Stopping time and gaining speed and direction

I've broken my new watch. It lasted two weeks. Of all the useless powers to have, destroying watchers has got to be top of anyone's list. After zapping numerous watches, too many to list, I discovered a cheap one (the one before my last) that lasted more than a month. My father had the same skill, so I am thinking it is inherited.  I had actually began to relax, then, I had a stressful work-related week in Brussels.  My worst day of the week, Thursday, obviously was too much for the watch and it stopped. Given that it chose that particular day to die perhaps, I generate electromagnetic waves when in distress? Perhaps sufficiently intense to stop watch mechanisms? This business of messing with mechanical systems via distance seems nonsensical at first. But we all emit huge quantities of infrared radiation every moment of our lives. Sit in a packed conference room for a whole day soon you will become aware just how much heat energy is being constantly radiated from humans around you. Plants have an electromagnetic field around them that can be picked up. So is it too much to speculate there is a field of sorts around us? It's time I understood this thing.  Or is it purely imaginary? Can these magnetic fields do stuff?

Well, some aquatic animals, such as sharks and rays, have acute bioelectric sensors providing a sense known as electroreception (they can sense your body’s electricity in the water- darn them!), while migratory birds navigate in part by orienteering with respect to the Earth's magnetic field. In an extreme application of electromagnetism the electric eel is able to generate a large electric field outside its body used for hunting and self-defense through a dedicated electric organ.  So living things already use interaction with magnetic and electric fields to detect prey, navigate long distances and even to attack others. In addition, electromagnetic radiation at a certain frequency range has found a place in modern medical practice for the treatment of bone healing and for nerve stimulation and regeneration.  So electric and magnetic fields do quite a lot of stuff.

We all exist in the earth’s magnetic field which depending on your geographical location can be anywhere from (30 - 70) x 10^-6 Tesla.  Doesn’t sound a lot does it?  If you stand under high direct current transmission lines there can be an additional magnetic flux of around 20x 10^-6 Tesla produced.  Fast passenger trains based on magnetic levitation produce high magnetic flux densities close to the motor.  But inside the cabin the fields are relatively low, below 100 x 10^-6 Tesla.  Mind you a thousand times stronger localised fields can result from inductors beneath the floor of passenger coaches.  MRI machines use magnetic flux densities of 0.15-3 Tesla (usually limited to exposure of less than an hour).  However medical staff can be exposed for longer periods of time and in researching brain functions fields of up to 10 Tesla can be used.  There are many ways static magnetic fields interact with living matter.  Magnetic induction, magnetic mechanical and electronic interaction.  Static fields exert Lorentz forces over moving electrolytes and give rise to induced electric fields and currents.  So for example our flowing blood can be affected.  It is thought that the sinoartial node of the heart that controls cardiac pacing is perhaps the most sensitive to magnetic fields but that as long as we stay beneath 8Tesla things should be fine.  8Tesla applied to rats reduced blood flow, which is worrying, admittedly.  In fact, in magnetic fields above 4Tesla rats show aversion and avoidance characteristics.  It is suspected that the fields at this strength may interact with the vestibular apparatus - the parts of the ear responsible for balance.  Time varying magnetic fields as low as 2-3 Tesla can cause vertigo and nausea if patients/workers move within the field.  These magnetic fields induce currents in living tissues and in accordance with Faraday's law of induction these effects are substantial, especially if we move around within them.  That is the weird thing about electric and magnetic fields, they are quite different in how they operate.

If we are charged and within an electric field we experience immediately a force dependent on our charge and the strength of the electric field.  Magnetic fields however are related to the strength of the magnetic field, our charge and our velocity.  So we could be in a strong field and not know until we start moving. It is that velocity that will induce the full force.  

This always makes a fundamental statement to me about life.  On this magnetic planet we are governed by her rules and perhaps there are spiritual metaphors to be learned.  i.e. if you want change in your life, move!  Only when you move will the forces available to you come into play.  Being stationary will not avail.  Makes you feel that getting going is so important, just so that you can experience the dynamic powers that could be there.  Sailors know that unless a sailing yacht is moving steering does not work.  It is the movement of the boat that makes being able to steer possible.  It doesn’t matter if you have to tack in odd directions to catch the wind, you will achieve more by gaining some velocity.  Then work out where you want to go.

