The gods are less for their love of praise.
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
It has made all things by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come together ā
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
the lover and the loved.
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.- The Hidden Singer by Wendell Berry
A rainbow is wholeness unwoven and made visible to our eyes. Mix the colours equally and you make white light, and with white light we see our world. Isaac Newton discovered this using prisms and rainbows, but Iām discovering it in other ways.
When I joined the Green Party, it was out of a melancholy blue desperation and a bright yellow hope; primary motivations mixing in me to make a new green attempt at solution. I was both repelled and drawn by politics; it seemed as much part of the problem as part of any solution. The early meetings I attended felt like Green Party bingo ā shapeless linen clothing, urbanites, vegan food, jute bags from the eco food store, slow but collaborative decision-making. But looking for stereotypes to confirm perceptions is a lazy way to see, so I kept looking and found other things ā kindness, forward-looking policy ideas, wisdom, scientists and lawyers and artists, humour. I found something that I could move from and towards, something that carried hope within the constraint of systems. I stuck with this hope and eventually (and unexpectedly) got elected onto my District Council, a mid-tier authority in the UKās governance system which represents towns and rural parishes. My electoral ward has only ever voted Conservative ā Blue ā and I am the first Green here.
But our planet works when itās blue and green, itās never been one or the other; polarity is for north and south, not for life and possibility and healing broken things.
The village fair
It was the early days of my new role in local politics, and I was off to a summer fair in one of the villages in my ward. I was nervous. So far, Iād been making things up as I went along, trying not to let the onslaught of people, briefings and unfamiliar processes overwhelm me. The chance to step away from Council walls and attend a community event was reprieve. But I was new here, and my story did not yet integrate with the story of this place or these people. I felt alone and on show, I felt like a fraud. I parked my car, took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped out. The sun shone down, its rays reaching into a welcome, and I breathed in ā cut grass, manure, sun calling out the essence of soil. I looked around and saw people walking into the hall wearing muddy boots, well-worn jackets, jeans. I looked down at my own outfit: skirt, heeled boots, jewellery. I wished I wasnāt wearing heels. I donāt even like wearing heels. I scruffed myself around the edges, swapping my cardigan for an old jacket in the car. Sometimes Iām grateful for this tendency in myself ā to want to soften difference into bridges, and to put relationship before standpoint. Sometimes I despise it though, wishing I was more comfortable to stake my ground with no thought to how Iāll be received. But there are already plenty of stakes in the ground and itās getting hard to move through them. I pulled my jacket around me, walked towards the hall, and stepped over the threshold.
I stood at the edge and took the space in. It was well-loved. On the walls, there were photos of people presumably from the village, some in colour, some in black and white, and there were plaques of dedication and remembrance too. There were remnants of events ā blue tack, bunting, posters. The hall was a canvas that had been painted over and over, colours combining with community. Around the room, rows of stalls were laid out with things knitted, cooked, handcrafted, sculpted, painted, and grown. My eyes skipped over smooth wooden walking sticks, over softness of quilts, over bright flowers, over earthen cups and bowls that had been pulled from the raw materials of land and people and place.
Iād arranged to meet Jim, the Chair of the local Parish Council. He saw me and walked in my direction, weaving through the crowd, his height and movement bringing to mind a fin cutting through waves. He was a seventy-something Conservative-voting local cornerstone, and I was nervous. But as he neared, he beamed at me.
āWelcome. Glad you could make it.ā
Jimās voice is gentle, truthful, slow and rolling like the fields he farms. Over the years since that first conversation, our relationship of necessity has turned into one of affection. Jim loves his community, he is a glue, and I have seen him knit together people, care, challenges and solutions. During that first encounter, we walked around the hall and Jim introduced me to some of the parishioners. I learned about the village, writing things down in my notebook, always my notebook anchoring me. As I walked away from a couple Iād been speaking with, I heard, in lowered voices:
āWell she seems very nice, but itās a pity sheās not a Conservative.ā
āYes, big change, big change. Never thought Iād see a Green here.ā
I paused, ready to turn back and engage. But I didnāt. We are a someone, then we are somewhere, then a something. Before I am a Green Councillor, I am someone who cares about people, and who understands how tradition binds us ā how, as John OāDonohue said, ātradition is to community what memory is to the individual.ā I would get to know people here, and engage from a place of relationship. But for now I represented a rift in tradition, I was disturbing the memory of the place for some people at least. Others had presumably voted for me, had wanted new traditions in their community which is being hollowed out and threatened on all sides by forces outside of their influence; economic, agricultural, cultural. I canāt bear what the visionless Conservative government is doing to this country, how they have broken people and places. But I have also seen that some local Conservative Councillors really love and know their place, and are doing brilliant things on its behalf, a world away from Westminster. I am beginning to see and understand these things, and to understand the division and distraction caused by political parties. It is more complex that green/blue, left/right.
