Love in poetry and song

It is not often that I am at a loss for words. But now, today, three years after Magucha died, there is a numbness, a weariness - I am finding it difficult to find the words to express the inexpressible. I mean three years, in the great scheme of things, is but a blink in time. Not to me though.

My belief: It cannot be that courage, friendship, intuition, empathy are all the result of chance or chemistry alone. This just doesn’t make any sense to me!

My belief: I cannot hold to the theory that love is just the result of hormonal juices, or synaptic chemical transfer.

That love – and I don’t just mean the “boy meets girl” initial attraction. I mean that love, that friendship, that companionship, that unquestioning acceptance of the “other”. This is rare and worth holding onto with everything at one’s disposal.

  

I like to believe that we had this – Magucha and I.

As always in times of high emotion I turn to the poets. Their understanding of the frailness of the human condition; their unique use of words have a restorative power that I find brings me peace. 

The 19^thCentury American poet, Henry Longfellow, I can relate to – he married twice. Each time his wife died – one in very tragic circumstances. But he was a great poet and apparently a very kind and gentle man.

Amongst many he wrote the poem, “A Shadow” – the last lines of which are:-

“Be comforted; the world is very old,

And generations pass, as they have passed,

A troop of shadows moving with the sun;

Thousands of times has the old tale been told;

The world belongs to those who come the last,

They will find hope and strength as we have done.”

So be it.

It is still there.

I suppose it will still be there until I too die – one day! My grief that is. I know I have written about this before but we will all, all, at some stage of our life experience the searing knife cut of the parting, of the death of someone close, be it child, partner, sibling or parent. It is just part of life. If there is a beginning there needs also to be an ending. 

But this physical ending of someone close – as anyone who has experienced it will testify, lasts and lasts, and lasts. Of a certainty no one will experience my grief, just as I cannot experience theirs. It’s so personal. 

My way of coping with grief varies from day to day, even hour to hour. Sometimes I go for a longish bicycle ride; sometimes I read, either a book or poetry; other times I write; sometimes I listen to music – I like both classical and country and western. I do, however, with one or two exceptions, find it difficult to talk to others about my grief. They might not understand my way of expressing my grief, and I don’t want to belabor or otherwise impose on their emotions with my, possibly uninvited, feelings.  

I find that poetry, music, of any kind and books, fiction and some non-fiction, all contain sentiments of love and parting, either through death or in other ways. Always love, a meeting and a parting. This is not so strange as love is the most powerful emotion there is, and I don’t just mean the eruption of hormones that all experience at some stage of their life. I mean that unquestioning love, that deep knowledge, that trust, that comfortable companionship that develops with time together.

Of course the passage of this love, this knowledge, this trust, to arrive at the place of comfortable companionship is never smooth! That is not the way it works. We will all stumble on our life’s journey and we will all have misunderstandings. But that just makes the arrival point more worthwhile.

I can testify, with some feeling, that life with my wife, Magucha, was often tempestuous. But it was never dull, never boring. Her quick fire Portuguese temperament and my (relatively) slower and less emotional temperament meant that we both had to work hard at our relationship. I know she found me very frustrating at times and would spare no criticisism. She could do that but no one else was allowed to! She would fire up, almost vibrate with anger in my defense if anyone dared criticise me in her presence! I found that very touching and, in a strange way, deeply moving.

But it was all worth it.  I for one had thirty-six wonderful years with a dear friend; with a loyal companion on our journey through life; with a staunch ally; and with someone who I know loved me, deeply. Just as I loved her, just as she was, deeply loved her. 

I of course, cannot now speak for her, but I believe there was nothing, short of some criminal intent, that we would not have done for each other. I know that I would have defended her to my last breath.

This is why I, for one, have found her death so hard to bear; the apparent severing of the physical bonds, so difficult to come to terms with. I will never believe that her soul – she most definitely had a soul – died with her physical body. It is there somewhere. And I know, just know, that sometime, somewhere, we will reach out and hold hands again. 

Saudades!

There are always poems.

Some events; some memories; some recollections don’t get any easier, any less confronting with the elapse of time. They are still too fresh, too raw to be easily cast aside.

