This is a reblog of my post of 17th January, 2017. Regular readers here will know that I often make reference to Hildegard of Bingen, and I’m reblogging this today because I’ll be doing a mini speaking ‘tour’ in Brisbane next week. The first of my talks is ‘Hildegard of Bingen’ for the Abbey Museum in Caboolture on 27th April. The second talk is an ‘author’s talk’ on my novel Grasping at Water at the Cedar & Pine Wine Bar in Wynnum on 29th April. If you’re in either neighbourhood, come along and say ‘Hello’.
Hildegard of Bingen, the 12th century Rhineland visionary, includes a remedy for jaundice in her extensive writings on medical topics. She advises the sufferer to wear a stunned bat (yes, of the mammalian kind) around his neck until the bat expires. To our modern sensibilities this recommendation seems useless at best but it was a treatment that was in keeping with the medieval understanding of human physiology and illness. That understanding had originated with Hippocrates (460-377BC) and Aristotle (384-324BC) and had been transmitted to the West via the writings of Galen (129-216AD) whose approach dominated the theory and practice of medicine throughout the Middle Ages.
Galen, Hildegard regarded the human body as a microcosm of the vast macrocosm
of the known universe which was believed to be made up of four elements: Earth,
Fire, Water and Air. All things –
animate and inanimate – were composed of various combinations of these elements
and of their contraries: cold, hot, moist, and dry. Particular combinations of any two
of the contraries produced in each and every person one of four main Complexions or Temperaments and an accompanying predominant bodily fluid (humor).
Illness was understood as a disturbance in these humors and treatment
sought to restore humeral balance. An overabundance of blood in the system, for
example, was often treated by the application of leeches. Herbs, with their own
particular humeral qualities, were a popular treatment as was careful attention
to the patient’s diet.
to have been an expert in the understanding and application of humeral theory.
Among her many writings is a book of (medieval) “natural science”, Causae et Curae, in which she gives
authoritative advice on treatment for all manner of ailments. For example, she
recommends (a form of) the tansy herb to treat catarrh, and a brew of comfrey,
marigold, wild sage and yarrow for easing pain associated with bruising
following trauma. Apples were a staple
medicine. When cooked they were considered to be very beneficial
for sick persons in general while a salve made from apple leaves was especially
good for the eyes. No doubt this earlier medicinal use of apples is part of the
basis for our present-day saying, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away.” Mind you, apples are a lot easier to come by
than bats. And I can’t help but wonder what I might have to do to “stun” a bat!
The season of Lent, which stretches over the forty days from
Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday, was a time of penance and fasting in the
Christian medieval world. Fasting saw a prohibition on the eating of many
foods, with meat, fat, milk and eggs being particularly forbidden. This may
seem harsh to us now but, in fact, the Church had cleverly imposed the
restrictions on a time of the year when the food reserves were most scarce
anyway. That is, in Spring, the food stocks from the previous autumn’s harvests
were at their lowest level after the long, cold winter. Thus, a social
disadvantage was refashioned into a spiritual benefit.
The scarcity, however did not stop people from thinking
about their favourite foods and, as the chickens did not stop laying
completely, there sprang up the practice of preserving the eggs – by boiling –
over the Lenten period, and often painting and decorating them in preparation
for the celebration of Easter Sunday morning. Resourceful medieval folk also
found ways to make mock, or substitute, eggs (at least as far as the outward appearance
of the egg went) by blowing out egg shells and then filling them with an almond
paste mixture, or even fish roe.
The prohibition on eggs also worked towards making them seem special, both as a food and a symbol and, unsurprisingly, various superstitions arose in relation to eggs at Easter. One such superstition was that an egg laid on Good Friday and kept for one hundred years, would turn into a diamond. Another was that eggs cooked on Good Friday and eaten on Easter Sunday would increase fertility (and the fertility belief also attached itself to the symbol of the rabbit/bunny – for obvious reasons!). And, if you were fortunate enough to bite into a double-yolked egg, future wealth was assured.
