Monday, December 23, 2019

Always

A bold statement I know. But I will always remember Christmas Day 2015. Magucha was in hospital and, obviously, very, very ill. As you can see from the photo taken on that day, the valiant smile, the hollow eyes, and the “look” needed no words. They said it all.

I don’t think I am being melodramatic when I say that I think she knew the end was not far away. That the “uninvited visitor” would soon arrive to accompany her on her final journey to that “undiscovered country”. She always showed great courage and was never afraid of anything, least of all death.

Even though all this happened four years ago being with her in hospital every day until she died is something I will never forget and is a time I will always treasure. It was a very special time for me. 

Again I don’t think I will be revealing anything that others would not have done in similar circumstances when I say that I used to get to the Hospital at about 10.00 every morning and, when she was in the “high care” ward (she was in a single bed room), not in Intensive Care, one of the first things she wanted me to do was to help her shower – even though the nurses were there to do just that. That was my job, you see! She was very weak and needed assistance to get out of bed and into the shower where she would sit in the plastic chair provided while I helped her wash (later, because she became so weak, it was only a “bed wash”). And I always brought in a clean nightie for her to change into. Sometimes she also wanted me to feed her, which I found very touching. 

I loved her you see. What else could I do? 

Then sometimes, if she was in the mood, I would read to her – one of her favourite stories was “My family and other animals”, by Gerald Durrell. But that never lasted very long – she used to get very tired and fall into a quiet sleep. 

As some would know I am always moved by poetry – by the poet’s choice of words, their cadence and rhyming. In my mind I’ve always associated this poem with Magucha because of the difficulty I had in convincing her to leave Portugal and marry me. Our cultures were quite different and I spoke no Portuguese (apart from some swear words she taught me!) and while she was more or less fluent in English her use of words was unique (some she made up to “fit” what she wanted to say) and her odd pronunciation (which I’m sure was at times quite deliberate) was very much what became widely known as “Magucha speak”! Once married we both had a deal of adjusting to do but after a while things evened out and in the end I think we learned to work well together.

This is for her.

The Strange Music 

“Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may
loose and slack,
But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon
 his back,
Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger
and I fret,
Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it
yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e’er
let fall,
In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not
known at all;
Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as 
your frame,
Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than 
your sorrow’s name.

Not as mine, my soul’s anointed, not as mine the
rude and the light
Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song
and fight; 
Something stranger, something sweeter, something
waiting you afar,
Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows
are.

But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to
be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a 
dunce. 
But I will not fear to match them – no, by God, I
will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand
still to hear.”

                                                                        G. K. Chesterton

That last verse has special meaning for me:-

“But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to
be stricken once,
Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a 
dunce. 
But I will not fear to match them – no, by God, I
will not fear,
I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand
still to hear.”

I just hope the stars heard.

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Life wasn't made to be easy!

Life seems to ebb and flow like the tides but without their regularity. There is happiness; there is sadness; neither of which can be predicted. They happen. Or not. But life continues and all we can do is to stumble along and try to arrive at some point of stability, of normalcy, which is neither good nor bad. Just normal.
So, while many, many millions of people, since humans first walked the earth, have made this journey of Life, it was new to me. I have had to make my own way. Travel my own road. It is a lonely road for it is impossible to travel the identical road with a companion. We may have someone close whom we love – like with Magucha and I, and we were very close – but even then she could not know everything I thought or why I did what I did. In that regard I walked alone and I still walk alone. As did she.
I am an individual. We are not clones. Also we can never “possess” someone in the accepted sense. I believe this is why we grieve for those who have “gone away”, have "gone on ahead" and are "out of sight" - because we could never possess them. We, do however, miss them, grievously miss them. 
But we still all need companionship. After all we are social animals and group together. This, to me, gives rise to a paradox - that we are at the same time, both social beings and yet distinct individuals. We each have our own distinct thumbprint, our own distinct iris pattern in our eyes, our own ear shape and many other individually distinct characteristics.