PS I have decided to give up on watches.  Don’t know why or how I break them but the evidence is clear, I do.  Time to accept that as a fact and move on.  It’s all quite new and I keep looking at my wrist for the time and of course there is nothing there.  The sad part is I am still surprised by its absence and it has been three weeks!  This getting old is tricky dicky.

Into the Arms of Strangers

In the documentary film entitled ‘Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport (2000), there is a scene where an elderly woman is questioned about her experiences as a Jewish child sent abroad before the start of the Second World War to the UK for safety. The British government accepted 10,000 such children. There were strict conditions about age and background and parents were excluded. So these youngsters were transported across Europe from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland to the UK. Thanks to the actions of the UK Government some of these children would be the sole survivors of entire Jewish families by the close of the war. 

This sweet old lady spoke in gentle whispers about her experience. Of her fear on the train on being separated from her family. How her father ran alongside the train at the station waving goodbye and she a young child, not understanding the horrendous situation, sulked and refused to hug or speak. To her she was being forced abroad and she was angry, confused and very frightened. They were allowed only one small case and at the border German guards entered the train of the scared children and searched them and their small cases terrifying them. When they crossed the border at the very next stop complete strangers handed in through the windows chocolate and sweets to welcome them. She could remember both the cruelty of the German guards and the shocking unexpected kindness at this first station outside Germany. The taste of the chocolate was sweet and unforgettable. A taste of freedom and she remembered the children cheering. 

Later, she arrived in a hall in England where she awaited a family to give her a home. People came and chose a child at lunchtimes in the village hall where they were all eating. She remembered not been chosen week after week. Watching others being picked on all sides. After a month a couple eventually chose her and she was so excited and so grateful she could barely speak. Aged eight she arrived at a strange home and was shown her bed in the small room upstairs. Grateful for this family choosing her at last, she tried to show her feelings by giving them a hug before going to bed. She had memories of her parent’s good night routine. In a gentle heartbreaking voice almost a whisper, but still wounded, she described how the woman told her “None of that soppy stuff here!” and pushed her away. It did nothing to reduce her gratitude to the couple but as the weeks and months passed she realised they had wanted a servant. Her role was to clean and work not receive kindness and love. 

Her disappointment, even now, fills her voice, her eyes, the room, the screen and all eye watching. Unbearable in its longing for something more. You want to reach in and hug that eight-year-old, ease the pain of her rejection. Why are such simple memories so vivid and so raw? Why do they reach across the decades and make us long that things were different? Her gentle acceptance, her resigned tone, awakens you to the sweet child still confused by the world’s unkindness. Your heart feels whittled and besieged by the unfairness. These days when refugees again stream across Europe may we all fare better than this mean spirited example. But remember, although devoid of love or tenderness, that couple did save a young life. Perhaps, they claim a far higher moral ground than us today? Now, that thought chills the very heart.

plan B to lose weight, saw my leg off

I have longed to lose weight my entire life. In my earliest diaries, full of adolescent angst, my weight is recorded in red at the top of many pages. That tally seem to accumulate with the passage of time. Despite my best endeavours the weight just grew and grew. Relatives kindly referred to me as ‘big boned’. I told myself that this explained my higher than usual weight. Others had tiny bird like bones that weighed practically nothing whereas I had these dinosaur-like brutes inside. It all made sense. On good days I told myself that having big bones was a mighty protection. Citing the well-known incident at school when I was hit by a speeding car and thrown off the road to land quite a distance away on a pavement. The damage to the car, the speed and the distress of the driver and spectators was entirely balanced by my extreme embarrassment over the whole affair. Everyone else appeared in a state of shock when I just turned purple in agonising embarrassment. Obviously, those big bones are a source of protection, I thought, as I limped on to the school bus uninjured. I overheard Colin Atcheson, my nemesis, two seats ahead tell his friend,

“Did you see that! Bloody big heifer ruined the poor guys car.”

 I sank lower in my seat by shifting my heifer-like haunches and wondered anew if everything in the entire universe was designed to humiliate me.

