glittering surroundings?

I stepped outside under glowering skies and caught sight of a building that is more filigree and air than stone. This was it — one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the world. I wandered inside St. George’s Chapel, and once my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I gasped.

One of the volunteers heard me and laughed, admitting that after years of working here, she still can’t believe her surroundings.

The chapel is a classic cross-shaped structure with a transept, nave and two side aisles. The ceiling looked as though skeins of lace had been stretched across it and magically turned to stone; the windows shimmered as if gemstones had been pressed into glass.

The original building dates to the 13th century, but the chapel was finished in 1483 during the reign of King Edward IV.

The chapel seats 800, far fewer than the massive St Paul’s, where Harry’s parents, Diana Spencer and the Prince of Wales, were married in 1981. And it doesn’t have the political associations of Westminster Abbey, a stone’s throw from Parliament, where Harry’s brother, Prince William, married Kate Middleton in 2011.

St. George, the chapel’s namesake, is a bit of a mystery. He was probably an officer in the Roman army who died around 300, and King Edward III chose him as the country’s patron saint in 1350, although he had never been to Britain.

Edward III, inspired by the chivalry of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, set up his own chivalrous order, the Order of the Garter, whose spiritual home is St. George’s.

Nearly 700 years after the order’s founding, the monarch recognizes men and women from a variety of backgrounds who have devoted their lives to public service, appointing them into the order. Every June, the queen, knights and ladies parade in their grand velvet robes and plumed hats in the Garter Day procession held here.

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Side entrance of St George’s Chapel, Windsor

‘Fine, peaceful and hallowed’

The chapel has also been the site of royal baptisms, communions, marriages and burials. I wonder whether Prince Harry chose this site partly because of his baptism here in 1984 and also as a nod to his father, the Prince of Wales, whose prayer service was held here in 2005 after his marriage to the Duchess of Cornwall, better known as Camilla.

One of the most beautiful statues in the church is Matthew Wyatt’s memorial to Princess Charlotte, who died in 1817 during childbirth, along with her son. Artists from the Regency era really know how to do death — possibly because there was so much of it.

A robed Charlotte points upward while a winged angel carries her baby heavenward and mourners draped in white marble “fabric” surround the scene.

Charlotte’s death hit Britain hard. The entire population went into mourning, much as it did after Diana died in 1997.

St. George’s feels somewhat mournful and far away. It is no surprise that Queen Victoria adored the chapel, calling it “fine, peaceful and hallowed.”

Her eldest son, Edward VII, is the only royal to be baptized, confirmed, married and buried here. His marriage to Alexandra of Denmark in 1863 came two years after the death of Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert. The widowed queen entered the chapel by a private walkway and shed a tear as she observed her son’s wedding from an oriel window — a decorated bay window Henry VIII had built for his first wife, Catherine of Aragon.

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Some fine and intricate stonework on the exterior of St George’s Chapel, Windsor

After hours in the chapel, I stopped in the gift shop, where I asked a volunteer whether he could show me Victoria’s secret walkway. He pointed to a courtyard behind the shop. Above was a tiny wooden door and a raised boardwalk.

“She used to go out there and walk around at night,” he said. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he gestured to the courtyard, “That’s where Henry VIII saw Jane Seymour for the first time.”

She was the third of his seven wives and is buried next to him under a marble slab — I almost didn’t see it as I walked through the choir. You need to look where your feet are stepping.

On Harry and Meghan’s wedding day, the couple will be given titles by Queen Elizabeth II. The Duke of Sussex is thought to be the likeliest choice, which would make Markle Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Sussex.

Sticking to the couple’s plans to make this royal wedding a joyous celebration “of the people,” the first to congratulate them as husband and wife will be the 2,000 charity workers and local schoolchildren who have been invited to watch from inside the castle walls.

At 1 p.m., the couple will ride through the pretty Berkshire town of Windsor in a carriage before returning to the castle for their reception. The picturesque route will offer plenty of opportunity for the newlyweds to share their day with the public.

As I left the chapel to undertake the route on foot, the clouds parted and an early spring sun emerged — a good omen, I think.

long walk

The Long Walk with Windsor Castle in the distance

Spring is here (the-uh-uh)

The sky is blue (Whoah-oh-oh)

Birds all sing

As if they knew

Today’s the day

We’ll say “I do”

and we’ll never be lonely anymore.

“Chapel of Love,” The Dixie Cups

If you go

THE BEST WAY TO LONDON

From LAX, American, Air New Zealand, British, Delta, KLM, Lufthansa, Norwegian and Virgin Atlantic offer nonstop service to London. United, Delta, KLM and American offer connecting service (change of planes). Restricted round-trip airfare from $772, including taxes and fees.

Trains from London’s Waterloo Station leave every half hour for the Windsor & Eton Riverside station. The journey is an hour. For tickets, go to National Rail. Tickets cost about $17 to $28.50, depending on the day and time

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Tea Shop in Windsor

Windsor Castle, Open 9:30 a.m. to 5:15 p.m. through October. Last entry is 4 p.m. Admission, adults, about $25.30; children 17 and younger, about $14.75; seniors and students $23, children 5 and younger, free. The Castle is completely closed May 17-19 and June 17-18. It will have different closing times on May 24 and June 15 (last admission 3 p.m., closes at 4 p.m.)

St. George’s Chapel, closes at 4:15 p.m (last entry 4 p.m.) Mondays-Saturdays in order to prepare for the evening church service at 5:15. The chapel is closed to visitors on Sundays, as services are held throughout the day. Worshipers are welcome to attend the services.

 

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Romance is in the Air at London’s Green Spaces

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Like love and marriage, London’s green spaces are inextricably linked to Britain’s royal family — and the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, are no exception. This spring there is much talk of romance in the run-up to Meghan Markle’s marriage to Prince Harry. What better place to feel the love than among the acres of blossoms, rolling green lawns and ancient woodland that make up these royal gardens.

Kew, founded in 1840, is London’s largest UNESCO World Heritage site and contains the world’s biggest collection of rare and exotic plants. Here, you can find musk roses, sweet violets, bergamot and heartsease — otherwise known as the love potion in Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”— among lily pads the size of coffee tables and flowers so tiny you need a magnifying glass to see them.
Early in May, Kew’s magnificent Temperate Greenhouse — the largest Victorian glasshouse on Earth — was unveiled after a five-year restoration and showcases more than 10,000 exotic plants from around the world. On the surrounding grounds, cornflowers, foxglove and lily of the valley will be in full force this month, and the air, even in smoggy London, will be scented with apple blossom.The Palm House with its ornate spiral staircase, wrought-iron gallery, canopy of giant palms and tropical plants is another ideal backdrop for your romantic rendezvous.

If it’s views you’re after, try the Treetop Walkway, which connects 200-year-old chestnut, lime and oak trees above the lake and surrounding gardens.

Picnic on the grass

Kew’s magnificent green lawns are ideal for spreading out a blanket and lying in the sun with an alfresco lunch. The British take their picnics seriously — I know this firsthand as I met my husband at one many years ago.

If you don’t want to spend your morning cutting the crusts off cucumber sandwiches, Newens, a short walk from the gardens, will make you a picnic lunch for about $19.50, including Maids of Honours for which Kew is famous.

These flaky, curd-cheese delicacies date to Henry VIII. Story has it that Henry caught Anne Boleyn nibbling one and declared them as delicious as her real-life maids of honour. He confiscated the recipe and kept it locked in an iron box for the sole use of his cook.

In the 18th century, the recipe was leaked by a lady at court, and Maids of Honour became high society’s must-have culinary treat.

One baker who got his hands on the recipe was Robert Newen, who set up shop on Kew Road in 1850. Newens is no longer operated by the same family, but the current owners are in close contact with the original family and everything is still made by hand every day on the premises.

 

kew palace

Kew Palace

A house fit for a king, a queen — and 15 children

Kew Palace, the oldest building in Kew Gardens, is the smallest of the royal palaces and a delight to visit (a ticket to the gardens gets you admission).

The palace, built in 1631 for a Flemish merchant, then became the summer residence for King George III, Queen Charlotte and their 15 children. The couple’s marriage was an arranged political union, but history tells us they were happy together; apparently George was the only member of his extended family not to take a mistress.

King George III, best known for his role in the American Revolution, which led to Britain’s defeat and American independence (and a hilarious turn in “Hamilton”), is also notorious for his bouts of “madness.”

In 1811, when he was no longer fit to be king, George was incarcerated in Windsor Castle, the couple’s other, much larger, residence.

