Wednesday 30 December 2020

Two gifts

The section of Mourid Barghouti’s poem Midnight (which she had marked in the copy by our bed) read at Deborah’s funeral yesterday:

The soul retains its passion
even on the cross,
the body has its dance,
even on the ropes.
The war enters into farce:
They bomb a butterfly!
It becomes
even more farcical:
the butterfly has not died
but, with its fragility still intact,
has grown yet lovelier,
towering above the hubris of the general
and his science of war.
Here is half the triumph:
the butterfly, armed with
nothing but its beauty and the thrust of its wings,
enters the contest, sure of death.
It will die, it knows it will die,
– from the qualities of the killer and from its own qualities.
from the window of a future despair,
it will return,
flapping its wings in the rooms of fancy.
The soul retains its passion even on the cross,
even on the ropes, the body has its dance.

And the view of the sun on the snow on Pen-y- ghent today (taken by one of her sons from the edge of the site in which she had just been buried).

Monday 21 December 2020


Deborah Mullins, teacher, textile artist, friend of those unjustly treated, greatly admired and loved  

8 September 1959 - 20 December 2020

She died just at the time people would have been beginning Sunday worship on the Fourth Sunday in Advent, reading the same Gospel as was read at our wedding on a feast of the Annunciation: "Here I am, servant of the Lord; let it be as he has spoken".

She and Mary shared a birthday, together singing "Our souls are overwhelmed by God, mercy cascades down the generations, and the promise remains that justice will reverse the inequalities and oppression we allow".