The Human Spirit

I am puzzled.

 

That we are wayfarers, on our journey through life, should be self evident to all. And what befalls us on that journey to the only end possible cannot ever be known. It is just when the thought of the inescapable end and its immanent arrival that one is brought up short. This is especially so with a person one loves – in my case my wife, Magucha.

 

Many are the thoughts I’ve had over the purpose of “Life” and the fact that “Life” is expressed in so many different forms – estimated at somewhere in the region of 8 million. That of course excludes the unknowable number of bacteria that also inhabit the Earth.

 

Needless to say, I am no nearer arriving at an answer, as the answer can never be known. 

 

But, one thing I do know is that somewhere in “Life” is lodged the “human spirit” – however this is defined – that shines through as a beneficent force in human interaction. This human spirit defies definition. It is apparent when and in whom it appears. It is not attached to physical beauty, or physical strength, or intelligence, it just “is”.

 

And this human spirit is wondrous to behold. I know that the passage of time tends to distort some memories and remembrances but when it comes to Magucha they are still quite sharp. You see, she was dauntless (I never saw her afraid of anything) and her kindness and willingness to help other wayfarers she met on the road of life was an inspiration, certainly to me.

 

 She was quite diminutive in stature but, however, once you got to know her, size did not come into it – her intelligence and personality shone through like a beacon. Because she had survived serious illness and several near death experiences she lived for each day and, seemingly unconsciously, had taken to heart the Biblical instruction, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself” (Matthew 6:34 in the English King James Bible).

 

She was utterly fearless and, when it was brought to her attention, would fight unfairness or injustice with a ferocious intensity and singleness of purpose. Her most enduring and endearing qualities, however, were her kindness, her generosity of spirit and compassion. Magucha subscribed to the belief that we are wayfarers all, on the journey through life, and she was always prepared to give a helping hand to those who stumbled while on that journey. She seemed to shed a loving and kindly light and many were attracted to that “light” which gave warmth and comfort to those in need and good counsel to those in distress. 

 

All this, to me, is an example of what I understand the human spirit to be. Like tempered steel, the “fire” of Magucha’s personal experiences and the blows life dealt her seemed to make her emotionally stronger and strengthen her resolve. 

 

For all this I respected and loved her dearly. She was just sixty-two when she died but then as the Ancient Greeks proclaimed, “Those whom the Gods love die young.” 

We are just sojourners.

As always at this time of year many memories come flooding in. And I know, all too well, that they do fade over time even as I grope for more clarity. They lose much of their urgency and potency. This is a blessing I believe, bestowed on us mortals, so that all our days are not darkened by grief and other past matters.

 

For this I am grateful. But, as always, there is a consequence. If I want to recall the sound of Magucha’s voice and her sometimes (deliberately) mangled English – what we all knew as “Magucha speak”; if I want to recall the sound of her infectious laugh; if I want to recall the feeling of her “pata” (Portuguese for “paw”) - what she called her little hand - as it sought mine while we walked side by side, or resting on my knee while driving. I can’t. Those memories are lost to me now. 

 

But then, and maybe this is a good thing, I now can’t recall the sound of her angry voice either! Magucha had a quick fire Portuguese (Latin) temperament and was not easily crossed. And she didn’t mind who knew it!!

 

Also it matters not who we are, what we do or where we live, we are all, I do believe, just sojourners in this place. Or, if you prefer, wayfarers, on our journey through life.  

 

We meet wonderful people, as sojourners or wayfarers, and maybe fall in love and marry, as I did – rather, as we did - Magucha and I. For in us all there is a hunger for love, there is also pity in love, there is a power in love but also in a strange way, a kind of fear. To love someone needs courage. What will love bring? That is the unknown and the unknowable. Life is a grand adventure for the heart (always thought of as the seat of Love and many other emotions) but the end and what that entails is the mystery. I, however, also believe that love is eternal and is beyond knowing.

 

Behind all this philosophical conjecture the perennial, perplexing, questions remain – what is it that is present when someone or something is alive but absent when that same person or something dies? And why? What is the purpose of Life? We will never know of course, as it is beyond our understanding but, and I repeat but, I cannot believe that Life (however defined) appeared, ab initio, from stardust.

 

If, as is postulated, Life – or the bacteria from which Life, as we know it, is believed to have evolved – was deposited, carried by stardust, on the newly formed planet Earth over 3 billion years ago, the question remains, where did THAT bacteria come from?

 

I think I have always been an optimistic person and never been cast down for too long. Always have I tried to greet what Life has dealt me with a “what now?” rather that a  “why me?” It seems to work. For me at least. But sometimes it is hard. 

 

I have dreams and I can dream, can’t I, that in the “undiscovered country” to which we will all eventually travel, I will, again, see those whom I have loved? 