We do, however, all need someone to talk to, to be a friend. This is why I search, why I enquire – and I always will. 
That death may inspire a deep-seated dread of “extinction,” is I believe quite common, and yet it may be that death is another aspect of Life; an aspect that we may not understand, but which may lead to a completion of our existence into the fullness of being human. We were born – we die. We are human.
In my case, I grieve because I remember that today, 12th December, in 2015, which was a Saturday that year, was the day that Magucha’s pancreatitis first took hold. I took her to hospital, because of the pain she was suffering, but she never came back. Five weeks later she was dead – on 21st January 2016.
Many memories.

Monday, November 25, 2019

The Gift of the Magi

I haven’t done this before. I’ve copied a short story by the American short story writer William Sydney Porter (11 September 1862 – 5 June 1910), who wrote under the pen name of O. Henry. 
This one is my favourite I think – a very human story of love and personal sacrifice. And being close to the Christmas season I thought it might be appropriate – but remember the original was written, I believe, in 1905.
While it is a short story it is, for me, quite a long post – about 5 pages.

The Gift of the Magi.

One dollar and eighty-seven cent. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing left to do but to flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which investigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income had shrunk to $20, the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking along a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling – something just a little bit near being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.

There was a peer-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a peer-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, may obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.
And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went the old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with a brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”
“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.
“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.
“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.
“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation – as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value – the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends – a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection, long carefully, and critically.
“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do – oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At seven o’clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two – and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and was without gloves.

Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of a quail. He eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again – you wont mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and lets be happy. You don’t know what a nice – what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labour.
“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well anyhow? I’m me without my hair ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously. 
“You say your hair has gone?” he said with an air almost of idiocy.
“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold I tell you – sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered,” she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance, Jim seemed quickly wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year – what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated soon.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me love my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going awhile at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs – the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell, with jeweled rims – just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “ My hair grows so fast Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautify present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands behind his head and smiled.
“Dell,” he said, “lets put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em awhile. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Now suppose you put the chops on.”

The Magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle to two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the Magi. 

Wednesday, November 20, 2019

Trying to understand

I know that I have written about this before but it is a subject that certainly engages my attention – what, actually, is LIFE – that essence, that vivifying factor that makes something alive which is absent when something that was alive is now dead? This is the ultimate in pointless questions I suppose, as I don’t believe we will ever know. It may be that we are never supposed to know.
And yet I try. And I’ll keep trying. Always.
The various forms by which life expresses itself is astonishing. Take for instance the very small black ants that I find in my kitchen sometimes. They are no more than, possibly, a millimetre long and yet they are aware of danger and will scurry out of the way if they see my thumb, or the shadow it casts, descending on them. They are alive and sensitive to danger and aware enough to try and remove themselves from any threatening situation as quickly as they can.
I find this extraordinary – that something just one millimetre in length has (possibly) the same awareness of danger as I have. But that is Life. Yet it puzzles me still – it always has.
This, by a rather circuitous route, gets me to consider another aspect of Life - my feelings -my sense of loss and grief. This is certainly not a new topic for me but that doesn’t stop me from always seeking answers.
There is a difference, I believe, between mourning and grief. Grief to my mind is more than a deep sorrow. To me grief is similar to a deep knife cut. It hurts. But the wound can be bound up and healing will begin. The wound may heal but the scar will always remain.
There is also a time element associated with grief. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote about grieving and loss in his letters, “Time does not console, as people say superficially, at best it assigns things to their proper place and creates an order.” After the great stillness that accompanies death, life gradually becomes normal again. The hours and the days, that had been so disrupted by the death of my wife, Magucha, seemed to swing back, slowly, into their habitual rhythms. I had to eat; regain some regularity in my sleep; greet the world and its people. Life continues.
Mourning on the other hand has a connotation, at least as I think of it, with lamentation. Now I did lament, not outwardly but in my heart it was a different matter entirely. But no one can lament forever. Lamentation is necessarily rather brief. 
One deep lesson I have learned, however, is that death, and the realisation of death, especially of someone we love, never exceeds our strength to bare its burden. Death does after all “bookend” our life – where there is a birth, there will ultimately be a death. Just the way it is.
I am sure that through love and through death we, all of us, learn that Life entails the loss of others and the abdication of any ideas of “control” over events that we may think we have. A true awareness of this gives us a greater understanding of the pain needed to reconnect with the life we lead. We need this pain to explore, as difficult and confronting as this may be, in what specific way our loss has impacted our life. This can and possibly should be, a transformative moment. 
As always in moments of high emotion I resort to reading poetry and prose I find emotionally enriching. From a small book called “Fruit Gathering”, by the Bengali Nobel Prize winner, Rabindranath Tagore, I offer the following simply entitled “LIX” – 59 in Roman numerals:-
“When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.
There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.
Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.”