Charlotte and George’s children were not producing offspring, and with a succession crisis looming, the royal sons, now in middle age, headed to Germany. They returned home with the princesses Adelaide and Victoire.

In July 1818, a double wedding took place in one of the rooms at Kew Palace. The king was too ill to attend, and an ailing Queen Charlotte just made it. A race now was on for these two couples to produce an heir to the throne. Duchess Victoire and Edward, duke of York, won the “baby race” — their daughter, born exactly nine months after the wedding, would become Queen Victoria.

In November 1818, Queen Charlotte was taken ill at the palace and died in her bedroom. You can see the chair where she took her last breath. Her coffin was taken from Kew to Windsor for her burial, and the cobbled courtyard of Windsor Castle was muffled with straw, so that the king, now suffering from severe dementia, would not hear the funeral carriage of his beloved wife.

queen charlotte's cottage

Queen Charlotte’s Cottage

Queen Charlotte’s Cottage

Charlotte is immortalized in Kew Gardens with the pretty, thatched Queen Charlotte’s Cottage. This cozy retreat is set in a quiet patch of Kew where you can walk in the couple’s footsteps through London’s finest bluebell wood, some of which is more than 300 years old.

In 1898, Queen Victoria made it a condition that the surrounding woodland be kept as wild and natural as possible, and it retains a magical old-world feel.

Kew has always had intimate ties to the royal family: Victoria’s great-great-granddaughter, Queen Elizabeth II, celebrated her 80th birthday here in 2006 with a small family dinner party.

And in 2009, she cut the cake for Kew’s 250th birthday celebration. With such natural beauty on display, Kew’s royal connections are not surprising.

So why not relax on a picnic blanket with your very own Maids of Honour among the exotic flora and fauna, lakes, ponds and ancient trees. There would be no better way to celebrate the upcoming royal wedding than with your own spot of alfresco romance in these royal gardens — just don’t forget the bubbly.

kew lake

The Lake in Kew Gardens

 

If you go

Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, Richmond, London; 011-44-20-8332-5655. Open 10:30 a.m.-5:30 p.m. through Sept. 30 (summer hours). Queen Charlotte’s Cottage, open 11 a.m. – 4 p.m. weekends and bank holidays in summer. Online tickets for adults, $21; children 4-16 $5, children 3 and younger, free. If traveling by tube, get off at Kew Gardens station and walk to the Victoria Gate.

Newens The Original Maids of Honour, 288 Kew Road, Richmond; London; 011-44-20-8940-2752. Open 9 a.m.-6 p.m. Mondays-Fridays; 8:30 a.m.-6 p.m. weekends. Guests for afternoon tea are seated on a first-come, first-served basis, so you might have to wait. 

Sidebar: A Round-up of London’s Top Royally Romantic Parks

Richmond Park: Just one stop on the tube (the green line) from Kew Gardens, Richmond Park is London’s largest royal park. Created by Charles I in the 17th century, it is home to 300 red deer as well as the Isabella Plantation, a 40-acre swathe of evergreen azaleas.

Bushy Park: Known as the spot where Gen. Eisenhower planned his D-Day landings, Bushy Park is a warren of trails, woodland and an unusual water garden built in 1710. It’s also a beautiful walk from Hampton Court Palace. You can also reach it by train from Richmond. If you didn’t bring a picnic, the Pheasantry Café has a lovely on-site bakery.

Kensington Gardens: Start your visit at the Lancaster Gate entrance with the Italian Gardens — a gift from Prince Albert to Queen Victoria. One of the most popular features of the park is the bronze statue of Peter Pan. The Diana, Princess of Wales’ Memorial Playground is a must for anyone traveling with children. The seven-mile Diana Princess of Wales Memorial Walk, which also goes through Hyde Park, Green Park and St James’s Park, will burn off the delicious cakes from the Broad Walk Café in Kensington Gardens. You can also visit Kensington Palace, the official London residence of William and Kate as well as Harry and Meghan.

These are technically one park but separated by the Royal London Zoo. Primrose Hill offers amazing views over London, which were immortalized by the poet William Blake: “I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.” Regent’s Park was captured on-screen in David Lean’s tear-jerker, “Brief Encounter,” where Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson row in the lake. Disney’s “101 Dalmatians” does it for me though, when Pongo meets Perdita in Queen Mary’s Gardens, where in real life you can smell the roses — more than 12,000 of them in London’s largest rose garden. This summer, you can also sip on a Pimm’s while watching a performance of “Peter Pan” under the stars.

 

Rewilding the menopause

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greek icons of female torsos

Published April 11, 2018 on Boundless:
https://unbound.com/boundless/2018/04/11/rewilding-the-menopause/

 

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Essay | 13 minute read
A writer on the frontline of menopause talks about hot flushes, night sweats, forgetfulness… But she also argues that she would not want the changes to be silenced with drugs.

Last April at a weeklong retreat in Dartmoor I learned how to make fire from sticks, and baskets from switches of hazel. Our teacher, a buckskin-clad woman called Lynx, was visiting from the American West where she lives in a yurt and practices ancestral skills. One night she asked us to place ourselves around the campfire in age order. At fifty-one, I was the oldest woman in the group.

‘As elders,’ Lynx said addressing me and a sixty-something Frenchman called Bernard, ‘what would you like to pass on to the younger generation?’

Bernard said some very funny and wise things.

It was my turn.

‘Menopause,’ I blurted, ‘is wonderful!’ The fire popped and sparks flew. ‘It’s not something to be afraid of; it’s a trip.’ These words had come from somewhere very deep and took me by surprise. Despite being in the thick of menopause, I had not spoken about it to anyone.

The next morning at breakfast several young women approached to say they’d never heard anything positive about menopause. They were hungry for more. I knew when I went on this retreat that I would be getting closer to the Earth, I would be camping and foraging for food, but I hadn’t expected that in doing so I would get closer to my body.

It took being out in the wild to come to the shocking realisation that the thing preventing me from opening up about menopause was shame. I am embarrassed at losing my fertility, at seeing my looks fade, at getting old. In our youth-obsessed, consumer culture where surface beauty is valued along with our ability to make babies and stay ‘hot’, where would I find my currency as a middle-aged woman?


The word ‘menopause’ comes from the Greek meno for ‘moon’ – also the root for ‘month’ – and ‘pause’ meaning to ‘halt’. Technically menopause is our last menstrual cycle. The correct term for the stretch of time from peri-menopause until a year after our final period is the ‘climacteric’, which stems from the Greek word for ‘ladder’ and is also where we get ‘climax’. Looking at menopause as a dramatic event, ‘climax’ fits nicely.

For centuries menopause was understood to be a deficiency disease. Our loss of oestrogen was not considered a normal physiological function of aging, but an illness. In Victorian times, the ‘insanity’ brought on by menopause was treated with poisonous purges of lead and mercury, sedation and incarceration in an asylum. It was also recommended that women’s ovaries – their ‘organs of crisis’ – be removed. This, however, often proved lethal. In looking at its history, you begin to form a picture of menopause as a deadly business. Put bluntly, many women have died in the never-ending search for a ‘cure’ for its symptoms. When we weren’t being physically dismembered or drugged, Freudians like Helene Deutsch, founder of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Institute, dissected our psyches. In her 1945 opus, The Psychology of Women, she argues that a woman’s mental health was inseparable from her desire to be a mother and that women who embraced the end of their fertile years were ‘deviant, unfeminine, and shameful’.

Women have always been victims of what Susan Sontag called the ‘double standard of aging’. Men can seamlessly graduate from boy to man but for women there is no equivalent: ‘The single standard of beauty for women dictates that they must go on having clear skin. Every wrinkle, every line, every grey hair, is a defeat . . . even the passage from girlhood to early womanhood is experienced by many women as their downfall, for all women are trained to want to continue looking like girls.’

It was the swinging sixties that ushered in the way for middle-aged women to remain girl-like. This came in the form of physician Robert A. Wilson’s 1966 bestseller Feminine Forever. In it he promised that his prescribed oestrogen therapy (ERT) would allow us to retain our ‘straight-backed posture, supple breast contours, taut, smooth skin on face and neck, firm muscle tone, and that particular vigor and grace typical of a healthy female. At fifty, such women still look attractive in tennis shorts or sleeveless dresses.’ On the other hand, if we failed to take these prescribed hormones ‘from puberty to the grave’ we became ‘flabby’, ‘shrunken’, ‘dull-minded’, ‘desexed’ ‘castrates’ who risked ‘alcoholism, drug addiction, divorce and broken homes.’ It gets worse: ‘After menopause . . . the breast begins to shrivel and sag . . . Often the skin of the breast coarsens and is covered with scales.’

