Today is the 150th Anniversary of Rudyard Kipling’s birth

Rudyard Kipling was born on December 30th 1865, in India.

His life and his writings have been written about and discussed extensively. I have read a lot of criticism of him and his works and I agree with some of it, but he is still one of my favourite authors.

Kipling is also a person of interest because the kind of unseen influences that I am very interested in appear to have been at work in his life. This will be the subject of a future article.

In the meantime, there is a big coincidence involving a place in Hampshire where he stayed as a child. I have already mentioned it in another article, but I decided to repeat the story to mark the occasion of the birthday of a very great author and poet.

It came first as a surprise, then, on reflection, not such a surprise, when I first learned that Lorne Lodge, the ‘House of Desolation’ where he and his sister suffered so much as children, was (and still is) in Campbell Road in Southsea. ‘By chance’, Lorne Lodge is just around the corner from a house where my family lived for a while when I was 11 years old. What a coincidence. Although I knew nothing at the time, I always avoided walking down Campbell Road because it gave me bad feelings.

The name of the people Rudyard Kipling stayed with was Holloway; by coincidence, when my family left Southsea it was to go to a house very close to a big thoroughfare called Holloway Road. By coincidence, the ‘terrible little day-school’ called Hope House that Kipling attended in Southsea was run by a man with the same, not particularly common, last name as that of my step-mother, who was behind our move away from Southsea. She disappeared from our lives not long afterwards.

An unusual Midnight Mass: the real spirit of Christmas?

I like this poem very much. It is based on what may well be a myth, but to me it conveys the essence of Christmas:

Eddi's Service (A.D. 687) by Rudyard Kipling:

     Eddi, priest of St Wilfrid

      In the chapel at Manhood End,

     Ordered a midnight service

      For such as cared to attend.

     But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,

      And the night was stormy as well.

     Nobody came to service,

      Though Eddi rang the bell.

     'Wicked weather for walking,'

       Said Eddi of Manhood End.

     'But I must go on with the service

       For such as care to attend.'

     

     The altar candles were lighted,—

      An old marsh donkey came,

     Bold as a guest invited,

      And stared at the guttering flame.

    The storm beat on at the windows,

      The water splashed on the floor,

     And a wet yoke-weary bullock

      Pushed in through the open door.

     

    'How do I know what is greatest,

      How do I know what is least?

    That is My Father's business,'

      Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.

     'But, three are gathered together—

      Listen to me and attend.

     I bring good news, my brethren!'

      Said Eddi, of Manhood End.

     

    And he told the Ox of a manger

     And a stall in Bethlehem,

    And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider

     That rode to Jerusalem.

    They steamed and dripped in the chancel,

     They listened and never stirred,

    While, just as though they were Bishops,

     Eddi preached them The Word.

    Till the gale blew off on the marshes

      And the windows showed the day,

    And the Ox and the Ass together

     Wheeled and clattered away.

     And when the Saxons mocked him,

      Said Eddi of Manhood End,

     'I dare not shut His chapel

      On such as care to attend.'

This poem is in the public domain and can be found online in many places, including Project Gutenberg.

Unseen Influences at Christmas

I don’t enjoy this time of year very much. Seasonal depression prevents much enjoyment and turns necessary tasks into impositions; painful memories and feelings surface and thoughts of what might have been become overwhelming.

People are stressed and I pick up a lot of the tension and unhappiness that are in the air.

Even though I am not a Christian, I hate the way that consumerism and secularism have taken over what should be a religious festival. 

Despite not being religious, I did go to a Christmas service once. It was at the suggestion of a neighbour. One fateful Christmas Eve many years ago, I went for the first time ever to a Midnight Mass. It was held in Westminster Cathedral, and I went just for the carols and the spectacle.

The outing was pure delight from beginning to end. I felt very well, euphoric even; I had the feeling that something wonderful was on the horizon; the weather was very mild; we saw some happy looking policemen driving around in a car that was covered in Christmas decorations.

I enjoyed the lights, the surroundings and the music inside the Cathedral very much. Just as midnight was striking, I wished very hard for a good cause to support and a new and exciting interest in my life for the coming New Year. 

The expression “Be very careful what you wish for as you may well end up getting it” is becoming a platitude but is very relevant here. A ‘chance’ meeting with a stranger on New Year’s Eve brought me exactly what I had wished for. For good or evil? I still don’t know. It led to some of the best and some of the worst moments of my life, including a Christmas that I still can’t bear to think about. 

Prison guards and parents: two memorable passages

I was reading about the author and explorer Sir Laurens van der Post recently, and came across something that he wrote during his captivity in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp.

Once, depressed, he wrote in his diary:

"It is one of the hardest things in this prison life: the strain caused by being continually in the power of people who are only half-sane and live in a twilight of reason and humanity." 

