The Wheel always turns.

The Wheel of Life that is. It turns on its axis regardless of what we, mere humans, do. Of course the largest of all “wheels” are the galaxies – unbelievably large “wheels” with billions of stars rotating majestically in, shall I say, their preordained manner. 

Always there are patterns, events, all manner of things seem to return to what was there before (or almost). Even the entire universe, it seems, will one day cease expanding and start contracting – presumably back to what it was before – nothing!

Where tides always ebb as they must flow; where the seasons change as they have always done; where day always succeeds night; when a salmon must always return to the same river in which it was born, to spawn - these are in their own way rotating wheels of similar events. 

Of course to us humans Life and Death is the most important “wheel” of all. Where a child is born or a man lies dead, Life continues. This is portrayed so well by Shakespeare in “As you like it” (Act II Scene VII):-

Lord Jaques:-

“All the world’s a stage,

And all men and women merely players:

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts, 

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in his nurse’s arms.

And then the whining school boy, with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like a pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloons,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,

His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

A second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

So there it is. Wheels within wheels – not like clockwork – far above anything so mechanical. People and things must always obey the rules and regulations by which they were created. 

It cannot be otherwise.

A letter.

9^thMay, 2019.

My dearest Pardalito,

I write this message of love on what would have been your 66^thbirthday, on this level of existence. So I am not sure exactly how to proceed. 

That you are aware of my love and my grief, I am certain. That we are parted by what is called death, is self-evident. At times you seem close yet at the same time I know you are very far beyond my touch, beyond speech, beyond anything I can do except express my love.

Because love conquers all (that I truly believe) – because love transcends time, distance and death - this letter is for you, my little one.

Happy Birthday!

There are so many things I would love to tell you (but I hope and believe you are aware of them in any event); so many things I would have liked to do together with you on this day. You always loved the combination of trees and water – be it next to a stream, river or lake. And flowers. I would have liked to take you to those places we have been to, many times before.

Also it is only now that I can appreciate the amazing “green thumb” that you had. I have to work hard to get any plants or flowers to grow at all. Anything you planted and tended always thrived. I believe it was the love you expressed for all living things that the plants seem to understand and which they returned, with interest, with their beautiful flowers and scents.

And the sea. I have spent some time today, eating my lunch on the South Mole, in Fremantle. You loved that spot. Remember when we used to go there every Saturday for our lunch? We had the children with us then – Rob and Caroline. They were much younger of course, in those far off days, and used to spend much of their time clambering over the large blocks of concrete that made up the seaward side of the Mole. And chasing the seagulls! 

I miss all that, I really do.

I always loved the way the gulls soar in the currents of the euphemistically called “sea breeze”. The “Fremantle Doctor” often blows with almost gale force!! Today though, it’s quite calm – in fact a really beautiful day.

It’s always the little things that I remember – they linger - long after. Like in the mornings when I was up, always before you, preparing my breakfast and I would hear a plaintive little voice from the bedroom, “Is any one home?” or, occasionally, “Nobody loves me!” That would be the signal for me to prepare your breakfast.

I miss the sound of your voice, I really do. And, of course, your (hard earned and seldom given!) hugs and kisses too!! 

But always I return to a longing for the touch of your hand – your “pata” – in mine as we walked along, or resting on my knee when in the car and I was driving. Just that touch.

I miss that too, I really do.

I could go on, and on – but I know that you are, in that “special place”, fully aware of what is in my mind – at least that is what I fondly hope and believe.

So I will now end this letter with a poem - this is really for me, expressing, in a small way what I have to do, even though it will not easy – from a little book of poetry compiled by the late Field Marshall, Earl Wavell, called “Other Men’s Flowers”:-

Wisdom? 

“For this is Wisdom; to love, to live,

To take what Fate, or the Gods may give,

To ask no question, to make no prayer,

But to kiss the lips and caress the hair,

Speed passion’s ebb as you greet its flow, -

To have, - to hold, - and, - in time, - let go!”