Scales! Wilson wasn’t looking to alleviate menopause, he was looking to eradicate it lest we become monsters.

Here he is in predator mode: ‘Roving about at a party, a footloose male might scan his surroundings at floor level, searching for a pair of trim legs . . . He assesses her face . . . her hands, teeth and throat.’ Reading Wilson’s book today is shocking. His abhorrence of our bodies is visceral and his distaste for the aging process in women is violent, even sadistic. I could barely finish it.

Wilson’s aggressive promotion of oestrogen was as materialistic as it was misogynistic: the writing of Feminine Forever and his book tours were funded by the companies who were manufacturing oestrogen and looking for a market. He received millions of dollars from pharmaceutical giant Wyeth, among others. In its first seven months, Feminine Forever sold 100,000 copies. Bafflingly, this book-length advertisement is still popular. ‘A must-read for all women over 45!’ ends one Amazon review from 2013.


Conjugated equine oestrogen (CEE), the hormone Wilson advocated was – and still is – manufactured from the urine of pregnant mares. If you’re prescribed HRT today in the US or the UK, the chances are it will be Premarin (short for ‘pregnant mares urine’). And if you’re squeamish, do not read to the end of this paragraph. The urine needed for ERT and HRT will have been extracted from mares held captive in horse farms in China, western Canada or the US. These creatures are tied up and kept pregnant, with catheters permanently strapped to their urethras. After about twelve years, they ‘wear out’ and are slaughtered. Their foals are sold for meat. But none of this will be discussed during your visit to the doctor. It’s just another cog in the Big Pharma machine. And the chances are you won’t be told about bio-identical hormones made from yam and soy, but these are beginning to get backing from the medical establishment.

‘Almost any tranquiliser might calm her down, but at her age oestrogen might be what she really needs,’ claimed an ad for Wyeth in the Journal of the American Medical Association in 1975 – the height of ERT uptake. Despite advertisements like this, and Wilson’s contemptible proselytising, many feminists embraced oestrogen therapy. It would, they believed, release them from the trap of biological destiny. It wasn’t so long ago that ‘natural’ processes such as childbirth often killed us, so the quest to be free from the diktats of our bodies is understandable.

However, the HRT honeymoon was not to last. By the mid-seventies, several drug companies in the US had been selling dangerous and untested products, such as the intrauterine contraceptive device known as the Dalkon Shield which killed thirty-six women and hospitalized a further 7,900. Then there was DES (Diethylstilbestrol), prescribed to prevent miscarriages and to alleviate the symptoms of menopause. The only problem was it had no positive effect on those conditions. It did, however, cause vaginal, cervical and breast cancer, auto-immune diseases and a whole host of abnormalities in many girls whose mothers had taken the drug. Those who were on the fence about hormone therapy started to rethink the trustworthiness of Big Pharma.

The health campaigner and journalist Sandra Coney wrote in her 1991 The Menopause Industry, ‘Mid-life women have actually had no say in the services being provided for them. The “choices” available to them have been largely selected by commercial interests who have products and services to sell . . . The industry that has grown up around the provision of choices to mid-life women is primarily controlled by men.’ Looked at like this, why would we want to trust the very men who are out to make money from our symptoms?


I am writing this from the frontline of menopause: hot flushes, night sweats, forgetfulness, and truly bizarre dreams overwhelm me both regularly and randomly, like guerrilla attacks. Maybe it’s my love of stories, of always wanting to follow leads, but I cannot help but read these as part of a narrative – encouraged perhaps by the idea that I am indeed at a climax in this narrative. If I silence this metamorphosis, this strange falling away of my old self, then how will I be able to mourn its loss and welcome its renewal? All of my symptoms feel wild, unprocessed and extreme – like the weather, like an avalanche or a tidal wave. At any moment, I have no idea what is about to hit. Are we not wired for this any longer? If we could accept the wild in us, would this not help us face the parts of ourselves that ebb and flow out of our control? Perhaps our inner wilderness, despite its sometimes inhospitable landscape, is really the last remnant of ourselves from a time when we, and everything around us, were wild. Could our domestication be preventing us from walking this landscape?

The popular advice coming at me on the subject of menopause made me angry. Jenni Murray’s chirpy book, Is it me or is it hot in here? from 2001 gets very excited by the shiny hair and line-free skin enabled by HRT, without properly delving into the dangers: ‘It will be a few years yet before we really know the benefits or otherwise of taking Hormone Replacement Therapy. Until then, we’re all just guinea pigs in what may prove to be the greatest or the worst thing for women’s health.’ This understatement sadly came back to haunt Murray when she was diagnosed with breast cancer linked, she believes, to her HRT. She later wrote a piece in the Telegraph in which she confesses: ‘So, if I had known then what I know now, would I have taken it? The answer is no. I now know that the menopause is a pain, but it doesn’t last forever. Breast cancer, on the other hand, even if you survive it and I’m now in my tenth year, never leaves you.’

Too many of the conversations I hear around me focus on what brand of mare’s urine I should be smearing on my thighs, or what diet I need to be on to stay sexy, despite my age. This is not what I am looking for. I want to interpret the symptoms, understand them, not eradicate them.

Because there is so little in the mainstream about reframing our attitudes towards women and aging, I turned to anthropologists Faye Ginsburg and Rayna Rapp who tell us that, ‘Menopause can never be understood apart from other social circumstances – marriage status, fertility history, access to property – through which women’s power and experiences are constructed.’ They go on, ‘our own culture’s conflation of . . . the loss of biological fertility with a reduction in status, is challenged by the fact that in many other societies post-menopausal women may adopt and foster children and have new authority over kin, especially daughters and daughters-in-law.’ Finally! Here was a view of menopause that placed it in a wider context as a fluid and natural physiological process with myriad cultural, historical and personal interpretations, rather than as a monolithic obstacle to be drugged out of existence. Organisations like the Red School or Hands Inc. are working more in this vein.

Among some of the women I have spoken to, this social perspective is crucial. Friends who were sent into a premature menopause due to chemotherapy had to deal with the symptoms of their illness, the loss of parts of their bodies, the challenge of chemo itself and the even more profound distress of facing their mortality. Some feel ‘aggrieved’ at having menopause ‘forced on them’ and not being able to ‘experience it naturally’, which will inevitably mark their menopause specifically for them. Among those who wanted children but didn’t manage to have any, menopause represents an acute and very private pain all of its own. One friend who became suicidal turned to HRT, which she feels ‘saved’ her. Another found intercourse too painful and claims HRT brought the joy back into her sex life. I am not demonising anyone for choosing HRT, but I do wonder whether we would find it easier to bear our symptoms if society valued us for our accrued wisdom rather than our pert breasts.

Most of us at some point in our lives have struggled to accept our bodies. I don’t need to list the statistics – we all know girls and women with eating disorders, who are full of self-hatred, who desire to be other than what they are. Menopause is no exception. In order for us to begin to understand it, it might help to look into why menopause exists. The only other female mammals to live beyond their reproductive years are pilot whales and killer whales (orcas). The theory behind this is called the Grandmother Hypothesis.

Almost uniquely, orcas live in multi-generational pods: their offspring don’t leave to set up their own family units but stay together as a tribe. If female killer whales were to carry on reproducing until death, their focus would be shifted away from the generations of existing offspring – but this doesn’t explain the theory fully. It took Darren Croft and Ken Balcomb, scientists at Exeter University, to pin it down. Since the 1970s they have been studying killer whales in the Pacific Northwest, and the answer they have come up with is: salmon. These unpredictable fish make up 97 per cent of an orca’s diet. ‘They’re not distributed equally in space,’ says Croft. ‘There are hotspots that differ with season, year, tide.’ Because of their accumulated wealth of knowledge, the older females are more skilled at finding food when stocks are scarce or particularly unpredictable. ‘Adult females are more likely to lead a group than adult males, and older post-menopausal females (who make up a fifth of the pod) are more likely to lead than younger ones. This bias was especially obvious in seasons when salmon stocks were low.’

A reliance on older women with their stores of accrued wisdom was a common thread in hunter-gatherer societies, which is perhaps what Lynx was keying us into around that campfire. Today however, adult women are encouraged to be silicon replicas of their younger selves. The knowledge we gain as we age is getting lost or being devalued and yet, as I saw in Dartmoor, the hunger for it is there.