 

So, as always, it is poetry that I turn to for solace or, maybe, a better way to express the way I feel. Therefore, with no excuse or apology I offer the following by Max Ehrmann.  He, I do believe, must have experienced deep grief to write something as poignant as this:-

The Dead Wife

 

O thou whose lips I’ve pressed in hush of night,

Whose tiny hand has trembled in my own

Beneath the talking boughs the wind has blown,

Hid snuggly from the evening’s starry light –

O thou, my all, why hast thou quit my sight?

Thy straggling curls will no more touch my cheek,

Thy voice and smile are gone where’er I seek

With my watchful eyes and my strong passion’s might.

If all my soul’s deep grief thou now dost see,

If thou dost know the lonely inward tears

My heart hath shed along the saddened years,

Break through thy silent doors to life and me,

Who hourly watch and wait with trembling fears,

Lest in the realm of death I know not thee.

Uphill

Our individual journeys along the unique byways that our life leads us, should on reflection, give insight to many wonderful experiences. Amongst the many wayfarers we are bound to meet there will beautiful people, loving people, people who inspire and lead. Of course there will also be quite a few others! 

This journey, however and by whom it is undertaken is seldom easy nor straight-forward.  My dear old mother, bless her cotton socks, told me very early on that in her belief, this world was but a school for what comes next. We need to do the best we can, in this world, and learn from our inevitable mistakes and blunders. We will all, at some stage, stumble on our journey. 

In light of what I have written, above, I offer this simple poem that my mother loved – and which I too love.  

Uphill

Does the road wind uphill all the way?

    Yes, to the very end.

Will the day’s journey take the whole day long?

    From morn to night my friend.

But is there for the night a resting place?

    A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.

May not the darkness hide it from my face?

     You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?

    Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?

    They will not keep you waiting at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel sore and weak?

     Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?

     Yea, beds for all who come.

                                                Christina Rossetti

Pilgrim Soul.

Pilgrim Soul – those words seem to have a special meaning for me. And I am not sure why. Possibly because the memory of my wife and best friend Magucha, who died three years ago is ever present. As far as I’m concerned she most certainly had a soul! And I like to think her soul is out there somewhere, helping and nurturing – always busy. Just like when she was “alive”.

I suppose it is also the fact that no one knows what “Life” is, why “Life” exists or where it was first evidenced. Furthermore the question remains to be answered - what is that essence, that vivifying force we call “Life” that is present when a living organism is “alive” but is absent or withdrawn when something that was “alive” is now “dead”? 

Science has no answer. This is the ultimate question that I think all philosophers seek to answer and is the basis (so I understand) of all what are termed “scriptures”, and is the basis (again, so I understand) of all religions. 

The mental image of a soul – that Life essence (however it is named) searching for a home – somewhere to express itself, it’s Life, resonates with me. Where was it’s original home? Where did it come from? It is certainly present in “seeds”; seeds from all biological organisms. These geminate and grow. The Earth we inhabit and share with millions of different life forms is testament to their variety and their beauty. 

But why? And will we ever know? Maybe Shakespeare was correct when he has Hamlet saying, 

“The undiscovered country from whose bourn

            No traveller returns, puzzles the will.”

I believe that there a continuum – there is “Life” and there is “Death” – that one leads on to the other. Just the way it is. Not to be feared. Rather this chain of events, this grand progression, is to be welcomed (so I like to imagine it) as a manifestation of something wonderful, of a grandeur that is always just beyond my reach and comprehension. 

It is, after all where we will all end up! But I would really like to know.

So will my "pilgrim soul" keep on it's journey, meeting other wayfarers and dear companions on the way? Until .....?

Magucha

Now, as the first “anniversary” (January 21, 2017) – if that is the correct word to use – of the death of my wife Maria or Magucha (by which name she was widely known) approaches I am conflicted with many, very mixed, emotions.

As her many friends would know, on an initial introduction her small stature could often divert attention from her astonishing ‘lion heart’. It was impossible to intimidate her. Once you got to know her however, size did not come into it – her intelligence and personality shone through like a beacon. Because she had survived serious illness and several near death experiences she lived for each day and, seemingly unconsciously, had taken to heart the Biblical instruction, “Take therefore no thought for the morrow, for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself” (Matthew 6:34 in the English King James Bible).

She was utterly fearless and, when it was brought to her attention, would fight unfairness or injustice with a ferocious intensity and singleness of purpose. Her most enduring and endearing qualities, however, were her kindness, her generosity of spirit and compassion. Magucha subscribed to the belief that we are wayfarers all, on the journey through life, and she was always prepared to give a helping hand to those who stumbled while on that journey. She seemed to shed a loving and kindly light and many were attracted to that “light” which gave warmth and comfort to those in need and good counsel to those in distress. Her ability to see “through” a problem and the depth of her common sense and worldly wisdom was astounding.

In a similar vein children were attracted to her apparent Alice in Wonderland ability to shrink in size to meet her young charges at their level – both physically and mentally. Her imagination had an almost childlike, innocent quality of freshness and innovation, which children found irresistible.  It was joyous to behold her love of all children but especially for her grand-children (three girls and a boy) – a love that was gladly reciprocated.

