Where Angels Fear to Tread

Whenever I think of life-changing events, I find them etched into my memory in association with where I was at that moment. I remember exactly where I was when the Twin Towers fell (crossing the Portage Bridge in Ottawa), when the pandemic started. (Harbourfront Centre, Toronto). So I ask, where were you on October 7th last year?

I had a house full of guests, both family and friends-good-as-family, all visiting from the UK to make the most of the fall colours, and to celebrate Thanksgiving together. It was a time of joy, of peace, of delight in making lashings of food. When not in the kitchen, I ran arms outstretched like an airplane chasing my granddaughter. My son ran too, zooming his nephew under his arm, flying across the lawn.

And then I heard the news, and then I heard the news again. And the horror of it all began to sink in.

The purple asters are blooming in the garden,
in time to celebrate the feast of St Michael,
and all angels.
Although no-one does anymore.

In the UK, asters are termed Michaelmas daisies, because they bloom around Michaelmas – September 29, the feast of St Michael and All Angels. It’s the time of harvest festivals, of thankfulness for the bounty of the land. And, according to British folklore, a time (after October 10^th) when one can no longer harvest blackberries.

The last days of harvest. All is gathered in.
The blackberries soured by archangel spit.

As the days went on, I so wanted the bombings to end, just as now I so want the carnage to end. I know it’s complicated. I know that this present conflict is generations in the making. It occupies my waking moments, my dreams. It has me stopped. I cannot imagine what 25,000 bodies look like, I cannot begin to imagine the suffering of families who have no idea whether their loved ones have been taken as hostages, I cannot imagine the not knowing of whether they are dead or alive.

Tiny purple explosions from a golden centre.
Too many heads to count on one plant.
Safe in my garden.
I want only to write of my flowers.

Michaelmas daisies always remind me of St Peters Church, Forsbrook, near Stoke-on-Trent, where I grew up singing in the choir. The Vicar, a very mild man, detested Michaelmas daisies. I never understood why. I only remember him imploring the Mothers Union members who “did” the flowers, not to put them at the end of every pew. And every year, his requests fell on deaf ears.

Their scent: notes of balsam and dirty socks
released by the brush of the choristers’ cassocks,
processing blindly behind the crucifer.

Being raised “Church of England” in a small village, Archangels didn’t feature greatly in my childhood. Gabriel would show up in nativity plays, announcing the birth of baby Jesus, with every girl vying to be picked, at least as one of the angel chorus, if not Gabriel (who was definitely a girl in our eyes). Only later did I learn about Michael; his presence lingered as a patron of a militant church. God’s army, fighting against evil forces.

Marching Christian soldiers, marching as to war.

Incantations of the righteous extolling
annihilation as defence... 

Only later did I come to learn that Michael is an Archangel in Judaism, mentioned in the Torah, where he stands at the right hand of God, defending God’s children. Mika’il is also mentioned in the Quoran, where he is a friend to humanity, and stands at the left hand of God, asking Allah to forgive people’s sins.

Over the Christmas holidays, I wandered in Paris, finding myself one day standing in front of a Russian icon at the Petit Palais. There was Gabriel, there was Michael, exquisitely portrayed in reds and royal blue and gold (so much gold), standing on either side of God. I was stilled by the incredible beauty of the work, but also by the realization that I could not tell them apart. I had no idea whether Michael was on the right hand or left hand of God.