Of course, the religious significance of the egg at Easter was not overlooked, with adults hiding brightly coloured eggs for children to find in a symbolic reflection of the women finding Jesus’ tomb empty after his resurrection.
now and then I like to share an excerpt from my recent novel, Grasping at Water. The story is set in
modern-day Sydney but there are medieval elements woven through it, usually in
the form of a dream sequence or as ‘tales’ told by key characters. I’ve tried
to make these medieval moments as authentic as possible, based on my many years
of research, lecturing and writing on medieval topics. And, in line with that
desire for authenticity, the following sample is about the [very] ‘basics’ of
everyday life in the Middle Ages. There are two schools of thought on the
question of how medieval townspeople disposed of the contents of their chamber
pots each day. The first, and most widely held, is that the contents were
thrown into the street (or river, if one was nearby) every morning; the second
view is that, as some large towns such as London had statutes against such
disposal, the towns were not as filthy as we might think. As you’ll see in the
following excerpt, I subscribe to the former, majority opinion.
Excerpt from Grasping at Water (Odyssey Books) p.152-154
Kathryn is dreaming again. She knows she is dreaming and yet everything is so vivid that her sleeping self seems more real than her waking self. She is moving backwards down a dark tunnel. It is constraining, claustrophobically narrow. She wants to get out. Suddenly she is expelled from it but, immediately, she wishes to be back in the tunnel. In the world outside the tunnel she is surrounded by death. The stench is overwhelming. Cupping her hand over her mouth and nose she takes short, shallow breaths in an attempt to filter out the repugnant smell. Gagging, she raises her head from its downcast position and tries to make visual sense of the dreamscape in which she finds herself. She is leaning against a wall, a house wall. Her feet are standing on cobblestones. Everything around her is narrow. Across the narrow cobbled street she sees narrow, closely packed houses of uneven proportions, many with the upper storey protruding fifty centimetres or more over the lower storey, overhanging the street. The houses’ windows are narrow, mean, without glass and covered, instead, with what looks like oiled cloth. The doors are narrow and heavy. It looks like the medieval town that Sophia had described to her. From somewhere overhead, Kathryn hears a female voice shout out something in a strange accent. “Gardey loo; gardey loo,” calls the woman who Kathryn can now see is hanging out of the upper storey window of the house directly opposite where she is standing. She is holding some kind of a pot in her hands.
are you saying?” Kathryn calls back, stepping forward into the middle of the
street. She is hit with a downpour of liquid and other matter; it drenches her
head, sticks to her hair; and its overpowering odour tells her instantly that
she is covered in urine and faeces.
was saying, gardez l’eau, and using
the phrase to mean ‘watch out for the water’. But I see you got more than
water,” laughs a well-dressed gentleman as he passes by. “These English have
been bastardising the French language ever since the Norman Conquest.”
Kathryn wants to ask the gentleman more but he vanishes, clearly not belonging to this place and time. Kathryn wants to vanish from it too, but does not know how to do it. Instead, she takes a single, crumpled tissue from the inside of her sleeve and tries to wipe her face with it, tries desperately to remove the smell of the chamber pot’s contents from her nose.
Another woman at another second storey window a little further down the street, holds a chamber pot in her hands and cries, “Gardey loo,” and this time Kathryn does what she observes other pedestrians doing: scrambling for cover against the first storey walls of houses so that they are under cover of the overhanging second storeys. Up and down the street, the cry is repeated until the street is a shower of human waste products that splash into, and up from, the cobblestones, some of it clinging to the clothes and uncovered hands and faces of passersby, the majority of it pooling in the slightly concave centre of the street and mixing with other muck that coats the cobbles to form a lumpy, brown sludge that oozes and flows along the sloping thoroughfare and into the river at the end of the road.
hurries towards the river too, hoping that from its banks she will gain a
perspective on where she is, and how she might escape. But on reaching the
embankment, she is assailed by an even greater stench and it is not simply the
result of the odious refuse and excrement that pours into the river from the
streets that wind down to it. Kathryn sees that both banks are home to trades
and industries that she takes some time to identify.
and butchery,” says a scrawny woman crouched on the shore, and looking up at
Kathryn as if she has read her dream-thoughts. “Stinks, doesn’t it? That’s
because the butchers slaughter right here, on the river’s edge, and skin the
animals as well. Then the skins are sold to the tanners next door and up along
the river and they submerge the hides in a solution of lime and urine to
dislodge the hair and fat. And then they rewash the hides by immersing them in
either warm dogs’ dung or birds’ droppings. And then they drench in another
solution of barley and urine or stale beer. They make beautiful leather here –
oh, the shoes, belts, gloves, saddles and harnesses are something to behold.
