I woke up recently with a six-note tune in my mind: C – pause – D – pause – D – E – C – C. Simple. Three consecutive notes. Where did the tune come from? Somewhere deep in my brain, I suppose. Then came words with the notes: Green grow the rushes, ho.
Yes, buried deep in my memory. Around campfires, I remember singing that song. Gradually more words came back. Next singing down the scale, C – pause – G – G – E – C: What is your one, ho?
Again, singing down the scale, C – C – C – C – F – F – F – F – G – G – G – G – C – C:
One is one, and all alone, And ever more shall be so.
It was one of those silly counting songs, somewhere in my repertoire between “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas”. It somehow carries more meaning than the former yet is more opaque than the latter. The melody is haunting and unforgettable. Even though I hadn’t forgotten it, the song languished below the level of my awareness for decades.
Over several minutes as I was waking up, I was able to retrieve a few additional verses. The lyrics have always been strange – words that I knew but that I did not understand. All alone . . . ever more? And the verses seemed to get stranger as the song went along. I don’t think I ever learned the song perfectly because of its inscrutable meaning. It seemed all messed up – somewhat silly, somehow mysterious. Yet the melody stayed with me uncorrupted.
I am amazed – sometimes delighted but occasionally distressed – by what comes into my consciousness unbidden. Had I been dreaming about something that brought this song to my awareness? Were some neurons that encoded this memory just exercising to stay in shape, or was this their last gasp before the end of duty? Was this some bizarre re-wiring plan unfolding within my brain.
Regardless of why this memory surfaced, it was a testimony to all the miscellaneous stuff that is stored in my brain – stuff that reflects who I am or perhaps encodes my very essence. Memories that reflect the things in my past which are available for me to recall, but they also likely define my approach to the present and my plans for the future. Except for my decision to write this letter, this particular memory may be one of the thousands or millions that I may never think of consciously to share with Gram or family members or friends. Yet it is part of who I am.
As you read this letter – now or in the future – my memories of singing this song might not seem relevant, certainly not important. In a sense, however, all the stories told about each of us are too shallow. What parents remember of us is weighted too heavily towards our childhood. What our résumés reflect is our success without emphasizing the valuable lessons gathered from our failures. What our friends know about us often reflects similarities or shared interests rather than resolved conflicts that ultimately make us wiser and stronger.
In a sense, my memories of this song become part of my DNA – not the “active” part that controls protein synthesis, or defines our physical features and abilities, or programs our interests and aptitudes. This is like what I would call “silent” DNA, the function of which we don’t yet understand.
In the same way, this song reflects the silent DNA of our culture and represents something that we don’t know what to do with. On careful analysis Green Grow the Rushes, Ho seems to reflect both the ancient pagan and Christian cultures, carried forward with versions of Old English that are foreign to our ears and understanding. What meaning was present in the early days of the song has been distorted or lost over the centuries.[1] But still the enduring mystery of the song remains.
For starters, I wasn’t even sure what rushes are. Growing up in the Rocky Mountains, I didn’t have any experience with woodland bogs or ponds. Rushes are neither grasses nor sedges; they are related to tulips and do well with fluctuations between rainy spells and dry spells. And – throughout history – they have been used to weave ropes, baskets, and chair seats. I don’t know what they have to do with this song.
Beyond that, the song is packed with allusions to celestial subjects and religious topics in each of the stanzas, which progress from the number one to twelve. Each verse gets longer, repeating lines from every stanza that precedes it:
Two, two lily-white boys
Clothed all in green, Ho.
Three, three the rivals! (sung slowly)
Four for the gospel-makers.Even though the song is ancient and found in other countries, some historians believe that the song was used as a catechism, to teach the foundation of the Christian faith when it was brought back to England after the collapse of the Roman Empire. In this context it makes sense that one refers to the oneness of God – or the unity of the Trinity – rather than to perpetual solitude of some child or person. In a similar manner, two may refer to Moses (representing the Law) and Elijah (representing the Prophets), who met with Jesus during his Transfiguration when he appeared “dazzling white”. Others believe that the two are John the Baptist and Jesus. However, I remember this stanza as “little wild boys” rather than “lily white boys” (which of course makes more sense to me as a parent). In this sense, two was thought to represent the Holly King and the Oak King, personifications of the endless struggle and transition between winter and summer in pagan mythology.
Some believe that three refers to the three Magi that presented gifts to Jesus after his birth. For some reason we always sang this phrase (“Three, three, the rivals”) at a slower, solemn pace in every verse. This makes me wonder whether the number instead represents the Holy Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Although the persons of the Trinity are certainly more collaborators than rivals! And four clearly refers to Mathew, Mark, Luke and John as authors of the New Testament gospels.
Oddly, the next several verses seem to focus on pagan celestial tradition. In England, unlike parts of Christian Europe, Celtic Christianity never seemed to take offense at local pagan traditions. Rather than demanding the destruction of such influences, Celtic Christians blanketed over all this with the powerful, universal love of God. Verses five through nine may reflect this tradition:
Five for the symbols at your door. Six of the six proud walkers. Seven for the seven stars in the sky. Eight for the April rainers. Nine for the nine bright shiners.
There is even less clarity about the meaning of these verses. Perhaps five refers to a pentagram placed above doors in the Middle Ages to ward off witches and evil spirits. Nothing I’ve read about six is very credible. Most likely seven refers to the Seven Sisters (Pleiades) constellation or the seven major planets (including the sun and moon) known at that time.[2] Eight is associated with the Hyades cluster of stars that when seen rising with the sun in ancient times predicted rain.[3] Nine may also allude to celestial bodies, but it‘s hard to figure out in detail what the stanza really means.
With the final three stanzas, the number references return to Christian tradition:
Ten for the Ten Commandments. Eleven for the eleven that went to heaven. Twelve for the twelve apostles.
Eleven most likely represents the apostles – minus Judas. However, some historians suggest it refers to St. Ursula and the 11 English virgins who were martyred in the 4th Century.[4]
There is no version of the song that is exactly as I recall. The one that is closest to what I remember was recorded by the King Solomon’s Singers.[5] And another arrangement for chorus is close.[6]
You may have a similar memory of a different song. But this song – like us – is an amalgamation of conflicting origins, experiences, recollections and values. It is part of our “silent DNA” that goes back centuries, across continents, and through various cultures. In light of this it seems futile to consider ourselves purebred in background or in thought. How do you filter out odd recollections such as Green Grow the Rushes, Ho? Or why would we want to?
All it takes is a random thought upon waking up in the morning to remind us of the myriad of events and experiences – both wonderful and woeful – that make us human.
Opa
[1] https://www.theguardian.com/notesandqueries/query/0,,-1866,00.html
[2] Others consider this an allusion to the seven stars mentioned in Revelation 1:16 (NIV), in which the gospel writer John provides an apocalyptic vision of Christ: “In his right hand he held seven stars, and coming out of his mouth was a sharp, double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.”
[3] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyades_(mythology)
[4] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Ursula and https://www.britannica.com/biography/Saint-Ursula
[6] https://www.jwpepper.com/sheet-music/media-player.jsp?&type=audio&productID=10583523