I wonder who?

I’m reposting this as I truly believe that Vladimir Putin is reading from the Nazi “play book”. Using the same language to stir antagonism against Ukraine. 

 

How ironic is that??

I haven’t done this before – but I’m going to post a passage from an infamous book (drawn to my attention by the author Paul Ham – in his book*) and then while I will not exactly hide the originating author of this passage – I will make it difficult to read the name – to try and get round the Facebook “censors”…. They don’t like it when this person’s name is used!! 

Here goes:-

“The art of leadership consists of consolidating the attention of the people against a single adversary and taking care that nothing will split up that attention into sections. The more the militant energies of the people are directed towards one objective the more will new recruits join the movement, attracted by the magnetism of its unified action and thus the striking power will be all the more enhanced. The leader of genius must have the ability to make different opponents appear as if they belonged to the one category …..”

Just for a moment please contemplate on the number of current (Putin?) and/or aspiring leaders who today subscribe to this method of rabble rousing! 

Now work out the original author and the book! 

nekaT morf 60p fo “fpmaK nieM” yb reltiH flodA

* Paul Ham is an Australian author, historian and journalist who has written extensively on WWII.

The Proper Place

There is a wonderful old Hans Christian Andersen story about a magic flute that produced a special tone with an accompanying wind that blew everything back to its proper place. 

That was a very dangerous flute but it burst after the first note was sounded – and I think that was very fortunate for all concerned. 

This old fairy tale has come to mind recently, for some reason, as the fourth anniversary of the death of my wife Magucha arrives – 21^st January. I certainly don’t want to make of this day anything other than another day. But it’s a very special day for me as it was 4 years ago that our relationship irretrievably ended, as all things must end. A relationship that was, looking back, I believe very special in many ways. 

I was very fortunate to have had her as a “mate” in every sense of that word. She would, I believe, have stood by me to “man the battlements” had she been called on to do so. And I can’t think of anything I would not have done for her. I am aware that distance lends enchantment – and she is now four years distant from me – but I still believe that. 

As I mentioned the old fairy tale about the flute that sent everything back to its “proper place” has come to mind. I like to imagine that forty-two years ago, when we first met, we each subconsciously heard the echo of that first note of the magic flute and were blown together by the accompanying wind. That we were now in our proper place. 

Then the end came, the inevitable end that bookends all life. We are born and we will die. 

But then maybe, just maybe, that too is our “proper place”?

I’m going to quote the poet Shelley, from his poem “Adonais” – an elegy written about Keats, after he heard of Keats’ death. I will quote some of this poem, admittedly out of context, remembering that it was written about a man, because I like the sentiments expressed – what follows is from parts of stanzas 38 (XXXVIII), 39 (XXXIX) and 53 (LIII):

“ ….. but the pure spirit shall flow

Back to the burning fountain whence it came,

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow

Through time and change, unquenchably the same, ….”

Also:-

“Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep –

He hath awakened from the dream of life –”

Also:-

“Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here

They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!”

Does all this mean that this life is but a small part of the “real Life” and that that place, wherever it is, is the “Proper place”?

It pleases me to think so, that she is now in her “Proper place” – that Magucha has now “awakened from the dream of life”. That she is out of sight and has gone on ahead of me. But that one day I too will be in my "proper place" with her. 

Maybe!!!

E+V+V+M=L

Ethics + Virtues + Values + Morals = Life (and well-being). Why? 

Amended 8 January 2020: 

I know I wrote this many years ago now (maybe I was in a more serious mood!) - but it still holds true - particularly in world at present! 

At least in my mind it does.

---///---

There seems to be some confusion about the terms Ethics, Values, Virtues and Morals. Certainly the terms Ethics and Morals are used indiscriminately and are considered interchangeable as are Virtues and Values. Yet they each have a name and therefore a purpose. 

It is here stated that virtues are at the core of both morality and ethics. Virtues are the qualities people admire and aspire to and define a ‘good person’; the qualities of kindness, compassion, courage, honesty, temperance, humility, integrity and justice. A person cannot be either ethical or moral without also being virtuous. Anyone’s ethical and moral qualities together with their virtue are dependent on their set of values; their beliefs, something that is at the core of their being. Values are not just mannerisms or a set of preferences. They refer to something much deeper and more subtle, to a line that cannot be transgressed. It has been suggested (possibly unkindly) that human beings as a species are neither intelligent nor creative enough to have invented morality, virtues, ethics or values; that these are innate and part of the human psyche.