In later years I grew more philosophical. There were tiny fine girls who people looked after and cosseted. Then there were the big cart horses like me that were designed to carry suitcases and gas cylinders. I accepted that people came in different breeds like greyhounds and Saint Bernard's. We all come with our own attributes.

Approaching middle age I ballooned even more than usual. Strange how suddenly size 16 just seems smaller. Much better to embrace size 18 and have that loose freedom rather than constriction. Elastic tops to trousers were a great discovery. Huge billowing tops hide a multitude of sins. My attempts to lose weight continued and now turned more Machiavellian. I instructed my dear cousin (Del -you know your duty!) to saw my leg off if I died. Given the considerable thickness of my thighs (big boned all over), I reckoned this would reduce my weight to 10 stone. She was then instructed to make sure my reduced weight was mentioned in the funeral address. By hook or by crook I was determined to get to 10 stone. Such is the desperation of the perennial overweight woman!

There are advantages. In storms I am manage remarkably well. Others may cling to fences for support but my big bones anchor me quite sufficiently. When normal people walk into me on the pavement they invariably bounce back with a great velocity. The conservation of momentum is in my favour. I don't regard huge loads, shopping bags, suitcases or furniture as immovable. I have become accustomed to such obstacles giving way to my will. It is not all positive. I have an unfortunate tendency to pull handles off things. Tug doors of microwaves, break windows and other stuff. It seems most inanimate objects are not big boned like me! They are surprisingly vulnerable. Family members are accustomed to my ability to break things. They are also rarely worried about my safety. When I visit strange cities they worry more about my carelessness than my safety. Who knows what I might break while there? I do not expect to be attacked any more. Instead I am on guard in case I nudge someone onto the road or rail. Goodness knows what/who I could reverse into in shops and damage with my flanks.  These big bones carry a heavy responsibility.

Then suddenly a month ago my weight started to plummet it for no apparent reason. Do I have some strange wasting disease? Out of the blue I have become a size 14 and all of my wardrobe hangs like joke tents around my frame. I am shocked!  After over five decades of weight gain this has come left-of field. My latest theory is that those big bones been hollowed out by some calcium deficiency. They are large but now are hollow and don't weigh as much as they did. Don't worry I am no Greyhound, more of a cuddly Labrador. Just when you think you know yourself, something odd happens. Life is increasingly full of jokes that sneak up on you. It's sometimes hard to catch the punchline. I have not worked out this one yet.

PS I'd like to point out that when Clark Kent, or that thin vampire guy, stopped speeding cars, then both of them were admired as having superpowers. Note that when women such as I, demonstrate such abilities they are merely seen as excessively bulky!  That has got to be unfair!  

* Heifer is a young cow 

Managing Animals with kindness

Teaching animal management for two years in a college in Northern Ireland was a good experience. The teenagers were full of heart and soul. They looked out for each other and radiated goodwill. I was shocked at how wholesome the group was despite Mohican haircuts, piercings and tattoos. In the animal room in the college we had hamsters, guinea pigs, birds, rabbits and on occasion dogs, cats, kittens and puppies, miniature goats and snakes. The students had to learn animal handling skills and needed to practice. When I started I viewed these kids as dangerous to the vulnerable animals. With each passing month I reversed my position and realised the kids had much more to fear from the animals.  

These kids harboured no nastiness but I knew even carelessness can damage. However, I saw nothing but consideration and kindness shown towards the animals. Even then I was careful. People in my experience can be kind in public but in private moments lash out. Just because they were gentle when I watched did not mean that when left alone in charge of an animal they might show another side.  Being a teacher made you suspicious of humanity! You discover those with no discipline, those who are physically careless, the occasional student totally void of conscience and it makes you guarded and cynical. For example, I taught pure science in a college in a different town twice a week.  The science students there had a few cruel students in their midst. You saw the way they hurt others in the corridor by word and deed. As a teacher you intervened as necessary, but was well aware that such viciousness would find its expression in other areas outside your control. Students who desire to hurt others can find spaces to practice their favourite sport. Educators have to be equally inventive to spoil their game. 