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Ancient wisdom

From a book called “Zen flesh, Zen bones”, compiled by Paul Reps, there are quite a few little gems of Buddhist wisdom. Personally I don’t worry about the source – to me wisdom is wisdom!
1. A cup of tea:-
Nan-in, a Japanese master during the Meiji era (1868-19120), received a university professor who came to enquire about Zen.
Nan-in served tea. He poured his visitor's cup full, and then kept on pouring.
The professor watched the overflow until he could no longer restrain himself, “It is overfull. No more will go in!”
“Like this cup,” Nan-In said, “you are full of your own opinions and speculations. How can I show you Zen unless you first empty your cup?”

This next one is my favourite, I think.
14. Muddy road:- 
Tanzan and Ekido were once travelling together down a muddy road. A heavy rain was still falling.
Coming round a bend, they met a lovely girl in a silk kimono and sash unable to cross the intersection.
“Come on girl,” said Tanzan at once. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until that night when they reached a lodging temple. Then he could no longer restrain himself. “We monks don’t go near females,” he told Tanzan, “especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that?”
“I left the girl there,” said Tanzan. “Are you still carrying her?” 

And I like the wisdom in this one too. It fits in with my philosophy.
95. A letter to a dying man:-
Bassui wrote the following letter to one of his disciples who was about to die:
“The essence of your mind was not born, so it will never die. It is not an existence which is perishable. It is not an emptiness, which is a mere void. It has neither colour nor form. It enjoys no pleasures and suffers no pain.
“I know that you are very ill. Like a good Zen student, you are facing that sickness squarely. You may not know exactly who is suffering, but question yourself: What is the essence of this mind? Think only of this. You will need no more. Covet nothing. Your end which is endless is as a snowflake dissolving in the pure air.”

Thursday, October 31, 2019

Mental health - again!