            From “The Teak Forrest” by Laurence Hope.

So once again – Happy Birthday my Little One.  And thank you for all the wonderful memories.

I love and miss you. Lots.

The dawning

The definition of dawn used by the old desert Arabs (the Bedouin) – that dawn is that moment in time when there is sufficient light to distinguish between a white and a black thread – has a romantic appeal about it. There is a vagueness which opens up many trains of thought. One determination of dawn will be different from another. There are inevitable shades of grey implicit in the definition as is the quality of the eyesight and judgement of the observer. Also implicit is a tolerance and an acceptance that there will be differences in interpretation – that the beginning of the day – the beginning of anything is never finite. This level of tolerance and acceptance of differences of opinion is needed today, particularly when the ‘blame’ game begins.

This is not to say that the Bedouin were particularly tolerant or intolerant, students of Arab history will be able to shed light on this topic – it is the human quality of the definition that appeals. We each have our own views of the world as seen through the filters of our particular circumstance; our education; our life experiences; our society and culture but above all based on the view we have of ourselves and our position in ‘our’ world.

No one, repeat, no one, ever does anything to deliberately disadvantage themselves. Any action taken by anyone will always be because of some perceived benefit or advantage. Poor judgement may be evident as when a politician tells an ‘untruth’ and is instrumental in losing an ‘unlosable’ election; it is evident when a financier engages in corrupt dealings; it is evident when someone deliberately kills another. But the fact remains that at the moment the decision was made to carry out the action, it would never have been carried out if not for some perceived advantage – to try and cover up a mistake, to make more money or to eliminate a rival.

It is always a matter of choice – to carry out the deed or not to carry out the deed.  To then deliberately seek punishment for the perpetrator is a natural reaction, but is it the best course of action? Remember that shades of grey exist and there is no absolute black or white.

Surely a new dawn in the treatment of criminals is called for – to educate them to have at least some understanding that all humanity is related - would be better? We all have our strengths and weaknesses and no one can claim to be ‘better’ than anyone else. According to our understanding of life, we all do the best we can. To ‘blame’ someone for an error of judgement is a bit harsh. Society should be ‘blamed’; you and I should be ‘blamed’ because we make up the society that gave a particular person a view of the world that happens to differ from ours.

 Educate the perpetrators so they may understand that there is a law or cause and effect. Teach them ethics. That treating others as they would like to be treated is the only viable option. That what goes around, comes around. That if you hit someone with a stick often enough they will sooner or later turn around and hit you back. This means in effect, you are hitting yourself. Not very clever!

What do you make of this?

Sometimes what I read seems to be very appropriate for the times.

There is a book that I had not read for many years – “The Garden of the Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran - published posthumously in 1933. I have always liked his books and poetry – he seems, to me, in his writing, to capture the inner most hopes (and fears) of many people – certainly me.  

And yes, I know he was referring to a different time and different circumstances (the world in the early 1930s) but still, this one passage I believe, applies today and resonates to the circumstances and the leaders in many countries:-

“And Almustafa was silent, and he looked away towards the hills and the vast ether, and there was battle in his silence.

Then he said: ‘My friends and my road-fellows, pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.

‘Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave, eats a bread it does not harvest, and drinks a wine that flows not from its own winepress.

‘Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.

‘Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream, yet submits in its awakening.

‘Pity the nation that raises not its voice save when it walks in a funeral, boasts not except among its ruins, and will rebel not save when it neck is laid between the sword and the block.

‘Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, whose philosopher is a juggler, and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.

‘Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpetings, and farewells him with hootings, only to welcome another with trumpetings again.

Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years and whose strong men are yet in the cradle.

‘Pity the nation divided into fragments, each fragment deeming itself a nation."

Draw what conclusions you think are appropriate from these lines written nearly ninety years ago.

What brings memories

Certain words or groups of words have to power to deeply affect me. They always have. May be that is why I respond so easily to the emotions expressed in poetry. 