At times, such as the present, when recent past events cast a long shadow over my life, I am drawn to poets magisterial use of words to express the inexpressible. 

For reasons that I cannot explain – possibly because of its very early, childhood introduction – poetry has always stirred, within me, a deep well of emotion and intense imagery. Poets use of words are like a cry from the heart, that bring forth both pain and a salve to ease the pain.

One such poet is the Bengali polymath and Nobel prizewinner, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941). From his 1913 publication, Gitanjali, a very short poem, number 87, hit me with a body blow that left me breathless and deeply moved.

87.

“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.”

Memories, Reminiscences and what End?

As one grows older perspectives on life seem to grow and alter with the years. As an example, I now live alone - my wife of many years has died. Does this bother me? Yes, but not as much as it might – I have always been satisfied with my own company. Do I miss her? More than I could ever explain to anyone. Have I memories? Of course I have. Do I reminisce? Yes.

All this, but there is something more, something deeper, something that is slowly approaching the forefront of my mind. It is, I suppose, more of a philosophical discussion with myself. I ask myself the questions – what is a memory, what is a reminiscence and the big one what, actually, is life? And then, what will my “end” be?

Neurologists, quantum biologists and psycho-pharmacologists all stake their claims to understanding when it comes to the brain. It has been established, beyond doubt, that neurons in different parts of the brain are activated (scanning techniques verify this) when looking at something, when listening to a sound, when thinking, remembering or problem solving. Various chemicals have been identified as “neuro-transmitters” that cross the synapses that lie between one neuron and another, which appear to be essential in the “storage” of information or interpreting what has been perceived in the environment.

BUT, and this is where I dispute the “science” of the determination that the brain is the only locus of life, thoughts and memories. For instance the question has yet to be answered – what comes first – do the thoughts and memories somehow activate the neurons in the brain, or do the neurons, by some means, create the thoughts?

AND, what is a thought, actually? What is a memory, actually? What is an emotion, actually? What is life, actually? No one knows.

So I ask myself the question, are they all just the result of chemicals in the brain, as neurologists and psycho-pharmacologists would claim? I ask the question, are they all just the  result of the activities of sub-atomic particles as quantum-biologists would claim? I ask the question, how can a chemical or chemicals in any combination, inanimate as they are, create or store a thought?  Particularly as no one knows what a thought is, actually! I ask the question, how can a chemical or chemicals in any combination, inanimate as they are, create or reflect on an emotion? Particularly as no one knows what an emotion is, actually!  I ask the question, how can a chemical or chemicals in any combination, inanimate as they are, create life? Particularly as no one knows what life is, actually!

Biologists and psycho-pharmacologists have determined the chemical constituents of a cell but no one (repeat no one) has ever come close to “creating” life in a petri dish by mixing together the known chemicals that constitute the structure of a cell.

It would appear to me that life is something above and beyond our knowledge. I have sat and held the hand of someone who is dying. I have sensed that the life force (however this is defined) has left, or withdrawn from, that person. What is it? So, again, what is it that is now absent from the body - the body that was alive and warm and is now dead and growing cold?

The cells that constituted the body of the person who has just died are identical to the cells that constituted the body of that same person the split second before they died - except that they are no longer “alive”.

I don’t suppose, or presume, that we will ever have a “scientific” answer to these fundamental questions, even though scientists try to convince us that the understanding science conveys is the only kind there is!

So I am left to my memories, reminiscences and philosophical thoughts to try and understand what will happen to me when I leave this “mortal coil”!!

I wonder if it will all end as Omar Khayyam wrote in his famous Rubaiyat?

 Quatrain 47

And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,

End in the Nothing all Things end in – Yes –

Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what

Thou shalt be – Nothing – Thou shalt not be less.

Or is there something more like this, the first verse from John Masefield’s, “A Creed”:

I held that when a person dies

His soul returns again to Earth;

Arrayed in some new flesh disguise

Another mother gives him birth.

With sturdier limbs and brighter brain

The old soul takes the roads again.

I prefer John Masefield’s version but you choose!

Grief

My one loyal reader, Archie, has noted that I have not posted anything for about two months.

I have every reason to have not written anything for so long – I have been grieving. And in my grief I have not been of a mind to write about it or to share the reasons for my grief, or in fact to write anything at all.