Walking from one group with such dynamics back into my animal management class was like emerging into sunlight. You got to focus on niceties instead of the basics of civil behaviour. On one session on euthanasia they were shown videos of dogs being euthanised. Such was the effect on these tender hearts I learned to have a game or outing to compensate for the anguish it in engendered. Many of them did their weekly placements in vets around the town. They spoke of young healthy dogs been put down because owners had lost interest, moved house or divorced. Their outrage was tangible. Another student spoke about how an animal nurse had sniggered while euthanising an elderly ill dog. The class was outraged at this insensitivity and all pledged to do things better. No laughter or smiles in such circumstances. The ending of life deserved respect. Months after the death of a dog, a heartless snigger can be both brutal and unkind for its owner. One boy said a man brought in his dog to be euthanised and acted as if it was no big deal. All swagger and brass indifference. As the dog died the vet gently stroked the dog on the table. The owner started sobbing and crying in an emotional outburst which surprised the student.  It was another lesson learned. People often hide what they're really feeling. Don't make assumptions.

 All had tales to tell of pets they lost. The bereavement was often still raw years later and would fill the classroom with its intensity. The tenderness of their hearts was a mighty lesson for me. I confess I had become jaded in teaching. You begin to expect less of students and even less of yourself. You wait to be disappointed with their actions.  This class revived my hope in humanity. They were therapy to be with and to this day I am so grateful for what they taught me -  “Every child is potentially the light of the world.”

Education, diamond cutting or sausage filling?

When I was in primary school our tiny village school in the heart of the Sperrin Mountains (N. Ireland) was visited by two trainee teachers. They were full of new ideas including dividing up the class into groups and targeting us with topical questions. This was heady new material in the days of the 1970s. Especially, given our normal teacher, an aged limping man, who insisted on teaching us in the old currency (which included crowns and farthings! ). 

tea clipper

He was the son of a pilot of a tea clipper (a very fast sailing ship of the middle third of the 19th century) and started every day by reading biblical passages threatening brimstone and hell. Not used to the excitement of actually being asked to contribute, I'm afraid it all went to my head. The question was asked if girls should be educated separately from the boys, I stood up and announced that it would be akin to separating the cream from the milk. Not sure what I meant, one of the student teachers asked for clarification. I didn't hesitate to point out that separating the girls would mean taking away the best brains in the room.  This brought an enraged response from our old teacher who spluttered his rage and ended our first topical debate.  

In my teens, I attended a course of St John's ambulance service. They instructed us in how to prevent someone choking with the Heimlich manoeuvre. They showed how somebody could be resuscitated. If they had a heart attack they demonstrated how the heart could occasionally be restarted and how breathing for them could be maintained to avoid brain damage.  This actually seemed useful stuff!  It was one of those Road to Damascus experiences.  I remember thinking that all the education I'd had up to that point was a total waste of time. Years and years of fractions and factorial functions, history of Columbus and Hitler. Geography of the valleys, mountains and oxbow lakes all of it seemed completely pointless. Was education really all this crap? Was everything we learned entirely for the purpose of passing an end of year exam?  How did fairly intelligent people stand in front of the classroom and convey such a rubbish year after year without questioning the whole rotten system?   What on earth was the purpose of it all?

Years later when I worked at University I was reminded of the pitfalls of our education system. Here, in this university was supposed to be ‘the best of the best’. The cream of society, its thickest and richest. I found them devoid of real interest or real intelligence. Whatever our present educational system does, it certainly results in inoculating almost the entire population against any future education.

Don’t think you can avoid it all by home teaching or buying ridiculously expensive private schooling.  In my experience such children are usually academically brilliant but socially deformed.  They can have the most idillic childhoods but then are released into the real world.  The shock is traumatic and sometimes never recovered from.  The difference between what we would choose for our children and the playground dynamics that they often have to face are light years apart.  We would not wish it on our worst enemies but our children must weather such storms on a daily basis.   After all, workplaces are just playgrounds for adults and equally taxing.  If you missed the school bully don’t worry you will encounter them in your employment sooner or later.  

I wish it were not so.  I wish education was about finding the gems that lie hidden within us all.  Mining for those treasures that each individual uniquely possesses.  Crafting such gems into sparkling jewels that illuminate humanity.  Such delicate faceting of planes within crystals to catch the light and reflect more light is an art that is far cry from today’s sausage filling education system.  My grandfather used to call sausages, 'mystery packages' for all the wrong reasons.  He was a pig farmer after all and knew what he was talking about.  I feel the same about today's educational systems - they are not fit for purpose.

