FROM THE BOUNDARY: Love in the garden
John Bradburne: the Franciscan tertiary who lost his life to terrorist bullets in Zimbabwe on 5 September, 1979. For ten years he had devoted his life to the lepers at the Mutemwa colony, first as Warden and then, after he rubbed ‘authority’ up the wrong way for being too generous with the lepers, as devoted care-giver from a hut just outside the camp. He was a prolific poet, and in the hundred days leading up to what would have been his 100th birthday, 14 June, members of the John Bradburne Memorial Society read his poems daily for Facebook and YouTube. Mine, 19 March, the Feast of St. Joseph, was ‘Ode to the Cock’. “You are at odds with all the rebel powers/That strike at God’s inexorable rights... Whoso will know you not in woe lies deep.” At his funeral, three drops of blood dripped from his coffin, and his cause for canonisation has been opened by the Bishops of Zimbabwe with the approval of the Vatican. Mutemwa, overlooked by Chigona Mount, has long been a place of pilgrimage for those who love him.
For his centenary, some of us were asked to record birthday greetings. I sat in my garden, with Snow-Snow on my lap, the same who inspired in me understandings of the divine and still cutches on me to sleep, surrounded by 30 or so of my feathered darlings. At one point I said: “John, here in my garden with Snow-Snow and all the others, I found my Mutemwa. You will understand exactly what I mean.” And this IS where I am in these last years of my life.
It’s a lot of work. My day starts at 6:30 a.m. and doesn’t finish till 8:00 p.m. – though yes, I do my best to reach ‘Eats and Treats’ for coffee and a sandwich in the afternoon. The chapel, with Snow-Snow and his ‘girls’, Coco and Poco, and Firsty, the teenage offspring, has to be cleaned out daily. Then three roosters, two who are blind, and Grab-Grab, who has only one beak, have to be hand-fed three times a day. Angel has to have one-on-one care still. You remember her, the chick that just turned up? So beautiful. Well, to me they all are, ever radiating different colours and characters just like us. It’s like watching over the world in a garden. Bottom line: it’s a hell of a lot of work.
But the curtain? There’s three reasons. First, if you’ve been reading me you’ll know that I regard the claims of creation to be sacred and overarching. We’re all one, not least because we’re “all poor creatures born to die”. So: John with his lepers, Clifford with his feathered darlings. My life has been full of adventure.
It still is, but with them. Actually, they exhibit many human characteristics and readily give their devotion and love, and not just for Super Layer 18%! The roosters painstakingly give food to their girls and chicks – and not every human Daddy does that, does he? But then they fight for power as humans do. To cradle these boyos to the breast, even cheek to cheek, with song accompaniment, is apt to stir the gift of tears. And yes, with Columbanus (6th century): “If you wish to know the Creator, come to know his creatures.” One thing: the divine isn’t a series of formulae guarded by the Church, nor yet mere verses in a book. It expresses itself through love, which is what my garden pulses. It overrides weekly scribbling.
Then there were mysterious promptings. One day Rooster Pongo disappeared. Two weeks passed. Nothing. One day I set out in the car. Reaching the junction at the bottom of the road, I dutifully looked right, then left and... there he was in the road, defenceless, blind, scarred. Moments later he might have been car-crushed.
I brought him home. I was, you see, remarkably where I was meant to be. More: one day I was feeding Grab-Grab. A dove settled on a branch opposite and just stared at me. I stared back in silent blessing. An inner voice whispered, “I am with you always.” Spirit songs. Irresistible.
Thirdly, the prayer to St. Brigid. I came across it quite by chance. It’s a prayer which summarises my heart for me, you and my cariadau here in this garden. It’s a quiet prayer, no shrieking from pulpits, and its words caress us gently, capturing the Life within all life as a gentle breeze where faith and nature meet. Here’s a snippet: “You brought harmony where there was conflict... hope to the downcast... you were a voice for the wounded and weary. Strengthen what is weak in us. Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens…” In the evening light, I sense that Brigid calls us home.
So there we are. Here’s a blessing, me to you. It’s from an Incredible String Band album.
May the long time sun shine upon you,
All love surround you.
And the pure light within you
Guide your way on +
Go safely, then – always.