In the great scheme of things one more death matters not – the World Health Organization estimates that roughly 155 000 (one hundred and fifty-five thousand) people die every day. So one more is no big deal. But if that one was my wife – then it is a big deal – for me!

When the person who dies is very close – and has been for over 36 (thirty six) years - it is difficult to be rational and to avoid emotion. But in this instance I am trying, trying to let my head attend to reason and to reduce the emotions of my heart (the “traditional” seat of emotions). The trouble is it is so personal, so private that to try and explain how or why I feel the way I do is a hard thing to do.

Writing for me, however, has always been a way out – an escape; in this instance I am using writing for cathartic purposes. I need to let in the light, light to banish the dark thoughts that hover in the background. Putting it all down on “paper”, as it were, helps me to put things in perspective.

To know that a person, close to one, is dying and to know that they know they are dying is quite confronting. To hold someone’s hand and then to feel the life force (whatever this is conceived to be) slowly slip away and the body that was animated and alive grow cold and lifeless, is not easy.

Yet this is what happens roughly 155 000 times every day. There will be, therefore, at least another 155 000 (if not a great deal more) people feeling much as I do. This, also, is confronting; that death and grief are such an “everyday” occurrence that there is still a strange element of surprise and a degree of shock when it happens to someone close.

In some ways this feeling of shock – and grief too I suppose – is, to a degree, a selfish experience. The person concerned, in this case my wife, no longer experiences pain (pain is a warning that the body is in some way compromised). So it is me that is the one affected. Logically therefore, it is me experiencing the emotional shock (which is normal) but also me, to a degree, feeling sorry for myself – I have lost someone. I suppose this is also normal!

To a certain extent I have got over the initial grief and now it is a matter of a “long unwind”; slowly letting go and establishing my own routines to suit only me! Again this is not easy living as I do in the house we shared, sleeping in the same bed we shared, with photographs, with all her little nick-knacks everywhere I look.

I find solace in poetry so I will end this post with a poem that expresses my feelings for my wife very well. A poem by Robert Louis Stevenson called, 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.

Why is suicide considered a bad thing?

Amended September 11, 2018:

I know this is quite an old post but I strongly believe it is as relevant as ever. Some people do commit suicide and this has surely happened since humans first walked the earth.

This is not a treatise on the causes or possible reasons for suicide but the complexities behind the act have puzzled me for many years. In particularly our seeming abhorrence and our obvious dismay, regret and great sadness that anyone should even contemplate the need to end their life, by whatever means has taxed my understanding and the meaning of my life.

What follows below is my considered opinion:-

I ask the question – why is suicide considered such a bad thing? Now I am not advocating that anyone should commit suicide. I am just trying to pick apart the emotional clutter that accompanies this very personal and private act. The only answers I get are that it is a waste of a (usually) young person’s life; that they were loved; that they had unlimited potential, now never to be realised; that they had a future to live for – etc., etc.

This is partially correct but is not a real answer. The person concerned – the person now deceased – obviously had a different view of life. Their view, which I am not discussing (I have no idea what that was); I am discussing our view; that of the outsider; the ones left behind.

Why do we “outsiders” (I deliberately use this word because we are “outside’ that person’s inner world) consider suicide to be such a bad thing? Are we affronted because someone considers living – in their current situation – to be so bad, so threatening, so limiting as to be not worthwhile continuing? Are we discomforted because this rejection, this dismissal of all we has striven for (in “our” world), may reflect poorly on us, those left behind, regarding the way we have organised the world? Are we disturbed by the confronting prospect of having to admit that we make mistakes and that the way in which the economy, our legal, welfare and education systems are set up may actually cause distress, that we are not always fair or just in our dealings? Do we feel guilty that we have developed a financial system that promotes the massive imbalance between the very wealthy and the very poor and the disadvantaged?

We have to recognise that we are all, all, party to the ills of the world. We created them. If we look with even a modicum of insight we should see in ourselves the cause of these short comings and see ourselves reflected in the eyes of the distressed. And we should be dismayed.

Is this why we consider suicide a “bad thing” and are so shocked when it occurs?

