Just memories.

There are so many memories. But they are mine and wouldn’t have the same resonance if I tried to share very many, I don’t believe. 

 

You see, tomorrow, January 21, will be five years since Magucha died. Now it never has been my intention to solemnize this day into a “mourning” day.  Magucha would never have wanted that. It is after all just another day – the sun will still rise in the East and set Westward over the Indian Ocean (viewed from Perth).

 

Tomorrow will, in a sense, be a day of celebration for a life well lived. Magucha refused to be cast down. Her whole approach to life seemed to be “Life is to be lived. Live it. To the full!” And so she did. She was never still, just like a sparrow – my pet name for her was “pardalito” – Portuguese for “little sparrow”  – always busy with something or someone. 

 

Rather than adopt an attitude, “What can I expect from Life?” Magucha approached it differently with a, “What does Life expect from me?” So she was always up to something – more often than not helping some wayfarer who has stumbled on their journey through life. 

 

And I was glad to be part of that. And I respected her, almost unconscious, desire to help others. And I hope I helped too. I loved her, you see! 

 

But in retrospect one always remembers the better times – the many rushed journeys to hospital and the many days spent in hospital, just became part of the background and tend to recede further as time goes on. Just as does the fist full of medications she had to take twice a day – I still have her hospital pharmacy list.

 

Magucha was  tough. Ever since her late teenage years she had suffered from kidney failure – she died just short of 63 years old – so nearly 50 years of illness. This she endured with stoic fortitude, never complaining, always ready for tomorrow! She was like spring steel – always bouncing back with a smile and a thank you.

 

In many respects I think that what the American rebel and “Gonzo” journalist, Hunter S Thompson, wrote gives a good insight into Magucha’s whole approach to life:-

 

“ Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a Ride!”

 

And it was a ride – being her partner, lover and friend! I wouldn’t have missed any of it. But it is the memory of her gentle side that I remember so fondly. She loved children. Having been told not to have a child - that having a child of her own would overload her compromised kidneys, she was so proud to give birth to a healthy little girl. Her love for Caroline was palpable and wonderful to see. 

 

Being the person she was she gave equal loving attention to Rob whom she refused to call “step son” but always “MY son Rob”. And I loved her for that – her innate kindness and sense of justice.

Then when the grandchildren arrived she was always there to offer help. She was their beloved “Vovo” (Portuguese for grandmother).

 

So, as you can see there are so many memories.

 

As the anonymous poet Atticus wrote:-

 

“What a beautiful thought” she said,

“that even death does not conquer love and sometimes even makes it stronger.”

 

And:-

 

“She had an uncanny energy for life, 

thankful for every little miracle it bestowed –

and it made her entirely impossible to live without.”

 

I know I have used this poem before but it fits my mood so I’ll end with it:-

 

My Wife

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The Great Artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The Mighty Master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The August Father
Gave to me. 

             

                            Robert Louis Stevenson

Dreaming.

We all dream – day-dreams or those scarcely remembered fragments of dreams while asleep. And while dreams obviously have a purpose, no one is quite sure what they are, or where they “come from”. I’m not talking about “nightmares” – they seem to be of a different order entirely.

It matters not – the fact is that we do dream and many derive comfort from what they “see” or “experience” while dreaming.  Similarly we all indulge in reverie at times during the day – thinking of what was or what might be. Like all dreams, however, these are impossible to control – they “arrive” seemingly without invitation.

But in the words of the song, from the movie, South Pacific, “If you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?”

But reality always seems to intrude and draw one’s attention to what is termed “reality”. But I wonder if it really is reality?

What is the “mind”, presumably the origin of dreams? A good example of the power of the mind is that strange phenomenon known as the “placebo effect”. This is when a patient is told the medication (a sugar pill) or fake operation (yes those happen) is the real deal and strangely people seem to benefit and even get better.

How and why? Know one has an answer.

As some readers of my ramblings might recall, I find that poets often expresses in verse what might take me a whole page to say in prose. Poetry is almost always about the human condition – love, disappointment, death and life’s tribulations in general.

The anonymous poet who writes under the name “Atticus” often has a short verse about many matters that are driven by the mind – what a person thinks and the power of thought. And some of his verse reminds me of my life with Magucha. Take this one for instance:-

“She was powerful

not because she wasn’t scared

but because

she went on strongly

despite the fear.” 

That fits Magucha perfectly – I never ever saw her frightened. Not ever.  