Still, the smell is so bad that even the rats keep away.”
Kathryn does not dare to open her mouth to thank the strange woman for the information but, instead, looks down at her to acknowledge that she has heard what was said and is shocked to see that the woman is washing her clothes in the river, right next to the tannery’s outfall. And at various spots all along the river’s edge there are women washing clothes, immersing heavy fabrics in the water, then wringing them by hand and rubbing and scrubbing them on washboards, and spreading them out on the ground to dry. She feels herself retching. ______________
A post inspired by ‘Seeing Green: A Philadelphia Story‘ by Yeah, Another Blogger
Our English word for the colour ‘green’ comes from the Old
English word grene which has the same
word root as that of the words grass and
grow. It’s no surprise, then, that we
associate green with nature and new life. Similarly, in the Middle Ages, the
colour green – with its profuse representation in the natural world – was a
potent symbol of the beauty of God’s creation. God’s promise of hope, fertility,
and abundance was renewed each year as people witnessed the green shoots of
Spring pushing through the cold, hard earth of Winter.
The great 12th century abbess and visionary,
Hildegard of Bingen, seems to have had quite a fondness for the colour green.
Firstly, there is her detailed knowledge of, and admiration for, the plants and
herbs of her locality which she used in healing medicines and ointments for her
nuns and others needing treatment. Then, there are the green-themed ‘upmarket’
remedies that Hildegard recommended: She regarded the emerald as the “jewel of
jewels” for treating many ailments – heart and stomach problems, headaches,
even epilepsy. The emerald’s efficacy was due to its excessive greenness which,
for her and others of the time, signified that it had absorbed all the green
goodness of the natural world as it sprang back to new life each Spring. The
emerald was not necessarily ingested, however; just wearing it as a charm or
drinking some wine in which it had been placed was considered effective. (No
doubt many of us would agree that wearing an emerald might make us feel better!).
Hildegard also evoked greenness in relation to spirituality. She used the word viriditas (from the Latin meaning
‘greeness’) to describe the vitality, verdant beauty, and potential for growth
of the human soul.
Not everyone saw green as a positive force, however. Some
medieval churchmen were wary of the colour precisely because of its association
with the natural world. That is, some saw green as representative of the
pre-Christian religions that worshipped nature, and found their meaning in the renewal
and abundance that the seasons brought. The medieval ‘Green Man’, depicted with
his face and head surrounded by foliage, is a motif often found carved into
medieval (English) churches. His incorporation into Christianity points to the
way that the Church often managed to ‘neutralise’ the power of the Old
Religions by appropriating their symbols. Some scholars think that the rise –
in literature if not in fact – of the legendary outlaw, Robin Hood (topic for a
later post), and his distinctive green clothing, was associated with some
people’s yearning for a return to the old forms of worship.
The beauty of the colour green, however, overshadowed the
negative associations and it was a popular choice in the illuminated
manuscripts of the time. But it was tricky to make. The naturally occurring
earth and plant greens were not lightfast and so a mix of the more sturdy
primary colours – yellow and blue – gave the best effect. Or, sometimes,
verdigris – made from the blue-green rust of copper – was a good alternative
but, again, the green colour thus-produced tended to darken over time.
Actually, it was not until the 18th century that a vivid green was produced; and, unfortunately, as it was made by mixing copper with arsenic, it was a dangerous hue, considered responsible for the deaths of many, possibly even Napoleon Bonaparte who had a penchant for green (arsenic-based) wallpaper in his palaces. It was not until the early 20th century that a vivid and safe green was produced. As that great philosopher Kermit the Frog so often said: “It’s not easy being green”.