It is needful to remember that we, each one of us, have our own experiences of life. These are our own. No one can see the world through our eyes with the same imagery and emotional response. No one can see the world through our eyes with our life experiences and our interpretations of those experiences – these are our own.

So I ask the question again – why is suicide considered such a bad thing? Obviously for the person concerned the prospect of death is more alluring than continuing living as currently experienced. What is “wrong” with that? It is their choice.

Then for some to say that only God can decide when or where a person dies is surely a gross over assumption - how do they know? What special insight do they possess? Is it not possible, because (I assume) God gave us free will that God may have already decided to allow a person who wants to die, to die?

Furthermore to declare (as some authority figures do) that most people who commit suicide suffer from a mental "illness" or disorder is surely wrong. It is also highly presumptuous on the part of the person making such a declaration – how do they ACTUALLY know! This is categorising a person, who now has no recourse or ability to refute the presumption. This is putting a label on someone. And then what about those “outsiders” left behind to live with the event – the family and friends? Are they to be made to suffer further pain with the stigma provided by so called experts who provide the “knowledge” that their son, daughter, friend, brother, sister “must have been mentally deranged” to have committed such an act. This implies that no “normal” person would ever do such a thing! What about self-sacrifice when there is loss of life? Isn’t this an act of suicide? But if it saves the life of others it is considered “noble”!! ("There is no greater love than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends" - English King James Bible: John 15:13).

Research on completed suicides is notoriously difficult. It is always referring to an historic act – something that has already happened. Police, coronial, autopsy, psychiatric and psychological and counselling reports are analysed and carefully combed to try and establish some reason or motive for the suicide. This is fraught as it is impossible to know what was actually going through the person’s mind at the precise moment in time when they took their own life. At that moment they made a choice. Why? We can never know.

Shall we now look at what suicide actually is? Someone taking their own life – right? It seems that the “act” is only considered suicide if it results in the quick death of the person concerned. But what about those who commit suicide in the “long term”? Those who drink or drug themselves to death over a number of years, what about them? They may suffer from abuse, or from unbearable pressures associated with their domestic arrangements or at work. They may determine that the easiest and most “socially acceptable” way of easing this pressure or pain, is to get drunk or to get “stoned” on a regular basis. It may take some time but in possibly five or ten years they will be dead.   The emotional (and economic) “cost” of this (“long term suicide”) far exceeds that of any number of “quick” suicides.

To get back to the “mental illness or disorder” accusation. Disordered from what? What are these people supposed to be disordered from? From “normal”? As far as I can discover there is no accepted definition of “normal”. Possibly those considered “disordered” react to life’s trials and tribulations differently from those around them. Are they wrong? Or are we “outsiders” just being intolerant and lacking in understanding or compassion? Maybe these people are just eccentric – God knows there are enough odd ball people in the community!! Some behaviour may be considered mal-adaptive or possibly anti-social by “outsiders” but not by the people concerned – otherwise they wouldn’t act the way they do!

Similarly, why should anyone "live" according to another's expectations?  

There is an essay, “Suicide”, by the Scottish philosopher David Hume (1711 – 1776) wherein he wrote, “I believe that no man ever threw away Life while it was worth keeping.”

What follows below is a warning relating to anti-depressant drugs:-

USA Federal Drug Administration Product Information Warning

Patients with major depressive disorder, both adult and pediatric, may experience worsening of their

depression and/or the emergence of suicidal ideation and behavior (suicidality), whether or not they are taking antidepressant medications, and this risk may persist until significant remission occurs. Although there has been a long-standing concern that antidepressants may have a role in inducing worsening of depression and the emergence of suicidality in certain patients, a causal role for antidepressants in inducing such behaviors has not been established. Nevertheless, patients being treated with antidepressants should be observed closely for clinical worsening and suicidality, especially at the beginning of a course of drug therapy, or at the time of dose changes, either increases or decreases.

Consideration should be given to changing the therapeutic regimen, including possibly discontinuing the medication, in patients whose depression is persistently worse or whose emergent suicidality is severe, abrupt in onset, or was not part of the patient’s presenting symptoms.

From the above it is apparent that psycho-pharmceutical medications are not always the answer!

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!