Growing a Tail

Outside The Point in Malta, here on Malta,  there is a small unusual building. Almost in the shadow of this modern shopping mall. It has an unusual atmosphere. I have passed it many times and feel strangely drawn. I'm not sure as to its age, purpose or history. I keep meaning to investigate further. But life comes along and 100 other things get in the way.

If I achieve nothing in this life, it will be because of the ‘other things’. Mind you, I like, others am endlessly distracted. We are all hard on youth these days. Accusing them of being online instead of living. Well, this online existence is very addictive. You can feed any interest, follow any news story, play any game, chat/machine message anyone, watch entertainment from all countries, old films, new films, award winning documentaries. 

Be honest, if it had been available to us at their age we would not have  played cops and robbers, cowboys and Indians and endless chase games. We climbed trees, walked the tops of gates (like tight rope walkers), played marbles and had endless football games on our street. The latter was so intense that it had its own cup. A small golden coloured statue which doubled as a pencil sharpener was competed over with an enthusiasm that never abated. They were also endless fights with kids on the street but that was accepted as the norm. The next day your opponent would be on your football team. Loyalties were fluid and your nemesis could morph into a colleague you danced in victory with after scoring a hard one goal. You got to learn a lot about yourself and others in these interactions. For good and bad. You examined your peers and saw what behaviour was worth emulating or warranted aversion. Each day was an opportunity to be a different person. In the fluidity of who you mixed with, the multitude of unexpected conversations, a dynamic environment triggered change and chances. 

Nowadays, I watch as young people plug-in and somehow go off-line. They are there but not. In the virtual world which competes for their attention and life there is less room for the interactions we remember. Apathetic resentment seems fuelled by all that energy having nowhere to go. All these expectations of choice, entertainment wins out over family claims. Even within families, time is stolen away and fundamental unity eroded. It is an unseen war and we are losing it. What is worse we are losing a generation who know longer see their families/neighbourhoods/communities as places to implement change or influence.

Instead, we are breeding a captive mentality that accepts the state of things. Just embraces the hopelessness of change. Life becomes a game already lost because they opt not to actually live but become spectators of this world’s disintegration. We despair of them and they of us. We despair because we remember a different world, they despair because they know too much about this real world. Communication channels become fraught with our inability to coax them out of this virtual world they have become immersed in. We languish in the shallows of this world sensing its attraction but longing for real meaningful conversations. I clicked on my history (in Chrome) and was floored by what I have watched online the hours spent, the time wasted and realised I was no longer in the shallows but actually already out of my depth. 

Joining in a virtual world separated from those I love and my friends. My attempts to swim ashore are laughable. I write letters and post them. Not emails, letters with envelopes and stamps. I walk to the postbox and push them through as if participating in an archaic custom. Try to make it two a week. Reaching out hand over hand to draw ashore against the waves. I go on long walks disengaged from the Internet and find my thoughts have time to settle. I'm reflecting more on past events and the future. It's still hard to trigger conversations! I start to talk about some world event and I'm told that they have already seen the news online. Trying to speak about the things I've done or thought, I sense their desire to get back to the world of perpetual entertainment. How can any of us compete with all of that? 

At times I think I’ve neared the shore and safety. We share a walk and really talk heart to heart. Play a board game and laugh at our childish desire to win. But, these are just threads pulled from the weave that has us all caught fast. Is there a reason we all fear silence? Perhaps, because in that freedom from sound/talk/music we begin to measure ourselves. Not these people over here, or yesterday's news, today's happenings but us. Without all the distraction flowing in torrents over us we could be confronted with who we really are. What we have actually become? With this avalanche of addictive output to focus on, there is no need to look inward and take our own pulse. But if we no longer know ourselves have we not already lost our way? I'm back stumbling in the shallows determined to emerge on dry land and seem to have have developed a tail. How on earth did that happen and are you too becoming equally deformed?

What gives me joy!