Do you make New Year resolutions? As a (much) younger person I was a fan of the idea of resolving to do better in some specific way in all the months that stretched ahead of me in the coming year. Now I realise that those months contract more than stretch, and I’m inclined to count the positives each day brings rather than aim for more ambitious long-term goals.
A Christmas-New Year tale from the Middle Ages that puts the short-term positives vs the long-term ambition in interesting juxtaposition is an Arthurian story, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
The story begins in Arthur’s court of Camelot where he and his knights are enjoying frivolous New Year games and gift-giving. The carefree atmosphere is shattered by the arrival of an unknown giant of a knight who is not only dressed all in green but also has skin of a green hue. Even his horse is green. Now, of course, in the broadest interpretation of this story opening, the ‘green knight’ represents the intrusion of the natural world (and the ‘old religions’) into a Christian setting but there are more important lessons in this story.
Once the shock of his entrance into the King’s court has subsided, the Green Knight proffers an axe and asks for a volunteer to cut off his head. The great King Arthur is shown to be a bit of a coward, as are many of his other knights as it is only young Sir Gawain who steps up to the challenge and removes the Green Knight’s head cleanly in one blow. To everyone’s surprise, however, the Green Knight bends down to pick up his own severed head and, propping it under his arm, continues to speak to the assembly. He reminds them that since “one good turn deserves another”, Sir Gawain is expected to seek him out at the same time next year so that he may remove Sir Gawain’s head.
The laws of chivalry required Sir Gawain to honour the request and so, in the biting winter of the following Christmas-New Year period, Gawain sets off on his quest. His adventures en route to his destiny are too lengthy to describe here but what is really interesting about the fabulous Gawain is that, despite his honour and fortitude, he does eventually accept a talisman – a waist cord of green silk – that, while not allowing him to avoid his fate, will protect him from death. With such help, he still faces the Green Knight, still endures the strike of the axe, but his life is spared. Nevertheless, he must return (alive) to Arthur’s court with an obvious and an indelible scar on his neck. It is a bodily reminder of his human frailty. In addition, he decides to emphasise his lack of total courage by wearing the green cord as another sign of his imperfection. In support of his honesty, all the other Arthurian knights take to wearing green silk belts too.
In this New Year as we make all kinds of resolutions to be better than last year, I think that Gawain and the knights can teach us a valuable lesson about doing our best, honouring our commitments, acting with courage and behaving with dignity. But they can also remind us to accept that, despite our best intentions, we are only human; and our friends and family will love us, scars and all.
It’s Spring and everything in the garden is blooming. In Sydney the winters are not harsh but we still appreciate the lengthening light, the warmer days, and the signs of nature renewing itself that come with the change of season.
In medieval times, someone who watched and understood the seasonal cycle of renewal was the great visionary, Hildegard of Bingen. Born in Germany’s Rhineland in 1098, Hildegard was not only a prominent religious figure of her day but also – as her considerable writings and works demonstrate – an expert on natural science, medicine and herbal treatments, cosmology, poetry and music. Further testament to her influence is that many of her writings (and musical compositions) survive to the present day. Hildegard’s works are not ‘easy reads’ but a lot of her ideas resonate with our current interests, particularly our concerns over climate change and caring for our planet.
Don’t be mistaken: Hildegard was a woman of her time and, it seems, a very strong personality. She had an extraordinary intellect and pulled no punches when it came to asserting a theologically precise view of the medieval Church; but, she also had a deep reverence for, and an amazing insight into, the beauty and order of creation. So powerful are Hildegard’s expressed views on the importance and dignity of all creation that the coining of the term viriditas (greening/greeness) is frequently, and somewhat mistakenly, attributed to her. In fact, earlier theologians such as St Augustine had made mention of viriditas but it is appropriately and particularly associated with Hildegard because of the new and interesting way that she interpreted and applied the concept. For Hildegard, viriditas was the reflection of God’s goodness and beauty in everything in the natural world. It stood for vitality, fertility, fruitfulness and growth; in essence, all the things that we now associate with the greenness of nature. For Hildegard, viriditas was also synonymous with physical and spiritual health. Similarly, for us today, ‘greenness’ and the seasonal renewal of the natural world are signs that the Earth is healthy and flourishing.