But there is something else going on here, to do with the colonisation of the female body. Undoing my domestication and calling back something wild are the messages that keep coming at me from my hot flushes, night sweats and outlandish dreams. Germaine Greer, in her visionary 1990 book The Change, posits that menopause is a time to slow down, take stock and feel liberated from one’s sexual objectification as well as from one’s sexual desires. She advocates reclaiming the idea of the witch, the wise woman, the elder. And with our ‘scaly breasts’, why not? For me this is another opportunity in the narrative of menopause: Could we rewrite our stories and turn them into something more open-ended? Should we be exploring the unfamiliar plot lines, the places in ourselves we haven’t been to? If we’re lucky, our partners will come with us on the journey. Without dismissing those women for whom HRT is the difference between surviving menopause and not, I do wonder if a reframing of our worth as humans might help us cope where hormones can’t. Recent studies in Europe and North America suggest a correlation between the severity of a woman’s menopausal symptoms and her sense of being valued.

Despite all the good that the pharmaceutical industry has given us – the life-saving drugs, the cures for childhood diseases – it is fair to say that Big Pharma can be rapacious and reckless. I do not want the changes going on inside me to be silenced with drugs. I want to learn this new language coming at me deep from inside my body. At the moment, I have gleaned a few words, and so far they are telling me this: stop, be quiet, and listen, only then will you understand.

 

 

https://unbound.com/boundless/2018/04/11/rewilding-the-menopause/

The Sparrow and the Twig

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One learns a landscape finally not by knowing the name or identity of everything in it, but by perceiving the relationships in it.
—Barry Lopez, ‘Landscape and Narrative’

final sunrise

Sunrise over Dartmoor

We are polite and tentative with each other. Many of the 18 participants wear the trademark rewilder outfit of buckskin and carry sheepskin rugs. There are flasks made of wood and plenty of hand-carved spoons and bowls stashed neatly on shelves in the hut where we store our utensils and any extra food we have brought. My industrial-era enamelware is out of place, ruining the vibe, violating the aesthetic. I am looking at people’s feet. Some of the shoes look handmade. There is jewellery crafted out of leather and bone, holey sweaters fastened with buttons made from deer claws. There are tufts of fur. I do not look like these people. A few of us city-dwellers wear clothing that shouts ‘civilisation’ and ‘sweat shops’ and I am grateful not to be the only ‘civ’ here.

As if from nowhere, Lynx Vilden bounds barefoot like a cat towards us. I had first heard of Lynx when I was living in Montana. She is revered in the West for living as our Paleolithic ancestors did. Her knowledge of ancestral skills is vast and rumour has it she can get a fire started in 30 seconds with only two sticks. She is all buckskin clothing, chiselled cheekbones, spiky blonde hair and eyes the colour of a mountain lake. Born in 1965, Lynx is exactly my age but looks like Brigitte Nielsen’s younger Stone Age sister. For a rewilder (they tend to be a quiet bunch) she has quite an online presence. The tagline on her website is: ‘We aim to “live” in the wilderness, rather than “survive” it to get back to civilization.’ I never managed the seven-hour drive from my bungalow in Missoula to her yurt in Twisp, Washington. So, when I heard she was teaching ancestral skills for a week in April somewhere in Dartmoor National Park, I pounced.

Lynx silently motions with her hands for us to gather and then begins to walk away. We are to follow her to a nearby patch of flat ground where she instructs us without words to take off our shoes. She is holding a hand drill – a flat piece of wood called the hearth, and a stick, which is the bow. She motions for Leah, one of the participants to hold the bottom of the bow onto the hearth while she spins it. Lynx gestures for us to gather some dry grass. It takes maybe 45 minutes for us to take turns holding the hearth and spinning the bow to get enough heat for the grass to light. Lynx carries this smoking bundle through the woods and we follow. I am not used to walking barefoot over hard early spring ground. The pine needles, sticks and rocks hurt my soft city feet.

Lynx lights a larger fire with the bundle and we sit around it in a circle. Our week of living outdoors on Dartmoor has officially begun. Dusk is settling. A wind picks up and I straighten my legs so my bare feet catch some of the warmth of the fire. We pass around a talking stick and tell each other what ‘miracle’ brought us here.

final supper

Supper

Back at camp, Katie the cook has a large pot of venison stew waiting for us. The meat came to us from Bob, a local deerstalker. Any worries about the animal’s welfare are put to rest. After supper we take turns saying what we are grateful for. Many people list the deer we have just eaten. Thanking the food and the land seems to be a common thread. It would be easy to be cynical, to do a Portlandia-style satire on the middle-class Paleo folk who don their buckskin, make fire from sticks, play their handmade flutes, and thank the stones for being stones. But there is more here. I can feel it although I have no name for it, yet.

***

After dinner, we tell the group what we were passionate about when we were seven years old. I talk of my upbringing in the soulless Canadian suburbs. Most of the participants tell tales of playing in streams and catching frogs. Canadian suburbs are designed for cars, for life with sunken living rooms, dry bars, rec rooms, where everything is tinted by the glare of TV. I hated growing up in those suburbs and now I am feeling as I so often do, somewhat disappointed, even a little angry that my childhood was spent not in the woods but in a place where soil was called ‘dirt’, where lawns were mowed to a buzzcut every few days and where bees were swatted to death for fear they might ruin the barbecue. I had no connection with the place I grew up in. This has always rankled me. My birthplace has left me empty-handed of stories, unlike the ground I am sitting on now with its hauntings and druids, ghost stories, songs and rituals involving stone, bone, moss, fertile swathes of soil and rainsoaked ferns.

***

 The next day I tuck my knife into a cloth bag with some bread and cheese, a bottle of water, my journal and Crossing Open Ground by Barry Lopez. We begin a silent walk where each one of us is led to a spot to sit for an hour or so. From my rock I can see a decaying stone wall covered in moss. Fallen trees are criss-crossed with ivy. Gigantic bees buzz around me but what I notice most of all are the birds: wood pigeons and the quick trills of what I think is a wood warbler. Sunlight struggles to make its way to the floor of the forest through the branches of very tall oaks. Where I sit, the air is cool. I am aware of the two landscapes we all move between: the one outside us and the other that exists within.

Our assigned task is to gather ‘vegetal matter with a utilitarian value for the whole group’. This way of thinking is so foreign. We have all become so individualised, so atomised with our own phones, computers, flats, social media accounts. City life is the opposite of what Lynx is creating here which in a word can only be described as a tribe. I bristled when I heard it being used earlier in the day. I felt it was a word one needed to earn. But now I am beginning to understand that a tribe can be formed when we rely on others for our food and shelter, warmth and companionship.

I am seeing the landscape for what it can do rather than as a collection of named objects; as active, not passive. Barry Lopez captures this idea in his essay ‘Landscape and Narrative’ when a black-throated sparrow lands in a paloverde bush: ‘the resiliency of the twig under the bird, that precise shade of yellowish-green against the milk-blue sky, the fluttering whir of the arriving sparrow’, these are what he means by ‘landscape’. It is by watching the landscape that one learns it, not necessarily by knowing the names of things.

I spot some fiddleheads. My mother would buy small packs of these velvety green ferns at vast expense from the supermarket in Ottawa. She would unwrap them from their clingfilm, lift them from their Styrofoam trays and then soak them, boil them and sauté them in butter. We would savour the two or three on our plates as if they were gold. I harvest a few to bring back to the group. I look around for something else I might be able to share. I pull off a hunk from a charred stump. We could draw with it. Then I spot a bone. This could be a ladle or a spoon. I put that in my bag and top it up with some young nettles. We can use these for tea. My inadequacy is making me manic. Just then I see members of the group approach. I take a breath and join the line. Some of them have bulging bags and I wonder what foods and implements they have conjured from these woods.

We walk silently across fields and through forests of bluebells. Eventually we come to Blackingstone Rock, a 75-foot high, Christmas-pudding-shaped tor of pure granite flecked with shiny feldspar. Running up the back of the tor, like a spine, is a metal ladder. We climb to the top where the wind whips and where the views over Dartmoor spread out on all sides.

The Dartmoor chronicler William Crossing believed that in an attempt to settle an argument, King Arthur and the Devil hurled a giant quoit at each other. As the quoits hit the ground they turned to stone creating the two tors, one of which was Blackingstone Rock and the other Hel Tor. The tor is pockmarked with small circular basins, which I am told were druidical altars. Like a cat, Lynx curls into one for a nap.

