What next?

Sometimes it is difficult to formulate my thoughts into some semblance of order. So I stare at the screen wondering what is next. And this time of year always brings forth a host of memories, as is natural I suppose.

 

I know all to well that nearly five years have rolled by since Magucha died but that indisputable fact doesn’t make it any easier to accept. And, while I know that I have written about this before I just cannot believe that with her death Magucha’s indefinable “spirit” that was evidenced by her courage, her utter fearlessness (I never saw her afraid of anything, not ever), her intelligence, her mischievous sense of humour, her innate sense of justice and, of course, her love, have just disappeared into nothing. That doesn’t make any sense to me. 

 

Her presence is all around me. Or at least it pleases me to believe so.

 

Therefor as always when I feel the need to express the inexpressible I turn to poetry. I offer the following:-  

 

Journey’s End

 

Knowe’st thou where that kingdom lies?

            Take no lanthorn in thy hand.

Search not the unfathomed skies.

            Journey not o’er sea and land.

Grope no more to east or west.

Heaven is locked within thy breast.

 

Splendours of the sun grow dim,

            Stars are darkened by that light.

Thoughts that burn like seraphim

            Throng thine inner world tonight.

Set thy heel on Death and find

Love, new-born, within thy mind.

 

In that kingdom folded lie

            All that eyes believe they see;

All the hues of earth and sky,

            Time, space, and eternity.

Seek no more in realms apart.

Heaven is folded in thy heart.

 

                                                Alfred Noyes

 

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!

Courage

This is not an easy topic to write about because courage is so difficult to define. Like love, we all know what it is but we can’t define it. We all know courage when we see it but that is about all. 

Courage has no boundaries; courage has no limitations; courage knows no gender; courage knows no age limit. And above all courage is not uniquely human. All creatures display courage in their own way and I think that is wonderful.

All mothers, well generally, all mothers – from all animate life forms - will defend their young and even die in the process. But of course courage is normally associated with bravery – generally in a military situation. This however is not always the case. 

Somehow, somewhere over the years I acquired a little book called “Courage”. It is actually a verbatim record of J. M. Barrie’s 1922 inaugural speech when he was appointed Rector of the University of St Andrews, in Scotland. Barrie was a novelist and playwright who authored “Peter Pan and Wendy” amongst many others. 

In this little book, “Courage”, Barrie is recorded as speaking about Capt. Robert Falcon Scott (Scott of the Antarctic) and that tragic if glorious failure to reach the South Pole first. But it was the courage of Captain Laurence (Titus) Oates, an ex-military man, and part of Scott’s sledge team that I find very moving. Oates had badly frostbitten feet that became gangrenous, causing him pain and discomfort. He realized that he was holding back their return to base, being unable to assist in pulling the sledge. So one day he informed his companions (in words that are etched in history), “I’m just going outside. I maybe some time.” He walked out of the tent into a -40C blizzard and was never seen again.

That is courage!

Then, for me, there is a more personal example of courage. My wife, Magucha, had been ill with renal failure since before I met her. But she never, ever, complained. She never asked, “Why me?” That was never her way. For most of the 36yrs of our marriage she was in and out of hospital, more times that I can remember, and everyday she had to take a fist full of medications. These kept her alive and gave her some quality of life, but in the end the accumulation of the significant side-effects of these medications was the cause of the acute pancreatitis that was too much for her little body to bear and she died five weeks later of general organ failure.

That too, is courage! 

As always I find that poetry expresses in very few words what takes me a whole page to express. I offer this in memory of Magucha and all courageous people: 

Finis Exoptatus (a rough translation “Desired End”)

Question not, but live and labour

   Till yon goal be won,

Helping every feeble neighbour,

   Seeking help from none;

Life is mostly froth and bubble,

   Two things stand like stone,

KINDNESS in another’s trouble,

   COURAGE in your own.

                                    Adam Lindsay Gordon

Born: October 19, 1833, Faial Island, Portugal

Died: June 24, 1870, Brighton

Buried: Brighton Cemetery, Melbourne

Always

A bold statement I know. But I will always remember Christmas Day 2015. Magucha was in hospital and, obviously, very, very ill. As you can see from the photo taken on that day, the valiant smile, the hollow eyes, and the “look” needed no words. They said it all.

I don’t think I am being melodramatic when I say that I think she knew the end was not far away. That the “uninvited visitor” would soon arrive to accompany her on her final journey to that “undiscovered country”. She always showed great courage and was never afraid of anything, least of all death.

Even though all this happened four years ago being with her in hospital every day until she died is something I will never forget and is a time I will always treasure. It was a very special time for me. 