I know that this is a highly contentious subject but I just cannot understand why it is now proposed that Australian schools should be provided with “mental health and wellbeing counsellors”.
These are children growing up in a fractured world with raging hormones just trying to “fit in”! 
Now don’t get me wrong! I am fully aware of the indisputable fact that there are many mentally distressed people who are in desperate need of help and support. My “beef” is with how this distress is diagnosed, categorised and finally the efficacy of any treatment offered. 
Firstly, let it be known, and widely known, that there is no consensus or definition of “normal”. What is a “normal” human being? There are roughly 7.2 billion people alive today. That means there are roughly 7.2 billion different people going about their lives, doing different things and behaving in different ways. Does this mean there are roughly 7.2 billion different ways of being “normal”?
Please tell me!
Then we come to the diagnosis of “mental illness”. A popular “diagnostic tool” is the HONOS – Health Of Nations Outcome Scale (please check this on line if you doubt me). Now this scale, as with any others used to “diagnose” a patient’s mental health, and there are plenty of them, is purely subjective. It is a “tick a box” exercise. Using this HONOS each question – there are twelve of them – must be rated 0 to 4. More than a previously determined “score” and you are diagnosed as depressed, schizophrenic, psychotic – or whatever and in need of help. 
Ok. When that is done – what now?
The important question now arises - what is the cause of any distress?
The answer? Nobody knows. Simple. There are plenty of, “the inference is”, the assumptions are”, “there is hope that further research will determine”, etc, etc….!
Again let it be known, and widely known, that there are no objective tests, no biological cause – no blood tests, no fMRI tests (functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging), no genetic link, and particularly no causal link between an apparent “symptom” and the distress evident in the presenting patient. The symptoms enumerated in the DSM5 (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual version 5 of the American Psychiatric Association –APA), used world-wide, were agreed by a committee.
The simple fact is that the “etiology” - the cause – of most mental disorders (Huntingdon’s and Alzheimers disease are more or less determined) are not understood enough to accurately distinguish the “mentally ill” from the rest of us.
Now we enter the minefield of the treatment of “mental illness”. The fall back position of psychiatrists and clinical psychologists is to consider a “mental illness” as a biological condition and treat it as such with a perfect cornucopia of psycho-pharmaceutical drugs produced by “big pharma” to their enormous profit. There is limited evidence regarding the efficacy of these drugs compared to other treatments (“Big Pharma” are very reluctant to release any research that does not support their advertising). Furthermore the side effects – heightened risks of metabolic disorders, rapid weight gain, diabetes, sexual disfunction and heart disease for instance – are carefully sidelined.
That some people do derive benefit from these drugs cannot be denied. They do. But these drugs never “cure” – they are a stop-gap offered to often desperate patients by medicos “stumbling in the dark”.  Often a “suck it and see” approach is applied – “Try this one. If that doesn’t work, try this at double the dose”, kind of thing. But then again, many people get better on their own or feel better with a placebo (sugar pill).
So – to get back to my opening statement about treating school children - until we know the CAUSE of the obvious mental distress experienced by some patients, how can anyone determine, with any certainty, what treatment should be offered? 
Finally I will repeat a quote, from the Indian sage Jiddu Krishnamurti (1895-1986), who said, "It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society".
There we have it in a nutshell!

Saturday, October 12, 2019

Hubris

In this day and age, when pride and excess seem to be common themes, and when extraordinary claims are made by individuals about their abilities and mental prowess, particularly by leaders – both public and business – it is well worth recalling that the ancient Greeks had a name for this – “Hubris” (defined as placing oneself on the same level as gods). And this hubris will be called to account. It always is.
Never forget that the “law” of cause and effect will always apply. Humans reap what they sow. It has always been thus. This “law” is unwritten and not codified but applies in every situation – it cannot be avoided and is forgotten or ignored only at great personal cost. This law incorporates the profoundly realistic doctrines of “Hubris” and “Nemesis”. Whenever there is any kind of over-weening and excess; whenever people or societies go too far either in dominating others or exploiting them, or exploiting nature, for their own advantage this unseemly exhibition of pride, this hubris, has to be paid for. 
Hubris seems to invite Nemesis and the “Goddess” Nemesis is implacable in the pursuit of her cause – justice; to track every wrong back to its doer. To the ancient Greeks Nemesis was conceived as shaping the demeanour of mankind; of keeping society in equipoise. She was often portrayed holding scales, a sword and a scourge. Nemesis deals retribution in due proportion to what is deserved – in a just balance.
Where governments, and the laws they promulgate are not founded on the ultimate reality behind all phenomena, described in that fascinating compilation of ancient wisdom “Tao Te Ching”, as the Tao (Dao) - the Way (the Flow of the Universe) – society will falter. 
For clearer understanding of this statement it may help to recall what Confucius had to say about justice and laws some twenty-five centuries ago: 

 “If you govern the people by laws, and keep them in order by penalties, they will avoid the penalties, yet lose their sense of shame. But if you govern them by your moral excellence, and keep them in order by your dutiful conduct, they will retain their sense of shame, and also live up to this standard.” 

In light of the astounding lack of moral leadership (and the subsequent loss of trust) shown by many of today’s leaders (both government and business) which reflects back on society and world events, I truly believe that it is time for everyone to stop, even take a step back and look, I mean really examine, their actions and see whether they make any sense.

The old saying applies to all – “pride comes before a fall” and no one can foretell what the effects of this “fall” will be or when it will take place.