Mind you she was no saint! All this apparent “goodness” was leavened by a generous measure of human contrariness. Magucha had a streak of mule like stubbornness (once she made up her mind on anything it was very difficult for her to accept the need for change); she had a quick fire Portuguese (“Latin”) temperament and was not easily crossed; she was opinionated to a degree, with an insatiable attraction to conspiracy theories; she had an abiding and somewhat macabre interest in serious crime. But she also had a wonderfully infectious laugh and a quirky, mischievous and engaging sense of humour!

Furthermore (and I know!) she seemed to have a pathological inability to save money. If she had any she would spend it – generally on the welfare of others.

It could be said that she was “just” a woman who had a finely tuned sense of justice. But she was also someone who had overcome her own frailties and with astonishing determination, selflessness and will-power, managed to push herself to the limits of her strength and abilities to help those fellow humans in need and less fortunate than her. In this she was exceptional and should be remembered as a “worthy” human being in every sense of the word.

I believe she was an inspiration to all who knew her.

She was also my wife and best friend for, shall I say, an interesting but never boring, 36 years!

I loved her dearly and miss her intelligence, the sound of her voice, her humour, her smile and laughter, her love and emotional warmth in more ways that I can tell.

She loved life. She was 62. She was my Magucha.

Dates – for rememberance.

(Amended 20^thSeptember 2019)

By dates I do not refer to the palm fruit variety or those arrangements to meet someone. No. I refer to those dates in time – referring to events in life that are important to us individually and to the world. The Portuguese sailor, Bartolomeu Diaz – who rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, the “First Fleet” that arrived in Botany Bay (Sydney, Australia) in 1788 are but two that immediately spring to my mind.

Dates are significant for a variety of reasons and each are important in their own way. Birthdays, anniversaries, and important historical occurrence – any date that marks an event on the journey of one’s life. They are reminders of wayfarers we have met, of things we have done. 

For me certain dates have a special meaning. Being a “war baby” – (Second World War) I have the dates of the beginning and end of that tumultuous time firmly set (generally accepted as 1 September 1939 -2 September 1945). And also the First World War (the War to end all wars!) because both my grandfathers were combatants in that one (28 July 1914 – 11 November 1918). 

When a child I was taught to always remember “Armistice Day”, or “Poppy Day” as it is sometimes called – 11^thNovember. 

Nearer home, as it were, are the dates of my retirement – 19^thOctober 2012. Now another date – a date recording a death, 21^stJanuary 2016 as is 1^stJune. Every 21^stis for me both a time of celebration (in October, it is my birthday) and every 1^stJune, a time of reflection, of remembrance and of great sadness. The 21^stJanuary is the date of the death of my best friend – my wife, Magucha, and 1^stJune is the date my first wife Frances, died (in 1977).

As anyone who reads these rambling posts well knows that poetry has a special meaning for me. There is a poet my late bother, Bruce, enjoyed – a Canadian by the name of Robert Service, and a poem he wrote:

 “Unforgotten” 

I know the garden where the lilies gleam,

  And one who lingers in the sunshine there;

  She is than white-stoled lily far more fair,

And, oh, her eyes are heaven-lit with dream!

I know the garret, cold and dark and drear,

  And one who toils and toils with tireless pen,

  Until his brave, sad eyes grow weary – then

He seeks the stars pale, silent as a seer.

And ah, it’s strange; for, desolate and dim,

  Between these two there rolls an ocean wide;

  Yet he is in the garden by her side

And she is in the garret there with him. 

What started me off on ethics

It all started with a supermarket shopping trolley. I was irritated with a trolley at our local supermarket, abandoned, in the middle of the only vacant parking spot that I could find. As I got out of the car to move the offending item, I mentally reviled those people who have no consideration for others and are probably self interested, unethical, and obviously lazy. Then, at the end of my visit to that shopping centre, I caught myself about to do that very same thing – abandon the very trolley that had earlier started me off, and which I had used!!

This set me thinking about what ‘made’ me perform actions, or think the thoughts I did, which may or may not be charitable toward others. What I discovered about myself was not very pleasing. But it started me on an enquiry into the why and wherefore of thinking and the actions, ethical or unethical, that stem from those thoughts.

This subject is as old as mankind, and that is what, at first, bothered me. If people had been thinking similar thoughts, and investigating their causes, for millennia, why was it that I had not, seemingly, progressed very far? My problem seemed similar to that of many, as witnessed by the daily reports in the media.

This is a never ending quest, which every person, and every generation seems to have to learn anew; it is one which has led me down many devious byways. All the paths trodden, all the well used roads I travelled, appeared to lead, ultimately, in one general direction; toward the inescapable conclusion that all thoughts and all actions have a purpose, and that purpose should not be centred on me; that there is a higher purpose, which each one of us has to discover for ourselves. That purpose is more enduring, more important than most of us realize, while engaged on our daily ‘grind’. It is how we live our lives and form our relationships with other wayfarers we meet on our life’s journey. It touches on the very purpose of life itself.