Again I don’t think I will be revealing anything that others would not have done in similar circumstances when I say that I used to get to the Hospital at about 10.00 every morning and, when she was in the “high care” ward (she was in a single bed room), not in Intensive Care, one of the first things she wanted me to do was to help her shower – even though the nurses were there to do just that. That was my job, you see! She was very weak and needed assistance to get out of bed and into the shower where she would sit in the plastic chair provided while I helped her wash (later, because she became so weak, it was only a “bed wash”). And I always brought in a clean nightie for her to change into. Sometimes she also wanted me to feed her, which I found very touching. 

I loved her you see. What else could I do? 

Then sometimes, if she was in the mood, I would read to her – one of her favourite stories was “My family and other animals”, by Gerald Durrell. But that never lasted very long – she used to get very tired and fall into a quiet sleep. 

As some would know I am always moved by poetry – by the poet’s choice of words, their cadence and rhyming. In my mind I’ve always associated this poem with Magucha because of the difficulty I had in convincing her to leave Portugal and marry me. Our cultures were quite different and I spoke no Portuguese (apart from some swear words she taught me!) and while she was more or less fluent in English her use of words was unique (some she made up to “fit” what she wanted to say) and her odd pronunciation (which I’m sure was at times quite deliberate) was very much what became widely known as “Magucha speak”! Once married we both had a deal of adjusting to do but after a while things evened out and in the end I think we learned to work well together.

This is for her.

The Strange Music 

“Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may

loose and slack,

But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon

 his back,

Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger

and I fret,

Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it

yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e’er

let fall,

In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not

known at all;

Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as 

your frame,

Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than 

your sorrow’s name.

Not as mine, my soul’s anointed, not as mine the

rude and the light

Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song

and fight; 

Something stranger, something sweeter, something

waiting you afar,

Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows

are.

But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to

be stricken once,

Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a 

dunce. 

But I will not fear to match them – no, by God, I

will not fear,

I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand

still to hear.”

                                                                        G. K. Chesterton

That last verse has special meaning for me:-

“But on this, God’s harp supernal, stretched but to

be stricken once,

Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a 

dunce. 

But I will not fear to match them – no, by God, I

will not fear,

I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand

still to hear.”

I just hope the stars heard.

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."

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 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. 

Respect

All of us would like to be respected and need to be respected. To be respected as a human being; to be acknowledged for what we are. Respect has to be earned, but first of all we must respect ourselves, if we don’t how can we expect others to show us respect? Someone in a high position may be entitled to respect – the Office of President of the US, for example, certainly deserves respect, but has the incumbent earned it? A company CEO may be entitled to respect, the position indicates that this should be so, but is this so, has he (or she) earned it?

So how does one earn respect? In fact what is respect? Respect is the deference, honour or esteem felt or shown towards a person. It is a quality that is difficult to define because of its subtlety. We all have different ideas about this and may respect someone that others do not. All animals defer to the dominant, or Alpha male in a herd, troop or group of animals or flight of birds. This is a natural and useful attribute to maintain the strength of the gene pool and for the general safety of the group. The Alpha male has the attributes which the others accept as the ‘best', in that it may be the biggest, strongest, fastest or it display some other factor which gives it the ability to rise to the top of the ‘pecking order’. 

Human beings are much more complicated than this. Many in positions of influence or power – dictators in their own way - are feared and force their followers or subjects to ‘show respect’ by abasing themselves when in their presence. All dictators demand this subservience and abasement, i.e. Adolf Hitler, Joseph Stalin and many others, some even in the corporate field. To be truly respected, however, a human being needs to have many attributes, some of them very subtle. This ‘respected’ person must have human qualities of the highest order. These qualities are ones we have all met before – the qualities of Honesty, Justice, Courage, Temperance, Compassion, Kindness, Humility and Love for one’s fellow beings - in other words all the old fashioned virtues! Someone who has these qualities is trusted to keep their word; can be relied on to do the job to the best of their ability; can be called on for help in a dire situation. Anyone who has these qualities to a high degree is revered – think Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa and those with long memories may remember Dr. Albert Schweitzer. 

These qualities are the essence of good relationships with all Life’s forms; they are the essence of ethics, of virtue and of morality. People with these qualities lift the human spirit; by their actions they lead us to greater understanding of what it is to be Human; that Humanity has a grandeur and a nobility that in our wiser moments we may come to acknowledge; that we are all capable of greatness in our own way, given our circumstances; that we must respect ourselves for what we truly are; that we all are better than we believe or think ourselves to be.

This is respect. This is what all people honour. This is what we all hope to aspire to.