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Lynx having a nap on Blackinstone Tor

We head back into the forest, quieter now, feeling the effects of the sunwarmed stone on our backs. Lynx instructs us to gather two dry sticks and eight switches of hazel. People are running into the woods, knives and folding saws at the ready. I am feeling lost. Ella and Carlos, a couple who I had spoken to earlier, notice my anxiety and patiently show me what hazel looks like and offer me the use of their saw.

Once we have our sticks, we head back to camp. Katie has prepared fried pollock with mashed swedes, parsnips and celeriac. I am hungry. In my effort to lighten my backpack, I took out a lot of my food. Hunger is something I have forgotten how to live with. I am shamed by this.

***

 As I try and sleep that night, I hear an owl’s repeated hooting and the response from a more distant owl. They are marking their territory. I fall asleep with a burning desire to understand them. It is only when they stop their hooting around 4:00 a.m. that I wake. It is the silence that has roused me. A very faint light creeps over my tent, almost like a shadow. I feel I am suspended in that fleeting moment between night and day, between the animals of the dark and those who emerge with the light. I am inhabiting a precious liminal moment. At 52, I am suspended between youth and old age and this sense of being between things seems to be the frequency I am tuned to. The word comes from the Latin limen, or threshold. I am feeling it everywhere. A strange sense of total and utter wellbeing consumes me. And then the birds of the morning take over. The woods around me fill with sound. Life can continue for another day.

***

We are to find a partner and forage for our lunch. I am paired with Lynx. We walk together down a lane away from the camp. Lynx had seen some very young, green spruce buds. She shows me how to remove the brown husks from the lime-green almond-shaped buds. They have a sharp, astringent lemony taste. She spots a curved slice of fallen tree bark to put them in. It makes the perfect receptacle which in New York or London would add about £20 to the price of a meal in a restaurant (‘served on a hand-harvested spruce board infusing the buds with the taste and smell of wilderness’).

With her survival skills, Lynx shares similarities with Preppers. But, rather than fill her bunker with dried food, bottled water and ammunition, she is prepared in another way: Lynx can live in the wilderness by hunting, gathering, making bows, arrows, clothing and whatever else she needs; she does not have to escape the wild in order to survive it. The Doomsday approach of Preppers who see themselves surviving the economic collapse by storing up on man-made supplies is based on fear and a mistrust of government. A bunker lined with tin cans and bars of gold is finite, whereas Lynx has the skills needed to survive indefinitely – skills that can be passed on. They might both share a mistrust of the system, but their approach could not be more different.

***

We all place our foraged food onto a picnic table. The colours are spectacular. We silently take turns trying every plant, taking in the smells and tastes and textures: stitchwort, garlic mustard or Jack-by-the-hedge, gorse flowers, pink purslane, primrose, violets, landcress, pennywort or navelwort, dock leaves, hawthorn leaves and spruce buds. It is like eating a fairytale.

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Plants foraged for lunch

That afternoon we are to begin our baskets. This is what the sticks are for. I break into a sweat. I have only ever made one basket and it looked like those photos of webs made by spiders on LSD: anxious, wonky and a bit mental, revealing more about me than I care to.

Lynx shows us how to strip the bark from our hazel sticks, how to bend them and tie them into a U-shape using animal hide as string. I feel my body move in sync with the making of my basket: I bend to make the wood bend, my muscles contract when I tie the struts together. When the deer hide is soaking, I stand, relaxed, watching it soften in the water. This work is three-dimensional, tactile. There are smells and sounds – it is anathema to the flat, backlit screens we all spend our days staring into. It is this physical dimension I have been craving without knowing it.

***

On our second-to-last day, there is a snow flurry. As the snow gets heavier, we take shelter in the lodge, the one structure with a roof, and watch the grove of beeches bleach to white. A wind whips the flakes around us. Lynx announces we will walk out onto the moor with what we can fit in our baskets and we will camp without tents. Many of us think she is joking and look at each other and laugh. We go silent as we realise she is being absolutely serious. I am not prepared to camp in the snow. An elderly gentleman from France comes over and whispers to me, ‘This is too much!’ He is on the verge of a very Gallic rebellion.

‘Let’s see what the weather is like tomorrow,’ Lynx says as a way of placating us.

***

The following morning the inside of my tent is a golden pink. I step out onto crispy, white grass. We had agreed that if it wasn’t raining we would head off for our night of wild camping. I pack. We hike out late morning walking through bluebell meadows, crossing streams on bridges made of fallen granite slabs and we say hello to the inhabitants of the few small towns we pass through. They stare at our buckskin and hazel baskets strapped to our backs. We are filthy and giggle like children at the disconnect between us and the villagers with their Lidl bags, heading home to their running water and televisions.

After about three or four hours we come to a wall of Herculean boulders. We scramble up. On the other side is a tiny patch of flat ground, just big enough to cradle a fire and our bodies around it. We set up camp and Katie heats up some leftover stew made from Chunko the lamb, whom we had been eating throughout the week. She adds nettles and throws a few garlic heads into the fire along with some sweet potatoes. We eat with our hands and there is something wonderfully primitive about being here, eating like this from the land. We sing, we laugh, we chat. The group is one unit now.

After dinner, I am told the temperature will sink below freezing. I move my bivvy bag from between two slabs of rock to a spot next to Tiffany, a woman with a surplus of blankets. We agree to ignore the ticks. I go to bed before the others. Maybe it is because I am the youngest of seven children, but I feel comforted falling asleep to the faint murmur of voices. When I was young, much of my education came from this late night eavesdropping. Perhaps it was my attempt to recreate tribal life in those cold, atomised suburbs.

I listen to the laughter and the crackling of the fire. I watch the stars above me. I never want to leave. I am suspended here. We all are. This is the discovery I make: we are all living liminal lives. Denying this is part of the madness. The only real thing is the liminality of life, the moments when we can inhabit fluidity, accept the threshold. We are just passing through, why should we expect anything other than being between places and times and states of being. I let my tears quietly fall. There is that familiar tickle as the salty water slides along my cheekbones into my ears. This is right. I should be crying. I have lived another day. We have all lived another day. This feels like the miracle it is. Sleep comes to me before the group has dispersed for the night. My dreams are more vivid than they have been for a long time.

***

I get back to London very late that night. My ten-year-old daughter is still up. She runs to hug me. ‘You smell of dead animal,’ she says excited at this meaty version of her mother.

My husband Jason asks, ‘So, are you a new person?’

Me: ‘Um, yeah.’

Jason: ‘Will I like this new person?’

Me: ‘I don’t know.’

Jason: ‘Do you like this new person?’

Me: ‘I don’t know yet. I have no idea.’

Published March 12, 2018 on the Dark Mountain blog:
http://dark-mountain.net/blog/the-sparrow-and-the-twig/

All photographs by author

Stories Made of Rivers

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This photo essay was published on the Dark Mountain blog, November 20, 2017

http://dark-mountain.net/blog/stories-made-of-rivers/

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White Sulphur Springs, Montana

We have created every living thing from water.

The Koran, Chapter Al-Anbiya, Verse Number 30

 

  1. Civilisation

The first story I was told about rivers can be summed up like this: There is direct line from the Sumerian Ziggurat of Ur to the Chrysler Building. I was around nine.

 

  1. Civilisation II

Rivers allowed us to grow food, store it, build houses, libraries, museums, cities and empires. I was maybe ten when I heard this one.

 

  1. Cells

In sixth grade, the story shifted from history to science when we memorized that our hearts and brains were 73% water. I have always seen fresh water as precious, magical. I used to believe that water could think. If my brain was mainly water, why not?

Every single living and non-living, visible and non-visible object around us—our computer screens, the retinas in our eyeballs, the dust in the air—all of these rely on fresh water. Our body is a walking river. Water flows from us. The liquid inside us will out eventually.

 

  1. Cycles

In middle school, we were taught about the water cycle: river to rain to snow to mountain glacier to melting ice, back to river. We coloured in those diagrams and added those arrows diligently. But we were not told that this cycle was one of the many ways the earth breathes in and out. Nor were we told that bathing in the River Ganges frees the bather from sin, the outward cleanliness symbolising inner purification. This waterway is fed by the glaciers in the Himalayas, the Mountains of the Gods, and feeds the Indian plains as if descended from the heavens.

 

  1. Hygiene

The fact that we as humans spend nine months growing in water also passed us by at school. The giggles of embarrassment in ‘Hygiene’ class drowned out any information about babies rolling around in their water-filled pods.

