The Raindrop...

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst sable hair. It flashes in its multicoloured glory before my eyes. A spectrum of colours glittering as vivid as any stained glass. For a moment it pauses in its perfection and I admire it. But too soon it is dashed away by heavy fingers, cast aside unheeded. As it crashes to the ground a thousand of my memories splinter with that drop across the damp earth.

Broken fragments of another lifetime. The sound of breathless laughter. The faint scent of rosemary. And that one, flawless, raindrop.

I open my eyes and once more I am a girl again.

The sun is high in the summer sky, burning a trail across the field and the bridge of my nose. As I lie in the grass, my fingers playing with the textured strands, I gaze up at the wide canvas. My hand reaches out and I paint the firmament. There a queen with a trailing gown. There a dog fetching a stick. There a – 

                “-What’s that?” My companion asks with amusement. I turn to him, crushing the verdant carpet beneath my moving body.

                “Clouds. Pictures in the clouds. Can you not see them?”  A wry smile crosses the familiar face,

                “I’ve no imagination. I’m a pig-headed solider. Barbaric in fact.” I laugh with him, unable to remember when or why I had been angry enough to say those words. “But you’re a wild thing. Untamed. More at home out here than in any castle or church.” My heart beats erratically, feeling uncomfortable within my chest, and I am suddenly shy beneath his steady gaze.

                I take the flower that I hold clenched between my fingers and push it behind his ear. My hand rests on his face for a fraction of a second longer than it needs to. Leaning back I giggle at the image he presents. So stern and fierce and proper. I want to paint him too. Hold him in this moment.

                This is our goodbye. And I feel a strange sense that this moment is important. But it passes, just like the clouds that cover the sun momentarily. The wind lifts my hair from my face, capturing the lingering fragrance of rosemary. He draws closer and I know he can sense it too. Our eyes hold for an instant in the silence, until my gaze is drawn to the single raindrop that balances upon his dark head.

                The single drop becomes two... three... four...five. I tip my face up, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the water against my sun-warmed skin. Laughter rises within me and I grab his hand with mine, pulling until we are both standing and then we are running.

                I feel reckless and free like a bird finally taking flight. My feet bare, the grass stroking gently at my skin, my hair tangling madly behind me. Breathless we rest beneath a tree, sheltered from the slow but insistent rain. I feel reckless and free so I hold him close. His hands seek my face, rough fingertips tracing my features. A raindrop drips from his hair and it slides down my face like a tear. My eyes flicker closed and I feel him bending his head to mine.

My eyes open and he is gone.

The dream ended as quickly as it had begun.

I dream of that raindrop often. The water blurs his face now, when once it was as familiar as my own. I’m forgetting a lot of things now though. They say I did not know my own son when he visited me last week. But this is one memory, one dream, which I refuse to have taken from me. I may have to live out the remainder of my life in this remote priory, an old sick woman of no use to anybody, but I shan’t give him up.

When I dream, I dream of a raindrop. A single, solitary raindrop caught amongst his sable hair. He leans that dark head toward me and holding my hand he walks beside me across the field that leads to home.

The Strongest Kind Of Monks

Is it a monk or is it a friar? There seems to be some confusion as to the distinction between these two different words. A monk was generally a man living in a religious community apart from society, whilst a friar was a man who could live within society preaching and teaching. These are of course very imprecise definitions because there was much overlap and change during the medieval period.

Monastic orders included the Benedictines, Cistercians and Carthusians.

Cisterican monks at work,
Cîteaux, 1111, Bibliothèque Municipale, Dijon, MS. 170, f.59r.

Mendicant orders included the Dominicans, Franciscans, and Carmelites.

Dominican friars seated with the Luttrell family,
The Luttrell Psalter, England, fourteenth century, British Library, Add. 42130, f. 208r.

To make matters even more confusing there were also canons, such as the Augustinians. Monks, friars and canons made up the ‘regular clergy’ of medieval society. (They were called regular because they followed a rule of life).

The Benedictines, and most other monastic orders, based their rule of life on that written by St Benedict of Nursia in the sixth century. He described in Chapter 1 the basis of Benedictine monasticism “those who live in monasteries and serve under a rule and an Abbot”. The Dominicans and Augustinians followed the Rule of St Augustine, whilst the Franciscans followed the rule written by their founder, St Francis of Assisi.

There were of course more similarities between the various religious orders than there were differences. The various orders were often referred to by the colour of their habits, so the Benedictines became the Black Monks and the Cistercians the White Monks.

The important questions to bear in mind when deciding between the label of ‘monk’ and ‘friar’ are time and location:

• The friars were a thirteenth century phenomenon, so before 1200 it’s safer to presume that they’re monks.
• If they lived in the centre of a town or city they’re more likely to be mendicant friars, because whilst monks desired isolation, the friars wanted to reach a maximum lay audience with their preaching.

[This is NOT meant as a foolproof guide or an exhaustive study into the religious orders. Consider it more of an exceedingly brief introduction].

Through The Looking Glass

If I asked you what came to mind when I say ‘medieval glass’ you might reply the stained glass at Chartres Cathedral, or perhaps the inner casing of a holy reliquary, or maybe even an elaborate goblet set on a royal dais; but it is quite unlikely that you’d think of a urinal.

Urinal, 1400s, Musuem of London

Glass was an important material in medieval medicine and science. Glass flasks were used because of their transparency and because they did not contaminate their contents by corroding. Glass instruments were used in alchemy to prepare acids, to distil alcohol, and in medicine for uroscopy.

Uroscopy was the diagnosis of a disease through the examination of the colour of a patient’s urine. The urine flask became one of the symbols of the physician’s trade, and a doctor can often by identified in illuminated manuscripts by their possession of a glass flask.