In a general discussion, however, it is sometimes best to consider each term separately, even though they are interwoven and have a symbiotic relationship. They work together because to be at ease with yourself and to create and  maintain a meaningful balance between the conflicting demands of work (to earn a living); family (love and building and maintaining relationships); time out for one’s self (R and R and to reflect on and assimilate the varied influences that affect your quality of life) they cannot be isolated and used or applied piecemeal. 

Ethics, morals, virtues and values should be considered as facets of the same jewel – a human being who has fulfilled their potential. Each supports the other and somehow the whole is greater than the sum of the individual parts – like the facets cut on a precious stone.

Similarly they cannot be considered as disposable items, to be used and then discarded. Nor are they to be written up only to be kept in a drawer and dusted off when a crisis looms. They need to come from the heart. They need to be practiced daily, to become a habit of excellence. In effect they are the essence of Humanity and what it is to be a good person. And we all want to be considered good – in fact to accuse someone of not being ‘good’ is an affront and taken as an insult. 

So then:

Ethics: the principled treatment of other so as to cause no harm – “treat others as you would like to be treated”. 

Morals: the reasoned ability to distinguish between right and wrong, or positive and negative in relation to the actions, volitions, or character of responsible beings.  

Virtues: the qualities which determine the Moral excellence of a person.

Values: the beliefs which set parameters or limits to a person’s thinking, and which are evidenced only by their actions.

Someone who is ethical has sound values, supported by appropriate virtues and moral precepts - in other words the basis for a good, socially integrated, Life. 

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.

Life wasn't made to be easy!

Life seems to ebb and flow like the tides but without their regularity. There is happiness; there is sadness; neither of which can be predicted. They happen. Or not. But life continues and all we can do is to stumble along and try to arrive at some point of stability, of normalcy, which is neither good nor bad. Just normal.

So, while many, many millions of people, since humans first walked the earth, have made this journey of Life, it was new to me. I have had to make my own way. Travel my own road. It is a lonely road for it is impossible to travel the identical road with a companion. We may have someone close whom we love – like with Magucha and I, and we were very close – but even then she could not know everything I thought or why I did what I did. In that regard I walked alone and I still walk alone. As did she.

I am an individual. We are not clones. Also we can never “possess” someone in the accepted sense. I believe this is why we grieve for those who have “gone away”, have "gone on ahead" and are "out of sight" - because we could never possess them. We, do however, miss them, grievously miss them. 

But we still all need companionship. After all we are social animals and group together. This, to me, gives rise to a paradox - that we are at the same time, both social beings and yet distinct individuals. We each have our own distinct thumbprint, our own distinct iris pattern in our eyes, our own ear shape and many other individually distinct characteristics.

We do, however, all need someone to talk to, to be a friend. This is why I search, why I enquire – and I always will. 

That death may inspire a deep-seated dread of “extinction,” is I believe quite common, and yet it may be that death is another aspect of Life; an aspect that we may not understand, but which may lead to a completion of our existence into the fullness of being human. We were born – we die. We are human.

In my case, I grieve because I remember that today, 12^th December, in 2015, which was a Saturday that year, was the day that Magucha’s pancreatitis first took hold. I took her to hospital, because of the pain she was suffering, but she never came back. Five weeks later she was dead – on 21^st January 2016.

Many memories.

The Gift of the Magi

I haven’t done this before. I’ve copied a short story by the American short story writer William Sydney Porter (11 September 1862 – 5 June 1910), who wrote under the pen name of O. Henry. 

This one is my favourite I think – a very human story of love and personal sacrifice. And being close to the Christmas season I thought it might be appropriate – but remember the original was written, I believe, in 1905.

While it is a short story it is, for me, quite a long post – about 5 pages.

The Gift of the Magi.

One dollar and eighty-seven cent. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing left to do but to flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which investigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the look-out for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name “Mr. James Dillingham Young.”

The “Dillingham” had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income had shrunk to $20, the letters of “Dillingham” looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called “Jim” and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking along a grey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn’t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling – something just a little bit near being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim.

There was a peer-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a peer-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, may obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim’s gold watch that had been his father’s and his grandfather’s. The other was Della’s hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty’s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck his beard from envy.

So now Della’s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her.

And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went the old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with a brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: “Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.” One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the “Sofronie.”

“Will you buy my hair?” asked Della.

“I buy hair,” said Madame. “Take yer hat off and let’s have a sight at the looks of it.”

Down rippled the brown cascade.

“Twenty dollars,” said Madame, lifting the mass with a practiced hand.

“Give it to me quick,” said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking stores for Jim’s present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation – as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim’s. It was like him. Quietness and value – the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends – a mammoth task. 

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection, long carefully, and critically.

“If Jim doesn’t kill me,” she said to herself, “before he takes a second look at me, he’ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do – oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?”