 

  1. Secrets

Water’s ability to seemingly clean itself, to rejuvenate, to flow and keep flowing no mater what we throw at it is a strange sort of illusion. If you fell a forest, the trail of destruction is there for people to see. But water is different, it keeps the secret for you.

 

  1. Flow

Many rivers—despite their damns, their drying out, their dead fish, their pollution—are still flowing. Sometimes they run yellow or orange or green. Some may look crystal clear but are carrying thousands, if not millions of particles of arsenic, cadmium, phosphorus, nitrogen, mercury and lead. Two hundred and twenty-six million pounds of toxic chemicals are dumped in American rivers every year. Of this, 1.5 million pounds are carcinogens, 626,000 pounds are chemicals linked to developmental disorders and 354,000 pounds are associated with reproductive problems. Some rivers, such as the 1,900-mile long Rio Grande are drying up and disappearing altogether, but many in a heartbreaking display of trying to do the right thing, just keep flowing.

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The Clark Fork River, Missoula, Montana

  1. Float

When I lived in Western Montana, ‘floating’ was what you did on hot days. You’d drive to the Blackfoot or the Clark Fork with a spare inner tube strapped to the roof of your car or in the bed of your pickup. You’d throw it into the river, stick a hat on your head (that searing Montana sun), lean back into your rubber doughnut and let the river take you. We were lucky in Montana: 40% of its rivers are deemed ‘good’ by the Environmental Protection Agency as compared with, for instance, 21% in the coastal plains around the Gulf of Mexico. You know things are bad when the best bill of health is one in which you are more sick than healthy.

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The Hot Springs Motel and Spa, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

  1. White Sulphur Springs

Here’s another story. A more recent one, which isn’t taught in schools because it is about me and a guy I once met near a river:

It is a damp December morning in 2016 and I am driving through a starlit, pinky dawn from Missoula to the town of White Sulphur Springs (population 1,000). The morning light has crested above the distant mountains as I roll down Main Street. The town is a mixture of boarded up storefronts and some new, thriving businesses. There is a real estate office, a cinema, a pizza place, a few gas stations, a couple of bars, and off the main street, a library. And then there is the unfussy Hot Springs Spa Motel with its pools of sulphurous, health enhancing spring water. It was while soaking in one of these springs a few months ago that I heard a man with an Australian accent talking about the mine. My ears immediately perked up. I bumped into him later that day in a bar down the road from the motel and we started up a conversation. We were two out-of-towners waiting for our drinks.

I Googled him that night only to discover that he is Bruce Hooper, one of the directors of Tintina Resources—a Canadian and Australian mining company which is behind the proposed copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I find out that he also worked for BP and Rio Tinto—companies behind some of the worst ecological disasters of the past few years. Tintina are dying to get their hands on the world’s largest lode of copper which is buried thirteen miles from Sheep Creek, a major trout-spawning tributary of the Smith River. The Smith is one of the last great untouched rivers, and it pays its keep: about $4.5 million a year is made from floaters who travel its 60-mile limestone canyon between the Little and Big Belt Mountains. But none of this matters in this story.

Tintina’s project is called Black Butte, after the black butte which sits atop the world’s largest deposit of pure copper. It has been on the table for several years, and Tintina are waiting for the green light. Judging by who holds the power these days, it’s probably not long until the trucks start rumbling and the ground is ripped open. The copper will make the company millions, and the River, well, it’s a river. It will keep flowing no matter what shit they dump in it.

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The Mint Bar, Main Street, White Sulphur Springs, Montana

  1. The Tour

I book myself into a tour of the proposed Black Butte copper mine in White Sulphur Springs. I ask about the tailings—the toxic water that is the result of blasting the copper-laden rock from the earth—and am told that they’ve got a “great idea” for that. The guy leading the tour speaks in a soothing homespun way which does the opposite of reassure me. Doesn’t he know what mines do? All his metaphors for the violence of this proposed mine are couched in Pinterest-style baking terms. The rocks left over from the excavations will be pulverised to the consistency of “icing sugar” and will be blended with the chemical-laden water until it is a sort of paste. They’ll be made into “cakes” and will be shoved back into the holes in the ground. “Cheesecloth” is involved. No one will ever know the land was ever mined. According to my tour guide, this story has a really happy ending, like a Martha Stewart cake recipe: everyone gets a piece of it.

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The Black Butte which sits atop one of the world’s largest lodes of pure copper

  1. West

In 1872, when miners were flocking to Montana to stake their claims, a law was passed which allowed them to dig up what they wanted, inject whatever chemicals they needed to separate mineral from rock, gold from stone, copper from its vein, and walk away without cleaning up the waste. There are thousands of abandoned mines all over the state. Exactly a hundred years later, the Clean Water Act was created. The 1872 act is older but often supercedes the Clean Water Act.

It is difficult for people outside of the American West to grasp the enormity of the reclamation problem. Scott Fields, an environmental health writer, admits there is plenty of controversy around abandoned mines: how many, how lethal, how best to clean them up. But according to him, experts can agree on at least a few major points: “the scope of the impacts of abandoned mines isn’t well understood, the damage that untended mines cause is increasing, and adequate funds aren’t available to address even the largest, most harmful mine sites. And although scientists are developing new methods to treat abandoned mines, the field of mine remediation is still in its infancy.”

 

  1. Place

There are two main types of mining: placer and hard rock mining. Placer mining is all about water. The word comes from the Spanish, placer, meaning a shoal or alluvial deposit. It has also given us ‘place’ and ‘plaza’. Gold is the place, roads are paved with it in our imaginations, it is central to our way of thinking, our economy, our myths, our histories. It centres and grounds us.

 

  1. Twin Creek

This is a more recent story. This one has a happy ending:

It is the end of April and Paul Parson is driving me to Twin Creek, 20 miles west of Missoula. Paul is a restoration coordinator for the river conservation group Trout Unlimited. In his late thirties or early forties, Paul has an easy, relaxed manner and speaks quietly and deliberately, choosing his words carefully—something I have come to associate with this part of the world.

Steering his truck with his knees, he looks over at me and asks if his driving makes me nervous. “Not at all,” I say trying to be nonchalant.

We turn off the I-90 onto Nine Mile Road. This landscape is the stuff of screen savers and calendars. Mountains in the distance, wooden fences and photogenic barns slanting at attractive angles. It was once ranching land but is no longer.

Paul is talking to me about mining. He sees it from the other side, from the side of the rivers that have had just about everything poured and leached into them and left for dead. “Private mining claims often follow rivers as you need a lot of water to mine. And mines just decimate them. Rivers can heal themselves if you give them a leg up and plant the right things near them and get their meanders right, but…” he shrugs, leaving me to finish that thought.

This is what Paul does all day: he reclaims, remakes, and designs rivers, although he dislikes the term ‘designing’ when it comes to what he does—too pretentious.

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Workers from Trout Unlimited at Nine Mile Creek

  1. Replanting

Paul and I park a short walk from Twin Creek and meet up with two of his co-workers, Dave and Rob. Paul says we can kill two birds with one stone by doing some planting—he is too humble to call it rewilding—and checking out how Twin Creek, one of Trout Unlimited’s latest reclamation projects, is coming along. To an outsider, the stream looks perfect—too perfect. Small waterfalls of aesthetically piled rocks appear at intervals. Each stone, dip, and curve of the creek has been “designed”. It is alarming how this near-perfection in nature looks unnatural. I watch the three men walk along the stream. If you didn’t know them, it would be clear to you that they were not out for a hike. They run their fingers through the grasses and shrubs they planted from seed: willow and hawthorn and rose. They touch the trunks of the three cottonwoods they left in place which have seeded others nearby naturally, as well as the conifers which they planted as saplings. They poke at the mushrooms and squat to examine some scat: elk and bear and goose, full of seeds. It’s all looking good.

“We know what a healthy stream looks like,” Paul says, “It’s in our mind’s eye”. They stop and listen to the sound of the water and talk of the meander. Like artists or physicians, they call upon all their senses to review their work. Certain plants are thriving more than others. For the first time in a long time, the creek meets up with the Nine Mile River and will soon be able to support trout. This is a success story.

“Native trout are really sensitive to climate change,” Paul says. “They can’t survive in warm water. They are an ice age fish. Ex-mining water is the worst for them. It’s often standing water, doesn’t flow, gets warm as a result, and the flows that were created from the digging go in straight lines and this causes a lot of sediment. Trout are very sensitive to sediment.”