I’m not sure if she was ever told this but I truly believe that all, yes ALL, girls should be told this:-

“You are a bird,

my girl,’

her father said,

“shake the water from your feathers

spread those mighty wings

and fly.”

Also, in Magucha’s case:

“Her courage was her crown

and she wore it like a queen.”

Then:-

“The bravest thing

she ever did

was to stay alive

each day.”

And finally, because Magucha lived with such a precarious medical condition for the entire time I knew her, about thirty-eight years, I always tried to ease the weight of the burdens she carried. I hope I succeeded. 

Atticus wrote this, which is what, as best I could, I always tried to do:-

“He shielded 

her heart

like a flame

in a storm –

his back 

against the wind.”

As always the dreams remain and often surface with extraordinary vividness completely “out of the blue”. They are just there!

A special day.

Today – the last day of August – is always a special day for me. It is the anniversary of our wedding. Magucha and I. That was in 1979 – so today would have been our fortieth. 

Not long, I suppose, in the great scheme of things but long enough for there to be many memories. Fond memories. Memories of deep friendship; memories of close companionship; memories of quiet evenings together when each knew that they were loved. That is the important part.  The love.

I try not to dwell on the end – I mean death does come to us all. The “uninvited visitor” calls at His own time and place. I like to dwell, rather, on the strength we each seemed to give to the other and on the many important, if seemingly relatively minor, events that shaped our life together.

But above all I recall Magucha’s strength of character and her courage. She was utterly fearless and met all that Life (and the Fates) threw at her with a courage and fortitude that I found inspiring. 

She never complained. Each day, every event was a new adventure and I never once, not ever, heard her ask “Why me?” Her slowly declining health was certainly a sore trial for all concerned but she always met each day with a smile of good cheer and always with plans afoot. She seemed always to shine a kindly light, which was appreciated by all and drew many into her orbit.

I know that Magucha has gone on ahead, that she is out of sight. But, to me, she is still there and I know, just know, that one-day we will reach out and hold hands again.

I am certainly not the only one who holds such beliefs – many over the millennia have said the same. So I don’t think I am all that wrong!

As anyone who reads what I write will know, I have always loved poetry.  Now the poet who writes under the pseudonym  of Atticus seems to capture my mood very well, and with some humour:

“Angels must be warm to fly –

That’s why she always 

Slept in socks.”

And it is true Magucha always (well nearly always) started off with very loose socks, inevitably discarded during the night!

But this poem, by the Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore, just titled 87, from a little booklet called Gitanjali always affects me:

“In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room; 

I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my Lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish – no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears.
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe."

A Man or THE MAN? – not such a simple question.

Being an “older” male, it has come to my attention that in many respects men have forgotten, or never learned, what it is to be a man. My understanding and what I have always tried to adhere to, is that men and women compliment each other, in that each should support the other. Each brings to any relationship the strengths, and weaknesses, of their gender; neither should try to dominate the other; that it should always be a partnership of equals – equal but different. The physically stronger male should support and protect the female, while the female should bring to the partnership her intuition and “feminine” strengths (these are indefinable!).

I know that my late wife, Magucha, certainly did that. Her strengths lay in her astonishing insight, her emotional strength and her courage. 

Much is reported about the, unfortunately, extremely high, seemingly worldwide, incidence of domestic violence (principally committed by men against women and children); the revelations of the coercion and sexual abuses in the media industry committed by men in positions of influence and authority; the revelations, worldwide, of appalling priestly paedophilia (if ever there was one this is surely the ultimate oxymoron!!) – almost exclusively committed by male priests, pastors, rabbis and imams, against children.  

And one is left to wonder why. I suggest that this stems from two sources – power and insecurity. 

This is a “power play” by men. The average male is physically larger and stronger that the average female and of course, children. So a male, in a dominant position of influence and authority, such as a priest, has tremendous “leverage” to force those in a dependent situation, to “obey” any instruction or command. His insecurity lies in his need to dominate.

In domestic violence situations my understanding is that much of it is “caused” by jealousy. The male feels he is being “betrayed” and is the “victim” - that his partner should be blamed for any resulting violence. “She made me do it”, is a common refrain. Again, this jealousy and need to dominate, lies in insecurity.

“Boys will be boys” is not an valid response.

So – I now – as usual find that others, more fluently say what I’m trying to express, more pointedly and in far fewer words. 

This, by Atticus:-

“Boys learn too late

that being 

‘The Man’,

is not the same thing

as being

A Man.”