Hildegard was canonised (becoming St Hildegard) by Pope Benedict XVI in May 2012 and, though it took the Church nearly 900 years to acknowledge her remarkable contributions, the canonisation is strangely timely as it coincides with our efforts to come to terms with the ravages of a changing climate. Hildegard of Bingen has a lot to teach us.
The keeping of bees for their honey and other products such as pollen and beeswax is a practice that dates far back into human civilisation. Pottery beekeeping vessels of around 10,000 years of age have been found by archaeologists and the interest in the farming of bees has been continuous across the centuries and in most cultures.
In medieval Europe, beekeeping was well established. While we now think of the sweetness of the bees’ honey as the important product, in the Middle Ages the beeswax was equally prized and was used in the making of good quality candles and writing tablets.
Beehives were made of pottery or wood or wicker, and generally cone-shaped. In colder climates, and in the winter months of more temperate zones, the hives were layered with straw to keep the bees warm (and alive). Harvesting of the bees’ honey and other products was effected by fumigating the hives with thick smoke. This method saved the beekeeper from being stung but, unfortunately, killed the bees so that new swarms needed to be sourced regularly.
While the bees’ products were greatly admired and sought after, there were other “bee” qualities that had come to attention over the centuries. The great Greek philosopher Aristotle (384-322 BC) devoted a long (and keenly-observed) chapter (XL) of his ‘The History of Animals’ to the bee, describing its work and life habits and the society of the hive. Here’s a small selection:
Bees scramble up the stalks of flowers and rapidly gather the bees-wax with their front legs; the front legs wipe it off on to the middle legs, and these pass it on to the hollow curves of the hind-legs; when thus laden, they fly away home, and one may see plainly that their load is a heavy one. On each expedition the bee does not fly from a flower of one kind to a flower of another, but flies from one violet, say, to another violet, and never meddles with another flower until it has got back to the hive; on reaching the hive they throw off their load, and each bee on his return is accompanied by three or four companions. … Bees seem to take a pleasure in listening to a rattling noise; and consequently men say that they can muster them into a hive by rattling with crockery or stones; it is uncertain, however, whether or no they can hear the noise at all and also whether their procedure is due to pleasure or alarm. They expel from the hive all idlers and unthrifts. As has been said, they differentiate their work; some make wax, some make honey, some make bee-bread, some shape and mould combs, some bring water to the cells and mingle it with the honey, some engage in out-of-door work. At early dawn they make no noise, until some one particular bee makes a buzzing noise two or three times and thereby awakes the rest; hereupon they all fly in a body to work. By and by they return and at first are noisy; then the noise gradually decreases, until at last some one bee flies round about,making a buzzing noise, and apparently calling on the others to go to sleep; then all of a sudden there is a dead silence. … The hive is known to be in good condition if the noise heard within it is loud, and if the bees make a flutter as they go out and in; for at this time they are constructing brood-cells. They suffer most from hunger when they recommence work after winter.
Medieval authors also appreciated the importance of the general qualities of the bee and, in the medieval Christian literary milieu, the bee was often called into service as an analogy for hard work and persistence in the spiritual life. Richard Rolle, the Hermit of Hampole (c.1300-1349), demonstrates this approach in his “Allegory of the Bee [and the Stork]”. In part, he writes that
The bee has three qualities. The first is that she is never idle, and she never associates with those who refuse to work …. . A second is that when she flies she picks up earth in her feet so that she cannot easily be blown too high in the air by the wind. The third is that she keeps her wings clean and bright … .
The spiritual and moral lessons are quite obvious in Richard Rolle’s allegory: Work hard, stay grounded, keep clean in mind, body and spirit.
So …. Time to get back to work but, as you do so, remember:
The men of experiment are like the ant; they only collect and use. But the bee…gathers its materials from the flowers of the garden and of the field, but transforms and digests it by a power of its own. Leonardo da Vinci
Life is the flower for which love is the honey. Victor Hugo
Tart words make no friends; a spoonful or honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar. Benjamin Franklin