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Standing water

  1. Soup

Paul wants to show me what a creek looks like before he and his team have done their work, so I have something to compare Twin Creek to. We head to the Mattie V Creek, named, I believe, after Mattie Hixson who married a Montana man in the 1920s. Mattie died in 1985 at the age of 83 and her namesake creek has been sitting stagnant and polluted for a long time. Paul took Mattie’s great grandsons fishing to show them what a good stream looks like and said, “This could be on your property”. They got totally behind the clean up. It is a horribly ugly spot. The still water is split-pea green. It buries the trees half way up their trunks. Hills of sludge have been piled into grassless tors around the site. It is unnervingly quiet and claustrophobic. We don’t stay long.

 

  1. Desire

We are lulled into thinking that because these sacred waterways—and every river is sacred—are constantly flowing, they possess what we desire more than anything: eternal life and an ever-changing nature that gives the impression of permanence. They are everything we want to be. But even rivers can die.

 

  1. Reclamation

The first known use of the word ‘reclaim’ is in the 13th-century anonymously-penned poem Cursor Mundi, whose title in English means ‘Runner of the World’. Its 30,000 verses were written by a cleric in the North of England as a way of tracing history and religion up to his lifetime. In the Cursor Mundi, to ‘reclaim’ is to ‘call back a hawk’. In the 14th century, the word was used to mean ‘to reduce to obedience’. And today the word retains that sense of control in its definition ‘to bring land under cultivation’. But now among ecologists, rewilders, and environmentalists, to ‘reclaim’ land is to return it to a pristine Eden-like state. But, just how far back do we go in reclaiming a river or a tract of land? Does one try to ecologically wind the clock back to pre-ice age times? Or to one of the interglacial ages? If so, which one? They are all very different with their own unique flora and fauna. Does one go back to 1492 when Columbus set foot on American soil, which is what some American rewilders used to think. Others, however, believe that 1778 is more desirable—the year Captain Cook landed in Hawaii. Whereas for some, the foundation of Yellowstone Park in 1872 is the ecological baseline to which we should be aiming in our reclamation projects. And for the more dedicated contemporary rewilders, we should be looking to our Stone Age ancestors, to the hunter-gatherers for the most ecologically healthy baseline. The debates are ongoing. But we all seem to think we need to look back in order to move forward.

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Paul Parson planting seeds

  1. Illusion

In 1963, the National Park Service published the Leopold Report, named after the zoologist and conservationist A. Starker Leopold. Starker was the son of Aldo Leopold one of the founders of the land conservation movement in the United States whose book A Sand Country Almanac contains a chapter on Ecological Conscience in which he put forth the idea that “conservation is a state of harmony between man and land”. But the authors of the Leopold Report were already aware of the problems and the conflicts in reclamation. They wrote, “restoring the primitive scene is not done easily nor can it be done completely … a reasonable illusion of primitive America could be recreated, using the utmost in skill, judgment, and ecologic sensitivity.” Even in 1963 there was the awareness that wilderness could only exist in America as a “reasonable illusion”.

The rivers Paul Parsons reclaims, are not wild rivers, they are illusions of wild rivers. Just because a river flows does not mean it is not dead. We can and we should reclaim as much of the earth as we can even if it means dreaming ourselves back to a time very few people can remember, before history was written and stories were on paper. I would much rather wander through the reasonable illusion of Twin Creek than the toxic reality of the Mattie V. For now, and probably for the rest of our time on earth, humans will have to come to terms with the reasonable illusion of wilderness because the real thing is disappearing fast. The story goes that we can call back the hawk, although we know in our hearts it is too far away to hear our cries.

 

This Little Island

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March 30, 2017

Today is the day Britain leaves Europe.

Two vivid memories spring to mind, both from the early 1990s.

The first incident occurred a few weeks after I arrived in London from Canada. My days were spent job-hunting and sightseeing. I had come to London with a few hundred pounds and had found a room for 20 quid a week. My landlady, the impossibly named Lady Drew leant me her typewriter so I could write query letters to publishing houses. The ‘l’, the ‘j’ and the ‘t’ were wonky but this was before computers so you were allowed to send letters to publishers with sentences that looked more like rivers than train tracks.

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Between job interviews I would take advantage of the free museums and galleries. One day in the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Field where you could get a cheap cup of tea, I found myself at a long table next to a woman reading the Times. When she came to the end of a section, she folded it and tucked it next to her dirty plate. It was clear to me her newspaper, when she was all finished with it, was headed for the bin. So, I reached over and picked up the section lying under the rim of her plate.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Um, I thought your were finished,” I said, guiltily putting it back down.

“Doesn’t mean you can have it,” she snapped.

There it was: her newspaper was not for sharing. My dirty paws were to stay off it. She had made it clear. And there was a subtext here: I could tell that my accent hadn’t helped me in my newspaper borrowing. I had been called a ‘pushy American’ by so many cab drivers, newsagents and publishers by now. I knew I wasn’t considered ‘one of them’, and probably never would be.

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Cut to a few years later. I have a great job, I’ve been saving a little, paying taxes, and managed to buy a small flat. In short, I had become the perfect little immigrant. I am in love with London, in love with my work, I have an incredible, diverse and bohemian bunch of friends. Life is good. One Sunday as I walk home through the Portobello Market just as it is closing up, I notice a stall-holder packing up her things. She’s tossing stuff into an old cardboard box in the gutter. It is clear that the items being thrown in the box are unwanted: they’re broken or chipped. In other words, they’re the items she doesn’t think are worth her while packing into her truck to sell at the next market she is headed to.

A small ceramic vase not much taller than a Penguin Classic catches my eye. It is not especially pretty, and might even be cracked, but it is turquoise—my favourite colour. I stop and pick it up. There is that question again: “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Um, I thought you were throwing it away,” I say sounding sort of strangled.

“I am,” she replies.

“So, um, well, I thought maybe I could have it then,” I say.

The woman lunges at me, grabs the vase and smashes it to the ground. I stand for a second stunned by her violence. Then I turn and walk with a lump lodged somewhere between my throat and my heart. I have spent the past 25 years trying to understand this act.

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I’ve never written about these small events. Mainly out of respect for my adopted home. It’s not a good look choosing to live in a foreign country and then moaning about it. “If it’s so crap, then why don’t you leave,” is an annoying refrain, but one that is true nonetheless. So I tend to only mention the positives about life in Britain—or my life in Britain. And the positives do outweigh the negatives.

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But with Brexit (a term I despise for its jaunty, punny elision of ‘Britain’ and ‘exit’ as if it were the punchline to a racist joke) the genie is out of the bottle. The mean-spirited side of the islanders I live among is out for all to see. The small-minded lack of generosity, the ‘Little England’ mindset of the conservatives who yearn for some lost Eden that never existed is now at the forefront. The horror of it all has been made public. My narrative of coming to this place and being welcomed and finding a home here now has to be rewritten.

The bean counters and bureaucrats have won. I wonder what it would be like to move here now. I got my fair share of “Come here to steal our jobs, then?” from cab drivers the minute they heard my accent. I hate to think of what I would get now. I had one employer way back who threatened to sack me because according to her, I “looked too happy.” She was a young woman but already withered from bitterness. She was allergic to stimulants which meant coffee and tea were banned from the office. One day I brought in some peppermint tea. When she walked into the kitchen and spotted it, she shrieked and called her boyfriend to come and take the contraband stimulant off the premises. I remember her shaking with fury and shouting at me, although I can’t remember now what she said exactly.

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But all this was the forgettable hum in the background of life in one of the greatest cities on earth. When things got too mean or lacklustre or grey or snobby or ironic, there was always Brixton Market, Ridley Road, Chinatown, the Portuguese cafes in Stockwell, the Lisboa on Golborne Road, the Spanish bar on Hanway Street, the Italian Church and its shop on Clerkenwell Road. You get the picture.

Not only is there a glorious diversity in this city, but it was something I always had the sense was wanted, was welcome. Now I am not so sure. The messages out there that my antennae are receiving are coming from the newspaper hoarders and vase smashers: Let’s make Britain so crap that no one will ever want to come here. … Let’s keep everything to ourselves, even the things we don’t really want. … Just because we don’t want it, doesn’t mean anyone else should have it. …

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The future of this tiny island in the North Atlantic will be one of tip-toeing through the shards of broken vases knowing deep in our hearts that we can at least have our own damn newspaper that we bloody well paid for—written in the Queen’s English, full of tits and asses and headlines made up of stupid puns, and no one can ever take that away from us, not even the immigrants.

