Winds of Change

Today is Whitsun or Pentecost. From the Ancient Greek meaning fiftieth day, Pentecost is not the noise made by Ivor the Engine (as I used to imagine when a child), but is rather the fiftieth day after Easter.

According to the New Testament, it was the day when the Holy Spirit came upon the apostles ‘as of a rushing mighty wind’ with ‘cloven tongues as of fire’ and they all began speaking in tongues, going out and about preaching to crowds and gathering new followers to the church.

This all sounds highly dramatic and is the basis of many works of art depicting a strangely violent purification process. I particularly like this from Linda Schmidt who is a textile artist and quilter. I can imagine ribbons of flame make a great subject for patchwork.

One of my favourite parts of the story is that when the disciples all started babbling away in foreign languages, sceptics claimed it was because they were drunk or ‘full of new wine’. Our vicar pointed out that ‘alcohol rarely helps me speak English any better, let alone a foreign language!’ Peter is said to have leapt up indignantly and announced that they couldn’t possibly be drunk because it was ‘but the third hour of the day.’ Like that’s any excuse!

Alexander Sadoyan also warms to the theme with this remarkable portrayal in oil on canvas.

In legend, King Arthur always gathered his knights to the round table on Pentecost and had a big feast and declared a quest. In reality, medieval English folk had a ‘benefit feast’ to which everyone was invited and made a small contribution to the church which was used for repairs or distributed as alms to the poor. Special ales were brewed and Morris dances were performed. Any excuse for a festival. As with most traditions, it was partly parish and partly heathen but it sounds like a lot of fun and a time to celebrate community.

It is a day I have always associated with wind, in which case, what better place to celebrate it than Wellington? Or perhaps Christchurch where the famed nor’westers drive everyone mad, although they do get the sheets dry. I found a poem that I wrote two years ago about the wind in Wellington, which I feel fits perfectly here.

Morning regime

It’s windy in Wellington,
No surprises there.
No wonder the women all have short hair
I think as I walk past covens in cafes
And down to the sea.

Waves whisk foam like frothy cappuccinos
And the wind whips my breath
And the salt and seaweed away.
I lurch sailor drunk in erratic zig-zags
Sea-legs on shore.

The in and out pebbles
Clatter like castanets;
Driftwood dances tangos.
Is this what they mean by multicultural?
Kirikiritatangi.

I am blasted by sand and water
Rough edges smoothed out
Dead cells sloughed off
No need for further beauty or exercise regimes

I am ready to face the city.

Picture by Tiffany Chantel.