You are the River

I have managed to enrol myself (after much deliberation) in an online course offered by Oxford University - which is less daunting than the name suggests. The bulk of our studies consists of reading, thinking, and conversing with other like minded people. Each day, I apportion an hour to such pursuits. As with the case of books , this hour often distends, and slithers into time needed for the necessary pursuits of homework, or sleeping. For example, one week we examined “the woman question;” meaning the instructor casually referenced us to an array of bewildering nineteenth century laws written to further handicap women. These incendiary documents stroked the flames of my inner activist , and, once this fire erupted, it was rather difficult to return to rationalizing denominators in my math workbook. I turned, instead, to my journal - a red, creased affair erupting with scrawled quotes - such as the idea that marriage forged an indissoluble contract between the parties who are “not twain, but one flesh.’ In most cases, that identity was defaulted to the male. I puzzled (returning to my scant knowledge of prehistory) how society could have devolved into the belief that women were inferior to men. In fact, how did the idea that a person’s capacity is determined by gender ( or race) ever arise? When did such a gulf emerge? My pondering were sadly interrupted by a so-called “retreat” of which I was obliged to attend that weekend. This camp was Christian, and thus, on the first night, the speaker read out a passage from Genesis.

“A man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife, and the two shall become one flesh.”

Interesting.

Whilst camp was in progress, I eked strength from my favourite book; the Mill on the Floss. The author is George Eliot. As a girl, she was known as Mary Anne Evans; a bucolic with rigid scruples - the inversion (or shadow) of whom she would later become. She embraced her infamous ugliness, wearing dreary garbs and, according to her brother, turning up her nose up at “fun.” Later in life, Mary became George, and relinquished faith, though hoped (as praying was no longer an option) that the world would not do the same. In an era attributed to ‘killing God,” (credits to Nietzshe), George Eliot feared the disintegration of morals. She believed “believing” enabled humans to unearth purpose - and seek selflessness. Pursuits that are the foundation of our society - as well as the catalyst to progress. Humans need something to focus upon - something bigger than themselves.

As such, religion pervades Eliot’s work - forming characters and places that seem to reflect her own girlhood. For example, Maggie is sustained by her religion. In the deepest depths of despair, she feeds off a prayer book, and clings to her morals. She discards love in favour of virtue; happiness for the happiness of others . Self sacrifice and selflessness consume Maggie. (Literally)

Back to Camp - my frigid backdrop to “Mill on the Floss.” On the second evening, the speaker instructed us to surrender our burdens to God. To purge ourselves of shame. Christians repent - and then move on. They are not burdened beings, but rather those in a perineal pattern of purification. I recount the lyrics of my favourite camp song:

In my life, you are the river

Purify and wash away

Cleanse me of by stubborn rebellion

Recreate me day by day

Later that night, I read the conclusion of the Mill on the Floss. The river overflows, and a flood sweeps through the town; obliterating the Dorclotte Mill, and engulfing the entwined bodies of Maggie and her brother Tom. By killing off the main characters, the conflict, too, was decimated. The ‘Flood (of which bears inextricable relations to the Bible) cleansed the novel of the suffering, and amorality, that had been brewing since the “fall” of Mr.Tulliver. I was stuck, initially, by the fact that, although the mill was gone, the narrator still managed to regard it in the prologue. And then I remembered the narrator had been dreaming - “recreating” the mill in her mind, as so the bad bits faded away, and the joy and comfort bubbled to the surface. In this part, oblivion was revered as the author dwelled upon the deafening hum of mill.

The Victorians confronted an era of “Questions.” Religion seemed to shatter into a million pieces. Sects abounded, whilst some grew dubious of their faith relative to concepts like evolution. As a Christian, I do not believe in conversion, but I do abide by its morals. The Bible forges for us a consciousness, enabling readers to pluck “right” and “wrong” from its rich cache of stories. But the process is not as straightforward as that. The Bible, not unlike Mill on the Floss, is akin to a bewildering, and thorny maze. Replete with passages that bear double, or more, meanings that can easily be misinterpreted. Such as in the case of man and woman becoming one. I started reading the Old Testament not long ago and, each night, am confronted with bedtime stories along the lines of towns ablaze with the fury of God, brothers betraying brothers, incest, rape, pologamy, etc. Naturally, I do not think the Bible condones any of this. The book simply attempts to reflect a world forged by humans, not by God. Each story is told through a myriad of different authors and thus lens. Similarly, I think George Eliot, in her books, seeks to both tell the truth, no matter how harsh, and to tell it to from different angles. Her characters are often the overlooked and downtrodden, such as women or “simple” country folk. Interesting that, although residing in London for much of her adult life, she set her stories chiefly in the outskirts of society. Settings where religion was evidently a foundation; a tool that was wielded differently in different hands. She taught me that, in order to overcome the plight of misinterpretations, we must examine a miscellany of perspectives that, together, will create some semblance of truth.

This is why her stories are still relevant today. They delve deep into the minds of people (like, for example, the glib Mrs. Tulliver) who are obscured by history and written off as unimportant. Like the Bible, readers are able to regard the manifold stories - the forgotten ideas - on which their world is built. We claim to live in a secular society - but we have not discarded the past, and, therefore, still retain the legacy of religion. Faith is wound up with morality, politics, social structure, and, really, all aspects of existence.

To make things neat and tidy, I shall compare religion to the Floss River. Perhaps not always seen or even heard - but still, inevitably, there. Threading the valley, turning the wheels of the mill, invisibly shaping each event, each character - a perpetual flow. Even the narrator - presumably George Eliot - could not lose sight of the river; her origin.

“How lovely the little river is, with its dark, changing wavelets! It seems to be like a living companion…”

“Nature repairs her ravages.”

“In their death they were not divided.”