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Note: for my friends and acquaintances who voted to leave Europe, this is in no way a diatribe against you. It is the misguided campaign, the cynicism and the lies peddled by the politicians that I find inexcusable. The whole project to leave Europe was based on falsities and dishonesty and a small-mindedness.

Are We Ruining Our Children with Too Much Praise?

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 When my daughter came home from her third-grade sports day with a plastic gold medal, I asked her what she had won it for.

“We all got a medal,” she beamed.

I looked at my husband, who had been at her school all day cheering her on.

“They got a medal just for showing up?” I asked.

He didn’t seem to think there was a problem with this, but it niggled at me for weeks. I couldn’t help wondering about the kids who are genuinely gifted in the 30-yard dash or at jumping over hurdles. How would they feel being awarded the same medal as the ones who have zero interest in running and jumping or are just not that good at it? Have we reached the point where we can’t be honest about our children’s skills and limitations?

Educators and psychologists have debated the subject of praising children just for showing up for decades. You often hear comments like, “We are in a new age of narcissism” or, “We are entering a new me generation.” Is there, in fact, a connection between entitlement and how much praise we give our children? If so, what can we, as parents, caregivers, and educators do about it?

Studies show that feedback is a necessary component in a child’s sense of self-worth. But they don’t seem to need praise in order to thrive.

Although the debate is far from over, well-accepted studies in this area come to the conclusion that, yes, in many ways our well-intentioned tendency to lavish our offspring with praise is fueling a generation of narcissists. I am still not happy with the “gold medal for all” approach to sports day, but I have to grapple with the fact that many of us live in a society that values praise over engagement and end goals over process.

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In the 1960s and 70s, the cultural pendulum had swung a great distance from the Victorian idea that sparing the rod would spoil the child. We had, thankfully, moved from seeing children as little adults who could be sent down the mines, to viewing them more or less as equals. Child-led learning was gaining ground; parents told their kids to call them Carol and Bob, not Mom and Dad. The issue of praise has swung alongside the pendulum: Gone is the Dickensian approach of “building character” through coldness and disinterest, but parents and teachers are now beginning to question the “everything is great” mode. We have shifted toward a middle ground, one where we understand that feedback is good, but praise does not always bring about the outcome we hope it will.

The educational psychologist Jere Brophy, writing in the Elementary School Journal, provides an example of a well-meaning statement we can all relate to:

“Tom, how much is eight times seven? … Right. Jane, nine times six? … Okay. Bill, do you know how much is two times two? … Good, Bill! That’s exactly right! Nancy, how much is nine times eight? … Right.”

At its core, this example evinces the desire to boost a pupil’s confidence by using praise. But Brophy notes that this method of praising will probably “backfire, causing the recipients pain or embarrassment rather than making them feel good.” This is because praise on its own is not enough. The quality, context, and intention behind the praise matter, too. Bill correctly works out a very easy problem and is given extra accolades; meanwhile, his classmates have managed much more difficult ones but are shown less approval. This undermines the child’s trust in the person praising their efforts, thus devaluing the praise.

Studies show that feedback is a necessary component in the building of a child’s sense of self-worth. But, interestingly, students do not seem to need praise in order to thrive. Feedback is distinct from praise in that it engages with a child’s efforts rather than simply passing a value judgment on them.

In more recent studies, another danger emerges: Approval itself can become the “extrinsic reward,” the end goal. A child who is praised often will begin to crave the satisfaction he or she gets from pleasing their parent, teacher, or caregiver. Instead of doing something for the pure joy of it, the child will begin to do it simply for the praise. This is not a healthy cycle, and it can turn children into approval addicts. Their worth comes from the recognition they get rather than an inner sense of achievement or fulfilment.

In addition, there is some research showing that intrinsic motivating factors, such as wanting to learn the meaning of a difficult word or getting lost in the act of painting simply for the pleasure it brings, are incompatible with extrinsic factors. Writing in the Educational Psychology Review, Martin V. Covington and Kimberly J. Müeller take this idea further, positing that “when teachers attempt to encourage intrinsic behavior directly—for example, by acknowledging students for pursuing already established interests such as poetry writing—then ironically, these activities may be discouraged….Such discouragement is believed to occur because the offering of additional rewards devalues an already self-justifiable activity, which from the student’s perspective translates as, ‘If someone has to pay me for doing this, it must not be worth doing for its own sake.’”

If praise becomes the focus for preschoolers, and then shifts into wanting those gold stars at elementary school, it can then segue into craving the top grades in high school. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but all we are doing is training our children to attain goals rather than to pursue learning for its own sake. In fact, a study of college students found that they rated “achieving the highest grade possible” as their main reason for learning. Things like “increasing one’s knowledge” or “undertaking work as a matter of personal challenge” rated much lower in their priorities.

How do we foster in our children a desire to learn, rather than a desire to please us?

Although in some educational situations, some amount of praise can lead to short-term results, “these gains are countered by lower levels of motivation for continued learning.” There is evidence that “the more children are induced to do something for a reward, whether the reward is tangible or verbal, the more they show a diminished interest the next time they do it.”

So how do we foster in our children a desire to learn, rather than a desire to please us? One simple way is to praise the effort over the outcome. Not only does this encourage them to keep doing whatever it is, it takes the focus away from “good” and “bad,” placing it on the idea that working toward something can be its own reward. In other words, instead of thinking about praising our children, we should be concentrating on encouraging them. Some psychologists are keen to emphasize that we need to provide specific feedback rather than overall generalizations. We should also work toward creating an atmosphere where children feel safe making mistakes. Failure is part of the process of learning and is something we often overlook.

Psychologists suggest using “sincere, direct comments” in a “natural voice.” In other words, try not to say you think something’s great if you don’t, and don’t overdo the enthusiasm. It can be tricky: When I am confronted at the school gates with a robot made out of All-Bran boxes, my first thought is, “Oh dear, just one more thing to clutter up the house.” The object may not display any sort of skill or be particularly nice to look at, but my daughter might be quite proud of her creation. Asking her about it is a better tactic rather than wading in with disingenuous positive comments. Encouraging her to tell me about her process saves me from making insincere remarks.

Although most parents and educators agree that some praise, or, more precisely, “positive encouragement,” is critical to developing children’s self-esteem, the keys are to limit it, to keep it focused, and to be honest with it. If we applaud everything our children do simply because they have done it, then we are teaching them that mere existence is enough. This leads to entitlement and narcissism, not self-assurance and confidence. We underestimate how much children can see through dishonesty. They so often know what we really think, and it’s important for them to trust us.

In our fast-paced technological age, we are witnessing an upsurge in what some see as the normalization of narcissism—not garden-variety self-regard, but pathological self-absorption. And I can’t help but make the connection between a generation of approval-needy children and one of parents whose heads are buried in their smartphones. Perhaps, while we are simply too busy to notice, we are using praise as a sort of shorthand: the “like” button on Facebook, the thumbs-up emoticon in a text message. If all a child needs to do to get that endorphin-y hit of approval is grab two seconds of our time, then this will become the norm, the model for proper engagement.

It is up to us to see that the children in our midst are presented with the mess of reality, with their failures as well as successes, with joy as much as disappointment. We owe them more than plastic gold medals for participation: We owe them the ability to confront complexity. It is our honesty—and not our distracted “wows”—that will provide our children with the skills needed to live in the real world, the one that lies beyond the bubble of constant praise.


JSTOR CITATIONS
On Praising Effectively
BY: JERE BROPHY
The Elementary School Journal, Vol. 81, No. 5 (May, 1981), pp. 268-278
The University of Chicago Press
Intrinsic Versus Extrinsic Motivation: An Approach/Avoidance Reformulation
BY: MARTIN V. COVINGTON AND KIMBERLY J. MÜELLER
Educational Psychology Review, Vol. 13, No. 2 (2001), pp. 157-176
Springer
Nurturing Mastery Motivation: No Need for Rewards
BY: JUNE REINEKE, KATHLEEN SONSTENG AND DAN GARTRELL
YC Young Children, Vol. 63, No. 6 (November 2008), pp. 89, 93-97
National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC)
PRAISE OR ENCOURAGEMENT? New Insights Into Praise: Implications for Early Childhood Teachers
BY: RANDY HITZ AND AMY DRISCOLL
Young Children, Vol. 43, No. 5 (JULY 1988), pp. 6-13
National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC)

 

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