At seven o’clock the coffee was made and the frying pan was on the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: “Please God, make him think I am still pretty.”

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two – and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and was without gloves.

Jim stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of a quail. He eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

“Jim, darling,” she cried, “don’t look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn’t have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It’ll grow out again – you wont mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say ‘Merry Christmas!’ Jim, and lets be happy. You don’t know what a nice – what a beautiful, nice gift I’ve got for you.”

“You’ve cut off your hair?” asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labour.

“Cut it off and sold it,” said Della. “Don’t you like me just as well anyhow? I’m me without my hair ain’t I?”

Jim looked about the room curiously. 

“You say your hair has gone?” he said with an air almost of idiocy.

“You needn’t look for it,” said Della. “It’s sold I tell you – sold and gone, too. It’s Christmas Eve boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs on my head were numbered,” she went on with a sudden serious sweetness, “but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?”

Out of his trance, Jim seemed quickly wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year – what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated soon.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

“Don’t make any mistake, Dell,” he said, “about me. I don’t think there’s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me love my girl any less. But if you’ll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going awhile at first.”

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs – the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoiseshell, with jeweled rims – just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: “ My hair grows so fast Jim!”

And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, “Oh, oh!”

Jim had not yet seen his beautify present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

“Isn’t it dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You’ll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it.”

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands behind his head and smiled.

“Dell,” he said, “lets put our Christmas presents away and keep ‘em awhile. They’re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. Now suppose you put the chops on.”

The Magi, as you know, were wise men – wonderfully wise men – who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle to two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the Magi. 

Trying to understand

I know that I have written about this before but it is a subject that certainly engages my attention – what, actually, is LIFE – that essence, that vivifying factor that makes something alive which is absent when something that was alive is now dead? This is the ultimate in pointless questions I suppose, as I don’t believe we will ever know. It may be that we are never supposed to know.

And yet I try. And I’ll keep trying. Always.

The various forms by which life expresses itself is astonishing. Take for instance the very small black ants that I find in my kitchen sometimes. They are no more than, possibly, a millimetre long and yet they are aware of danger and will scurry out of the way if they see my thumb, or the shadow it casts, descending on them. They are alive and sensitive to danger and aware enough to try and remove themselves from any threatening situation as quickly as they can.

I find this extraordinary – that something just one millimetre in length has (possibly) the same awareness of danger as I have. But that is Life. Yet it puzzles me still – it always has.

This, by a rather circuitous route, gets me to consider another aspect of Life - my feelings -my sense of loss and grief. This is certainly not a new topic for me but that doesn’t stop me from always seeking answers.

There is a difference, I believe, between mourning and grief. Grief to my mind is more than a deep sorrow. To me grief is similar to a deep knife cut. It hurts. But the wound can be bound up and healing will begin. The wound may heal but the scar will always remain.

There is also a time element associated with grief. As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke wrote about grieving and loss in his letters, “Time does not console, as people say superficially, at best it assigns things to their proper place and creates an order.” After the great stillness that accompanies death, life gradually becomes normal again. The hours and the days, that had been so disrupted by the death of my wife, Magucha, seemed to swing back, slowly, into their habitual rhythms. I had to eat; regain some regularity in my sleep; greet the world and its people. Life continues.

Mourning on the other hand has a connotation, at least as I think of it, with lamentation. Now I did lament, not outwardly but in my heart it was a different matter entirely. But no one can lament forever. Lamentation is necessarily rather brief. 

One deep lesson I have learned, however, is that death, and the realisation of death, especially of someone we love, never exceeds our strength to bare its burden. Death does after all “bookend” our life – where there is a birth, there will ultimately be a death. Just the way it is.

I am sure that through love and through death we, all of us, learn that Life entails the loss of others and the abdication of any ideas of “control” over events that we may think we have. A true awareness of this gives us a greater understanding of the pain needed to reconnect with the life we lead. We need this pain to explore, as difficult and confronting as this may be, in what specific way our loss has impacted our life. This can and possibly should be, a transformative moment. 

As always in moments of high emotion I resort to reading poetry and prose I find emotionally enriching. From a small book called “Fruit Gathering”, by the Bengali Nobel Prize winner, Rabindranath Tagore, I offer the following simply entitled “LIX” – 59 in Roman numerals:-

“When the weariness of the road is upon me, and the thirst of the sultry day; when the ghostly hours of dusk throw their shadows across my life, then I cry not for your voice only, my friend, but for your touch.

There is an anguish in my heart for the burden of its riches not given to you.

Put out your hand through the night, let me hold it and fill it and keep it; let me feel its touch along the lengthening stretch of my loneliness.”