Nemesis in her deliberations misses not one of all. 

Another way of putting this is in the old saying, “the mills of God grind slow but exceeding fine”.

Sunday, October 6, 2019

Life

It is strange how the human condition is perceived and recorded. Not necessarily the dry APA (American Psychiatric Association) style required for “research papers” presented by neuroscientists or psychiatrists in their appropriate “Journals” but the more human kind - nearer the “heart” of humanity. The best of these are good novelists and especially, in my estimation, poets.
The human conditions or emotions most recorded in poetry, song and novels are, I believe, love, birth, life and death – those important milestones in anyone’s life.
As I have stated many times before, poetry affects me in more ways than I can possibly say. Poetry seems to touch some hidden part of my soul. There have always been poets – often, in olden times, troubadours bringing news and songs to far flung villages. And it was discovered very early on that the best way to remember long stories was to render them into verse. The rhyme and rhythm was easier to recall.
The rhythm is often associated with the beating of the human heart and a good reciter of poetry seems to capture that as he or she reads from the volume or recites from memory. This resonates with the listener.
I can only read in English so everything I read is either originally written in that language or translated. Whether it is the flexibility and the vast vocabulary of that language I’m not sure but there is a massive treasure trove of English poetry.  
I usually include a verse or two from a poem that has made an impression on me but now I attach below, the whole of what I think is my favourite poem written by a man I greatly admire and who suffered greatly – the American, Henry Longfellow. He married twice but both wives died – the first after a miscarriage in 1831 and his beloved second wife died an awful death, burned in a tragic accident in their home in 1861, a death from which he never really recovered. He died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, at the age of 75 in 1882. A great poet and a great man.
The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

                        Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Friday, September 27, 2019

Why Whistleblowers are so necessary

In todays “mad” world it is vital for honesty, integrity and moral behaviour to be paramount. But is it?

One wonders at the conditions that apply which impel someone to expose corrupt, illicit, negligent, abusive or exploitative behaviour. This could be government or corporate policies or an individual’s activities. And one wonders at the response to such exposure which is always initially denial and ultimately a very severe and harsh form of retribution against the person who ‘blew the whistle’ which led to the exposure.

The thing is that no one likes to be presented with an image of themselves which differs from their own, internal, picture of whom or what they think they are – everyone likes to think of themselves as a ‘good person’. If and when someone is caught out and exposed by a whistle-blower they see themselves reflected, as it were, in a mirror, in their ‘true colours’ and they are shocked and enter a state of denial. How many times have those so exposed said the words “I have done nothing wrong”? They will fight tooth and nail to preserve their image of themselves and to avoid appearing diminished in their own eyes or in the eyes of others. They fight to maintain a level of trust because everyone, particularly in business or government, must be seen as trustworthy - if anyone is untrustworthy it is always someone else or another government or another business – it is always the ‘other’. Admitting responsibility for illegal activities is always difficult and not many have the strength of character to admit to such activity.  At its core then, this is an issue relating to morality, to values and to ethics because no one is trustworthy who is not also ethical. 
The French mathematician and humanist, Blaise Pascal (1623-1662) in his ‘Pensees’ wrote, “There is no greater unhappiness than when a person starts to fear the truth lest it denounce him.” 

There is great insight in these words and this is the basis of the reason why whistle-blowing is so dangerous to the ‘blower’ and so necessary for the guilty party so as to relieve them of their unhappiness. It is necessary for the perpetrator to be exposed because their actions, if undetected, have a toxic effect which manifests itself by not only creating stress but also by alienating them from their community. It is as if something secret and unseen has to now be viewed. Any such exposure has a cathartic effect by lifting a burden and ‘cleansing’ them of their guilt. The alternative is fear and fear begets anger and hatred and those who are fearful and consumed by hate lose their powers of reason and in such a state seldom exercise sound judgement. A person’s ability to determine ‘right’ from ‘wrong’ is suspended and everything and anything appears to be acceptable, which defers the moment of exposure. 