I have ever filled notebooks with my scribbles.  A dear cousin in N. Ireland, foolishly volunteered to store my diaries and notebooks when I left for Malta.  When I turned up with five huge plastic containers filled to the brim with writings, she coped really well and kept her promise to look after them all.  I did feel guilty leaving her dining room a quarter filled!  My favourites are the moleskin books and for some reason they need to be with squared paper not lined.  They have an envelope at the back for bits and bobs, they can cope with photos stuck in, flowers, cards etc and are pretty indestructible.  

When, I was at school and university there was a family tradition that my Dad would present us with a parker pen before an important exam.  My parents never asked any of us if we had done our homework.  They never pushed school work or studying as of vital importance at all.  Strange in a sense because they were both teachers.  So this purchase of a pen was the sole encouragement to excel.  It was all that was needed.  To this day I get excited by a new pen.  Full of hope for the future and armed to cope with it all.

My mother uses Oil of Olay and every baby I ever handed her was pressed lovingly to her cheek while she sang songs to them.  When they were handed back at the end of the day they all smelt of this cream.  They later brought out a new version with suncream and I tried it, but realised that it was the familiar smell that I associated with my Mum that made the difference.  So I am back to using  the original cream and each time I use it I remember all the love and closeness we have shared.  Why is smell such a powerful trigger to memories?

I discovered Bach rescue cream decades ago.  When any of my children fell and hurt themselves this was the stuff that was slapped on.  We called it a miracle cream and I was never sure if its ability to cure was psychosomatic or genuine.  All I can say is that to this day when I find an ache, rash or pain this is the stuff I rub on and invariably feel much better. 

Look to this day,

For it is life, the very life of life.

In its brief course lie all the

Verities and realities of your existence.

The bliss of growth,

The glory of action,

The splendor of beauty;

For yesterday is but a dream,

And tomorrow is only a vision;

But today well lived makes

Every yesterday a dream of happiness,

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day.

Such is the salutation of the dawn!

(A beautiful old Sanskrit poem) 

Doing the Headless Chicken

Sometimes, when you have experienced trauma the best remedy is to get right back on the horse as soon as possible. It's what everyone tells you in their eagerness to help you get over things. The theory is by climbing back into the situation that caused the fallout you can quickly close the book by creating fresh associations to correct the bad ones. A sort of memory hard drive rewrite. For me, eight years ago I had a gruesome experience in Brussels working as an independent science expert. I'd been two times before that and survived, but that third experience was a humiliation too far. Such things can be a mighty lesson in humility and a positive spur to growth on many levels. Akin to ploughing deeper to produce a better crop. That depth of disturbance can also, on the other hand, do damage. 

It took me around six years to be able to put the whole experience behind me. Every time I came back to write about it I felt re-traumatised. Stupid, really over something so minor.  When I could, eventually, put the whole experience in print, there was a catharsis of sorts. (for details see following link - Dragging my entrails behind me) I thought I'd settled the whole ghastly business. Then, the idea of getting back on the horse was put to me. What better way to erase horrible memories and to re-write them. When I re-applied I rather suspected that the EC would write back 

“WE REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID EIGHT YEARS AGO!! SOD OFF!! 

They didn't. I found myself summoned to Brussels again to deal with funding applications. By the fourth day in Brussels I was drowning yet again in a sea of fear and in a total state of despair. Loved ones on Skype were confronted by a tearful me, in my hotel room, trying to articulate why I was impersonating a headless chicken.

This is a state I instantly revert to when stress levels rise above a certain level. It is characterised by huge effort, energy, endeavour, a lot of hysteria but absolutely no progress. A similar incident occurred 15 years ago while I was working for a travel agent in Rhodes (Greece) as their financial person. Here, I can guarantee those who know me are snorting in disbelief that anyone would trust me with such financial responsibilities. Entering my typical headless chicken routine I can remember the 20-year-old supervisor furious that I could not add a page of expenses and get the right answer. Such was my state, that despite an Excel spreadsheet, my calculator and even a pen and pencil basic approach did not avail me. In such moments, my degree, my PhD in physics and my mental faculties have been removed from me. That's why I call it my headless chicken routine. In such a state even finding a toilet in a strange building/airport is beyond me. What is worse I have never cultivated the veneer of professionalism to hide my discomfort. Instead of acting like ‘it is alright’, which can convince many that you are more competent than you seem, I instead really despair in gigantic waves. Everyone in my vicinity instantly recognises my distress. To summarise, not only am I a headless chicken, but I am the sort who having lost my head race about bleeding and traumatising others in the process.