Physician teaching students, Paris, 1300s,
(British Library, Harley 3140, f. 32v).

Physicians often owned charts that catalogued the different colours of urine and the illnesses to which these could be linked. For example, blue urine was associated with indigestion and black urine was meant to indicate death.

Diagnostic chart, England, c.1406,
(British Library, Harley 5311).

It is important to remember the smaller, everyday objects and not just the glamorous and glittering jewels of medieval life. But perhaps the worlds of stained glass and urinals were not so distinct from each other. In the Becket Miracle Windows at Canterbury Cathedral physicians were depicted consulting their urine flasks, but the message was to rely not upon your physician but rather on the healing power of the saint, even in those cases when your urine was black.

Chartres Cathedral,
Constantine has leprosy and consults a physician.

Superstitions Part II...

Today's post was quite obviously not written by myself, but rather by my far more talented and handsome friend. It might not be medieval themed, but who really cares, it's just too good to be sitting neglected in my inbox. So I encourage you now to sit back, tuck into a box of biscuits, and enjoy...

Now listen folks, and I'll tell you a story about superstition. But first, I've got to introduce you to our hero. His name was John. Ever such a nice fellow, but with an unfortunate and curiously persistent relationship with misfortune.

Our friend John, he'd tell you that he didn't trust one bit in all that. Didn't like the idea that life was influenced and guided by strange obscure rules and regulations. But that's not to say he dismissed it entirely! Some people can hear about a rumour or a myth, and purge it completely from their minds, never to be thought of again. John was, quite unfortunately for him, not one of those people. You see, John would deny being superstitious – loudly, at times – until the day he died, but he'd always have – at the very least – the nagging thoughts tucked up real nice and secure in the back of his mind. That's just the kinda guy John was. How he was made, and how he lived. Wouldn't be John otherwise.

So when in his childhood, our friend John managed to break a mirror during class, he wasn't all that swayed. I don't know why they had mirrors, maybe it was a science experiment. It's not important and it's irrelevant to the story. He broke the mirror by mistake, that's what matters. Then he quietly collected up the shards, and disposed of them responsibly. What a guy, taking care of his own business even at the young age of thirteen! No yelling for a teacher, no clueless expression, just right down on his hands and knees and cleaning up the mess. But anyway, he wasn't bothered by it. Until, that is, his classmates caught wind of what he'd done. John had broken a mirror, and they weren't quickly going to let him forget the years of ill fortune that would certainly lie ahead of him. Seven long years, John, and how about that! Quite a predicament, and all from what was a practically harmless mistake! Our friend remained stoic however, and tried not to let his jeering peers get the better of him. But alas, this day really had quite a lasting impact on him, even if he wasn't always consciously aware of it. Poor chap.

Every time things didn't seem to go quite his way, or he felt the odds stacked against him, there was always something in the back of his mind that wouldn't let him forget that mirror. This occurred with unfortunate frequency, or so John thought. While his life wasn't especially good by any means, it wasn't particularly bad either. I'm certain that nobody could really tell, even with all the data right there in front of them, whether he was blessed or cursed. It's just not possible to know, okay? Our pal John just seemed to be a normal guy! Unfortunately, even when he wasn't paying it full attention, his mind was always working overtime with the concept of luck, cross referencing it with every experience. Thus, he accumulated some serious superstitious baggage.

The first thing he figured out was a method of avoiding bad luck. That doesn't mean first chronologically for John, by the way – I couldn't tell you that. Anyway, this requires a little explanation. John, cursed as he believed himself – much as he'd deny it if you asked him – considered himself in a natural state of “bad luck”. So rather than seeking good luck, as any normal person would, John sought instead for little breaks of “average luck”. Or, as he thought it, avoiding bad luck. Back to the story. John's method of avoiding bad luck was the do things in specific number sets. Fours, sevens or tens, to be more precise. Quite where he came up with these peculiar numbers I'm not sure, but it obviously made sense to him. When working in fours, sevens or tens, John emanated a certain... Let's call it “gusto”, that simply wasn't there otherwise.

I'd tell you more, and there most certainly is more to tell, but there wouldn't be enough time to explore all the bits and pieces, so we'll leave it at that. Let's just take it as a given that our John was a superstitious guy to the core, and get to the main event. Where are my manners, to ramble out so much back story? Onto the main event.

John was out one day, feeling real chipper. Reason being was that his seven years – remember those? – were about up, if not done with on that very day. Maybe he acknowledged it, maybe he didn't, but he was looking forward to some comparatively good fortune, after years of suffering. So stroll he did, over towards the shops, to see where his mind may take him. He decided, by complete chance, to take a different route. Perhaps fate guided him. On one of these unfamiliar roads, he happened across a skip, within which he couldn't help but notice a mirror, haphazardly heaped upon other discarded furniture. Looking in the mirror as he strolled by, he caught a glimpse of a black cat grooming itself somewhere behind him. Poor John, he fixated on this stuff something fierce! He might have even imagined it! His smile – which was somewhat goofy, if we're honest – faltered, and he spun, trying to find the cat, source of potential prolonged bad luck. John didn't like cats on the best of days, and today the sight triggered something akin to a fight or flight instinct. He lashed out with his foot at a piece of rubble which had fallen from the skip, and it flew... Straight over to a nearby tree, before rebounding with an awful crash straight into the skip. Oh dear. John didn't even look back, bless him, but set off for home with such an expression, you'd think he'd seen a ghost. If he had chanced to glance back, he'd have seen that it wasn't the mirror he broke, but a discarded television set beneath it. He fled, subjecting himself unconsciously to another seven years of trouble, even though he'd done nothing to deserve them. And you know what? He went through life like that. Misfortune led to misfortune, simply because he believed in it. How about that for a moral?