Van der Post’s words summarise his experience very well; they are of particular interest and significance to me because they could also be used to describe some people’s experience of childhood – as seen in retrospect rather than at the time though.

Van der Post was an adult at the time of his internment; he had experienced freedom; he had seen a different world and lived a different life; he knew what reason, sanity and humanity were.

He had gone from the normal to the abnormal.

It is another matter when we are born into what seems like imprisonment and into the power of people who are more like prison guards or hostage-takers than caring parents. There is an extra dimension to deal with: we need to put everything into context and learn from first principles how decent human beings behave, and what reason and sanity are. 

Carole Nelson Douglas summarises this stage very well in Cat in a Midnight Choir:

“...no anger, no fury is stronger than the final, unavoidable realisation that the protector has betrayed his role and is really the destroyer. But it takes a while to find out that the unthinkable is not the status quo, and that your daily 'normal' is very abnormal to a larger world.“

People from dysfunctional families need to go from the abnormal to the normal.

It certainly does take a while, perhaps because after living so long in the twilight zone we can only take the truth in small doses and need to adjust to reality very slowly. We need to deal with some devastating realisations. 

Our lives may indeed have been as far from normality as Laurens van der Post’s life in the prison camp was.

Another recent string of minor misfortunes

I wrote about a bad day I had in a previous post. I have had a few more bad days recently, and I have a good idea what caused them.

I kept walking into and tripping over things at home, giving myself some bruises.

I went out on some errands. I fell very heavily just outside the library: all I did was step on a tiny stone, but it rocked forward, threw me off balance and tipped me right over. I was very shaken; I got some more bruises and I grazed my hands. 

Inside the library, a machine took my reservation money but did not credit my account; luckily the library staff believed me when I said I had paid, and they sorted it out.

I had a jarring shock when my internet connection suddenly stopped working when I was in the middle of something important. I did get it working again, but I had some bad moments.

The worst aspect was feeling depressed, apathetic and just plain terrible: as always, it got worse and worse then slowly wore off.

My normal practice at times such as this is to work backwards and look for an energy vampire. This time, I knew that a possibly stupid action of mine was responsible.

It all started when I saw a post on a consumer forum from someone who had discovered that his name and address details could easily be found online, even though he had opted out of the open electoral register. 

I went on the site he mentioned, and could not resist trying the name of someone I had not seen for a very long time: I went ‘no contact’ by choice as I just couldn’t take any more.

Robin Jarvis’s witchmaster Nathaniel Crozier: Part I

Nathaniel Crozier is a key character in A Warlock in Whitby, the second volume of Robin Jarvis’s wonderful Whitby Witches trilogy. 

He is the husband of the witch who called herself Rowena Cooper, but was really Roselyn Crozier (called Roslyn Crosier in The Whitby Witches). He is not a witch exactly, but he is a black magician and he does control a group of witches. 

He is a person of interest because some of the things he and his followers say and do are very familiar.

An introduction to Nathaniel Crozier
Nathaniel Crozier casts a dark shadow ahead of him: he is briefly mentioned in The Whitby Witches, where he is introduced as Roselyn’s God-awful husband. They performed foul ceremonies together in Africa. They are described as a hellish pair who deserve to hang. I couldn’t have put it better myself.

The prose gets purple in A Warlock in Whitby:

“Nathaniel Crozier: historian, philanderer, warlock, high priest of the Black Sceptre and the unseen hand behind countless unsolved burglaries of religious relics from around the world…the most evil man on earth.”

There is nothing on this earth that he cannot make yield and bow before him.

How strange that such a man should wear worn and shabby clothes and be unable to enter a dwelling without an invitation! 

He seems to have very little to show for all his studies, efforts, powers and stolen magical artefacts. 

Injury and revenge: Part I some general ideas

This article was created to get some general ideas about injury and revenge out of the way, clearing the decks for action in preparation for a forthcoming article about the way that unseen influences may be at work in some special cases. 

Injuries
Where injuries are concerned, self-help guru Vernon Howard suggests that it is not possible for our real selves to be hurt, just our egos or the false images that we have of ourselves. 

This is worth thinking about, although if it is true the implications may be very unwelcome.

Thoughts of revenge
People may have fantasies of revenge, but if they respect the truth they will realise that these ideas are usually childish, excessive or unrealistic. 

As Vivianne Crowley says in Your Dark Side:

“The more disempowered we are in real life…the more elaborate and sadistic our revenge fantasies will be.”

This statement is very true in my experience, and it provides another unwelcome insight.

Taking responsibility for our part in the affair
There may be no action that we can take other than to do some inner work and try to understand how and why we let ourselves be victimised and what sort of person our victimiser must be.

We also need to think about what we can do to avoid or prevent similar incidents happening in the future.

This is what better people do.