Any activities that are exploitative, corrupt, illicit, negligent or abusive give rise to feelings of guilt and create a profound unease of conscience. Peace of mind will be the first casualty in such situations and any person caught up in these activities is unlikely to sleep easily at night! What many forget in today’s unedifying stampede for money and positions of influence is that men (as in mankind) have done these things and that we are all of mankind, furthermore we all share in the multi-various proclivities of mankind. Even if, from a purely legal stand point, any one individual may not be an accessory to any questionable activities or behaviour, thanks to our human nature and the consciousness that binds us all to each other, we are all guilty – we are all of mankind. We are all diminished by such unwarranted behaviour. 
This is why whistle-blowers are so important.  A whistle-blower’s courage, clarity of mind and singleness of purpose brings us lesser mortals up short and the proverbial ‘scales’ fall from our eyes. We are then able to see the extent and the ramifications of the questionable activity or behaviour that has been going on around us. 
Every activity is a cause for some effect. And every effect impinges on everyone in some way or another. Remember the ‘six degrees of separation’? Knowing six people is said (mathematically) to give us a link through someone to everyone in the world. This link is why, when an uplifting or inspirational event is reported in the media it has an immediate global impact and we all feel the effect. Likewise when some ghastly tragedy is reported we all feel appalled and cast down. This is the principal reason why we must treat all people in an ethical way because we are all interconnected – it is in our genes. To do anything else is to invite chaos and great unhappiness.
It was the British philosopher and statesman, Edmund Burke (1729-1797) who made the much quoted statement that - 

“All that's necessary for the forces of evil to win in the world is for enough good men to do nothing.”  

The following short tale has, over the centuries, warned those who may wish to harm, exploit or abuse others or to engage in corrupt activities of the likely outcome of their activities: 
Aesop’s fable (CLXIX)
The vine and the goat


“There was once a vine teeming with ripe fruit and tender shoots and looking forward to the day when it would provide a bountiful vintage. Suddenly a wanton goat appeared and gnawed its bark and nibbled its young leaves.
            ‘You have no right to harm me like this’, said the vine. ‘But I won’t have to wait long for my just revenge. Even if you crop my leaves and cut me down to my root, I shall provide the wine to pour over you when you are brought as a sacrifice to the altar.’”
            *Though it may be late, retribution arrives in the end*

Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Old wisdom

It is nice to find passages in books that agree with ones philosophy – and the wise and often quite humorous sayings of those of yesteryear.
For instance, in a book (translated by James S. Romm) on the writings of the Roman Stoic, Seneca (c. 4BC – AD 65), there is this passage which shows great wisdom and some humour I think:-
“It is fitting for you to experience pain, and thirst, and hunger, and old age – if, that is a long delay in the human world befalls you – and illness, and loss, and death. But there is no reason to trust those who make a great din all around you: nothing of these things is bad, nothing is unbearable or harsh. Fear attaches to them only by consensus. You fear death, but your fear is only of a rumour, and what could be more foolish than a man who’s afraid of words? Our friend Demetrius often says the words of the ignorant issue from the same place as the rumbling of their guts. “What matter to me,” he says, “ whether they sound off from up top or from down below?” 
So true!!

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Perfect verbal abuse? Try Shakespeare.

If you think you may have heard some good verbal abuse or takedowns recently (relating to certain politicians) it may be good to brush up on your Shakespeare.

For instance how about this one from King Lear (Act II Scene II):-

Earl of Kent. Fellow I know thee. 

Oswald.What dost thou know me for?

Earl of Kent.A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson, glass gazing, super serviceable, finical rogue; one trunk inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in a way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and son and heir of a mongrel bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

Oswald.Why, what a monstrous fellow are thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known to thee or knows thee.

Earl of Kent. What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels, and beat thee before the king? Draw you rogue: for though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw. (Drawing his sword).

Politicians take note!!

A masterful use of English and without vulgarity or a four-letter  “f” word anywhere.

NOTE: Definition of a pandar = a pimp.
            Definition of cullionly = mean or base.