Time passes by.

For many reasons, I suppose, I have always been fascinated by the theories and concepts of what actually constitutes “Life”, that essence, that vivifying factor that is present when something is “alive”, but is absent when that same something is now “dead”. 

The thing is – nobody knows!! 

In a book of short stories, “Like the flowing river”, by Paulo Coelho, there is a thought provoking passage, in fact two – from different stories – that I will quote as they appeal to my ideas about Life (with a capital “L”).

In the first quote Coelho was in a forested area on the French side of the Pyrenees, practicing his archery, when a French Colonel, exercising with his troops in the area, recognizes Coelho and admits that he too is a writer – about life matters. Once this Colonel asked children in various schools to write down anything they would like to know about life.

He summarized what the children wanted to know:-

Where do we go after we die?

Why are we afraid of foreigners?

Do Martians and extraterrestrial beings really exist?

Why do accidents happen even to people who believe in God?

What does God mean?

Why are we born if we all die in the end?

How many stars are there in the sky?

Who invented war and happiness?

Does God listen to people who don’t believe in the same (Catholic) God?

Why are there poor people and ill people?

Why did God create mosquitoes and flies?

Why isn’t our guardian angel next to us when we are sad?

Why do we love some people and hate others?

Who named the different colours?

If God is in Heaven and my mother is there too because she died, how come He’s alive? 

All, to my mind, very valid questions! 

Those questions lead me easily to my next quote, also by Coelho, which is actually an abbreviated summary of a passage from Chapter II of the Hindu scripture, the “Bhagavad Gita”:-

“Man is not born, nor does he die. Having come into existence, he will never cease to be, because he is eternal and permanent.

Just as a man discards old clothes and puts on new clothes, so the soul discards the old body and puts on a new one.

But the soul is indestructible, swords cannot pierce it, fire cannot burn it, water cannot wet it, the wind cannot dry it. It is beyond the power of all these things.

Since man is always indestructible, he is always victorious (even in his defeats), and that is why he should not mourn.” 

It’s easy to see that I am not a Christian!! Though I do, I think, have a profound belief in a Higher Power. This brings me comfort. 

Now I don’t mourn, but I do grieve. I know that time has passed by – four years actually – since Magucha died, so the grief is not quite so “sharp”. But it is still there as it will always be. I miss her companionship. I miss her as a friend. I also know, deep down, that the essence – her soul, if you like – is out there somewhere. I will never believe that Magucha’s intelligence, her love, her humour, her compassion, have just disappeared into nothing.

So, together with what in written in the Bhagavad Gita, and what others have written, I like to think that life is eternal. That there is a never-ending cycle of birth and death.

To support this here are the first two verses of a poem, “A Creed”, by John Masefield:- 

I hold 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 road again.

Such is my own belief and trust;
      This hand, this hand that holds the pen,
Has many a hundred times been dust
      And turned, as dust, to dust again;
These eyes of mine have blinked and shown
In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.

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

Love - the greatest gift of all

I know that I have written on this subject before but it is still something that, as I get older, is of interest – grief, mourning and the cause. There is after all only one end to life. But this subject, for some reason, is studiously avoided. So while I’m not sure how to introduce this I find that grief has many facets and is very puzzling. We are, after all, mortal beings. Trying to make sense of death, however, is very hard. We will all, at some stage of our life, have cause to grieve and mourn. 

There was, in my case, the death of my wife Magucha whom I dearly loved.

Then there is, now, the harsh reality, still not fully absorbed, that my life will never be the same. Her love, her intelligence, her insight, her emotional support, her wonderfully infectious laugh, her mischievous quirky humour – is now all gone.

Then, now for me, there is the settling into a new way of life that is part acknowledgement of her memory and the way we used to do things together and part acknowledgement that from now on I’m on my own without her at my side. This is still a work in progress.

Then there is most difficult part of my day, not so strange really I suppose, difficulty in actually going to bed. I defer this necessary function until the last possible moment – 12 mid-night, even 1am. Then I might read for a few minutes before I “crash”. Once asleep I sleep well. It’s just getting the “courage” to actually go to bed. Bed is not the same now, you understand.

Then there are my own questions. But I do believe in something that is above and beyond us all to which we are “attached” by the essence that common to all living things - Life itself. Call this God if you like.  And then where did my Life come from – the same place it will return to? It makes sense to me, that death is a “transition” from this life to the next – just as a birth transitioned me from “that place” to this. This is a subject we, all of us, usually avoid, ignore or change the subject when it is introduced. Why?