I read the other day something that included the phrase “loyal heart”. Just those two words hit me “twixt wind and water” as the saying goes. Simple words when apart but when together they are full of meaning.

Loyal – being there for all contingencies; being steadfast; being understanding; being critical but not condemnatory. Being a friend.

Heart – and I don’t mean the blood pump thing in our chest cavity. I refer to the old belief that the “heart” is the seat of all emotions; the seat of love; the seat of courage and the seat of hate. There are many sayings that incorporate this belief – she has a “heart of gold”; his heart is “in the right place”; she has a “big heart”; he has “no heart” or is a “blaggard”  (derived I believe from “black heart”); he had “hatred in his heart”. She is “all heart” – though, of course, this, last, can also be used in a derogatory or sarcastic sense! 

Still, it is this combination of the words that brings me a host of memories; warm memories; loving memories. Memories of a loving and loyal heart; of a friend. For all her feistiness and sometimes stubborn, contrary opinions, I do believe that Magucha had a Loyal Heart. A very Loyal Heart.

I know that we tested each other in many ways – but we always seemed to be strengthened by each “test” that was passed or overcome. And for that I am very grateful.

The lyrics of the song “You’re my best friend” – by the Country singer Don Williams, just fit, as far as I’m concerned (and of course so does the melody):-

You placed gold on my finger
You brought love like I've never known
You gave life to our children
And to me a reason to go on

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all you're my best friend

When I need hope and inspiration
You're always strong when I'm tired and weak
I could search this whole world over
You'd still be everything that I need

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all you're my best friend.

The tale of the Cracked Pot

From an E-mail – author unknown.

I found this little story – well known I’m sure - but I think it is worth repeating.

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on an end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master’s house. Of course the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.

After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.” 

“Why?” asked the bearer. “What are you ashamed of?”

“I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because of this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts,” the pot said.

The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.” Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again the pot apologized to the bearer for its failure. 

The bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.”

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We’re all cracked pots. But if we will allow it, the Great Spirit uses our flaws to grace the Universe. In the Cosmos nothing goes to waste. Don’t be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them, and you too can be the cause of beauty. Know that in our weaknesses we find our strengths.

The kindly years.

The years – time – sometimes deals kindly with us humans. I certainly feel privileged to have lived my seventy-eight years with the love bestowed on me, for my good health (thus far!) and the emotional strength I have garnered over the years. For that I am truly grateful. 

There are negatives of course. Life never progresses at a steady pace on a smooth, straight path from one end the other. On the positive side one meets many wonderful fellow wayfarers on one’s journey through life. Some, one learns to love, and they become very close, even as a wife (as in my case) or one’s children; others become good friends, others again, are acquaintances. But one learns from them all.

On the negative side is the inescapable fact that people die. And of course a whole raft of customs, religious “rules and regulations”, have developed around the process of dying and the aftermath. But is death truly the end?

As always in moments of intense emotion I seek solace in poetry. Poets more often than not seem to be better attuned to the emotional aspect of the human condition. 

This from John Masefield:

The Word

My friend, my bonny friend, when we are old,

And hand in hand go tottering down the hill,

May we be rich in loves refined gold,

     May love’s gold coin be current with us still.

May love be sweeter for the vanished days,

     And your most perfect beauty still as dear

As when your troubled singer stood at gaze

     In the dear March of a most sacred year.

May what we are be all we might have been,

     And that potential, perfect, O my friend,

And may there still be many sheafs to glean

     In our love’s acre, comrade, till the end.

And may we find when ended is the page

Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.

                        

Maybe it will be as Kahlil Gibran wrote in “The Prophet”:

“A little while, a moment to rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me”.

Or, to quote John Masefield again, from  “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.”

So what will it be? Is Magucha’s soul, after “a moment to rest upon the wind” ready to be “arrayed in some new flesh-disguise” and so grace the world with her love, her indomitable spirit, her courage and feistiness and so be a loyal comrade to someone else?

It pleases me to believe that, one day, this will be so.