Pick a colour
What is Green when it is not a love of life; when it is not care, but ideology? What is Blue or Red or Yellow when they have left their place in the rainbow to become self-sufficient principles? They are fault lines and blinkers, reducing our ability to hear each other and see into complexity. They are fragmented opinions and preferences dressed in suits and budgets. They are prose where poetry would better serve us. They are battle lines that block community, they are ideologies that become cages over time. I am tired of all of it.
But enough of the idealism because look, there, in my email and voicemails and meetings ā see the man who is about to be evicted, the foodbank more in demand than ever, the polluted rivers, the couple who can not afford to buy a house locally where their family have always lived. Voter, pick a colour that can fix these things. Pick a colour. Which one?
The farmer tells me, āCanāt stand them lot in London, but who else can I vote for?ā
The campaigner tells me, āthereās no point talking to that lotā, then, thinking it progressive, āyouāre Green, assumed youād be vegan?ā
My head swirls with colour, with division, with pseudo-battles and pseudo-care. Meanwhile, the kid in the broken home doesnāt see anything of much use in either the left or the right; he sees only arrogance and decay. He turns to other things, and the rainbow remains partial.
Seeing in light and politics
The Green Man is a symbol of life, death and rebirth, and I can feel him moving now. Just as he peers into old churches, carved by long-ago men who, perhaps rebelling, wanted to breathe life and story into stone and institution, he now peers into politics, willing that something more beautiful be birthed.
He is not an anarchist ā he does not want to tear down, he only wants to see bright daylight through the canopy, he wants to reweave the rainbow. And he knows there is more than white light ā there are things we canāt see; UV light, infrared light, other things that only he knows. Our world is held in a dazzle of light, and it is beautiful, and it is not all there is. We need special lenses and tools to see beyond white light to UV and infrared, just as we need new lenses to see past politics as it is. I see how these new lenses are actually old things like relationship, listening, imagination, love, humanity. They are not loud or expensive, they have no glossy branding; perhaps thatās why theyāre not taken seriously. But I think they can help us unpick, reimagine, reweave broken things, making a wholeness with which we might more clearly see whatās possible - helping us treat sickness, not symptoms. Iāll explore this more in future Gold Seams posts.
Jim and I met and shared some wine a while back, putting our Green and Blue blinkers to one side, preferring instead to peer into places and detail.
āIām seeing a friend of mine tomorrow,ā Jim tells me. āA farmer, having a hard time of things at the moment.ā
āSorry to hear that Jim.ā
āThis government, they were supposed to help us farmers but look at it now. Trouble is, people canāt see any other option. Anyway, are you standing for local election again? - Some people werenāt sure about a Green, but youāre part of us now. And weāll work together either way, wonāt we?ā
I nod, āOf course we willā, and I know that this is true despite not yet knowing what it will look like, not needing to know what it will look like, or what comes beyond politics (I am not standing for election again) ā it is enough for now to mix together colours and relationship and imagination towards something more whole.
Jim and I clink our glasses, and the deep purple-black wine catches a flash of evening light so that its hidden pinks and peaches also shine. Ā
Do share your responses, curiosities, experiences - Iād love to hear from you. And if youāre voting in UK local elections next week, take a moment to think about what each candidate represents, and how theyāll work for your place and community.
With love,
Elizabeth x
Beautifully written Elizabeth. I love your description of Jim, especially this "Jimās voice is gentle, truthful, slow and rolling like the fields he farms" He sounds like just the kind of man I would love to meet.
I also appreciate how you capture the complexity and diversity of local politics. Away from the toxicity of Westminster with all the slander, scheming, incompetence, pride, and sometimes corruption, it is good to be reminded that faithful local politicians who dearly love their local communities do exist (and are in the majority) and can work beyond the "boundaries of colour." (or boundaries of the rosette).
Your words help us readers to see beyond the surface and reflect on important ideas. Please keep writing. I hope by deciding not to run for local office you arenāt retreating from the front line as you clearly have a lot to offer. Iām eager to hear more practical vision and solution from you because that is the leadership we need and I hope you will one day offer. Though I appreciate your poetic way of describing the inadequacy of many current systems, Iām eager to hear your proposal for something real and different , beyond your preferred words like āconnectionā and āimagination.ā If you were running for a higher office, what would your policies and proposals for actual change be? From what I read in your work, I think you have this potential in you. Iām just not reading that leadership quite yet.