Then there is the problem that we humans are unable to imagine “God”, or conceptualise “God”, so we bring “Him” down to our level and imbue “Him” with human attributes that we can understand – passion, hate, vengeance, anger, jealousy and such like. Reduced to this level we now need to propitiate “God” and get “Him” to agree to our point of view – hence the requirement for sacrifices (hopefully symbolic). Is this because humans are all supposed to be born sinful (because of Adam and Eve)? With a sacrifice, it is posited, we can attach our “sins” to whatever, or whoever is sacrificed, and so be absolved of “sin” and be “cleansed”.  

Surely, surely, any God who can be “altered” by anything men do or say, or by the sacrifice of an animal or human (even if symbolic) cannot be a perfect God? God, surely, doesn’t need a reward? God, surely, cannot be bribed? Why load, even symbolically, some poor animal or human (that God created in the first place) with the wrongs that we commit?

But personal sacrifice is a different matter. Is this what grief is – a form of personal sacrifice? That the more we love the more we grieve?

I believe there is a Spanish proverb that goes something like this: “Take what you want from Life, says God. Take it, and pay.”

And so it should be – we reap what we sow! The Law of Cause and Effect applies to all. This is justice and by my book, this is Love – maybe tough love – but Love none the less.

I like to think that this place, this planet Earth, is but a school for what comes next. We all need this school, to learn to Love – and to forgive.

All this, of course, gets me no closer to understanding what Life is; that “essence” that is present when something is “alive” and is absent when something that was “alive” is now “dead”.  

To me “God” is pure Love and understanding - this is “His” greatest gift of all, even if it is the most difficult to accept.

This is all rather circular and brings me back to the point where I started. I still grieve.

We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

    Always a little further; it may be

Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

    Across that angry or that glimmering sea,

White on a throne or guarded in a cave

    There lives a prophet who can understand

Why men were born; but surely we are brave,

    Who take the Golden Road to Samarkand.

                                                            James Elroy Flecker

Reflections

When I look in a mirror I see a white haired man with a somewhat time-worn face. But I am not old, at least I do not feel old. I know – rather, let me say, I have knowledge of the fact that, on my Life’s journey I am nearer the end than the beginning. Sometimes I almost feel as if I am taking a pleasant gentle stroll towards a still to be determined sunset.

Even though my muscles may not have the strength they once had, my step is still firm; my eyesight is ok but needs some optical assistance; my hearing is somewhat impaired (a bad right ear as a result of military gunfire – a .303 Lee-Enfield makes one helluva noise); my heart, lungs and other internal organs are sound (I take no prescription medications); I am just within my correct Body Mass Index (BMI) at 24.5 (even if this is at the upper end of normal); I don’t smoke (never have); I don’t drink alcohol; so, generally, I think I am good for a few more years yet.

This got me reflecting on my heart and hearts in general. What incredible organs they are. Mine has been pumping blood tirelessly for over 70 years – I have a slow pulse rate, at about 60 per minute:-

Now at 60 beats per minute this
= 3 600 beats per hour
= 86 400 beats per day
= 604 800 beats per week
= 31 449 600 beats per year

And in my case, so far in my life = 2 201 472 000 beats - over 2 thousand million times without faltering or complaining!! What makes this figure even more astonishing is that, so I understand, while every other cell in our bodies is replaced many times over, the cells comprising the “pumping muscles” of the heart are never replaced (or replaced very slowly - according to new research). They actually start beating 3 weeks after conception and just keep on going. They can never rest. So these same cells in the same muscles in my heart have been expanding and contracting in a seemingly tireless rhythm – squeeze-release, squeeze-release - since before I was born!! This is a prodigious feat worthy of some high order of wonder.

Just think about it – my “heart” started beating before my brain was formed – as did yours! This means – which is quite true – that heart muscles have been found to be independent from the brain and, in some manner, seem to communicate between themselves to synchronise their movements. This is an astonishing finding which, I might add, applies to anything – reptile, fish, animal, human or whatever, that has a heart. If these cells communicate between themselves (however “communication” is determined) this would indicate that they have some degree of intelligence. Without a measure of intelligence how can anything “communicate” and understand what is being communicated? This must be why the heart has always been considered the central organ and the centre of the emotions – “she has a heart of gold”; “he is a big hearted man” and so on.

If cells are intelligent where or how does this intelligence arise? Something cannot come from nothing. To me this reinforces my belief that that there is a “collective unconscious” (as proposed by C.G. Jung) which I equate with the essence of “Life” that animates all cellular life. Something “out there” that is greater than any of us; something that is the reason why we are born at all; something that, we may assume, had a plan which may be a work in progress that commenced with the “Big Bang”, some billions of years ago. All life forms are not just an agglomeration of matter; there is something above and beyond the observable Universe which affects all sentient beings in different ways according to their kind. I cannot prove this of course – but then no one can disprove it either!

Regardless of one’s viewpoint on this matter – a heart is still a wondrous organ and worthy of a great deal more care and attention than we normally give it.