Back to Brussels. After conversations via Skype with loved ones I was able to formulate a plan of sorts. What I needed was a miracle. What else could help me but divine assistance?  With a strange mixture of resignation, fear and pleading in prayer, I realised a truth. Why do we only pray genuinely to God when we are totally helpless and devoid of hope? Is it that we can no longer rely on our own ability to fix things? Do we really need to have our uselessness exposed before we let go and trust. Perhaps helplessness rips away the veils that have interposed between us and our own hearts?

The next day was the last day in Brussels. There was  small window of opportunity. The deadline was midday and I flew out in the evening. There were different dynamics in place. That morning really nice people helped, progress was made. Once two or three reports were completed my confidence began to be resuscitated. I came out of my headless chicken routine and completed tasks on time. I'm so grateful for this. 

At times we forget to thank God for the things that work in our lives. Its good practice to cultivate an attitude of thankfulness. Not just because it is appropriate but because being grateful is conducive to happiness. Instead of looking around and seeing only what is wrong with our lives we begin to celebrate the unseen.  All that is good, our family our friends and our Faith.

The night I flew back from Brussels all the shootings and killings in Paris happened.  Such numbers dying, reminded me that my priorities needed re-calibrated. The fact that such events are happening in so many countries to people of different races and religions, damages us all in fundamental ways. 

“Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.”

(John Donne, English poet, 1572 – 1631) 

In responding to such events, a headless chicken response is just not appropriate nor productive. How often do I focus on things that don't deserve my attention or prayers? I want to be fuelled by sound principles not frenetic activity.   These principles should underpin my actions and my responses. These two are as far as I've got. I offer them for what they're worth, from one headless chicken to another.

“The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens.”

“Let deeds, not words, be your adorning.”

(two quotes from Baha’i writings)

Be the change you wish to see in the world.

It was great soaking up my Mum’s company in Northern Ireland this past summer.  She is ever good-natured and easy going.  How different the rest of the world would be if there were more like her.  Mind you, thank goodness there is only one of me.  I am difficult company.  Argumentative, challenging, confrontational and moody.  Enough said! 

In Northern Ireland they have moved the post offices.  I have become accustomed to stopping elderly shoppers and asking them if they know where the PO has moved.  Invariably, they lead me to where the post office used to be and then stand blinking in confusion as to what has happened.  I know the feeling.  In towns all over the post offices have been transported from where they have been for decades.  In this unpredictable world, not even this has remained unaltered.  Suddenly, I feel like the elderly, confused by the speed of change I see around me.  When a local person leads me to a non-existent post office, I feel an irrational urge to commiserate and give them a hug in sympathy at all this shuffling.  It must be due to closures happening all over the place.  

Another shocking change is the silence of electric cars or hybrids.  Here in Malta I was walking down Stella Maris St in Sliema when I was nearly run over by one.  Their silence means there is no warning, you don't hear them at all.  These machines may reduce the demand on our fossil fuels but they are killing a disproportionate number of us.  Suddenly, we are realizing just how much we use our ears to protect us from road accidents.  Do a search on this topic and simply everyone is protesting at the deaths resulting.

http://www.slate.com/articles/business/gearbox/2012/05/hybrid_and_electric_cars_too_quiet_why_they_re_dangerous_to_pedestrians_.html

“And that, it turns out, is a problem. Thanks to the Pedestrian Safety Act of 2010, by this summer the National Highway Traffic and Safety Administration is required to initiate a rulemaking process for minimal vehicle noise—not how quiet, but how loud a car must be.  Hybrids and electric cars are too quiet for the blind or even the fully sighted to hear them coming. 

hybrids and electric vehicles are 37 percent more likely to hit walkers and 66 percent more likely to collide with cyclists than traditional gas-powered cars.”

Others are making the same point,

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/motoring/news/9688619/Plan-to-tackle-silent-killer-electric-cars.html

These cars are just too silent!  So proposed legislation is trying to make them noisier. Change is hard to cope with and the elderly find it hardest of all.  Shuting post offices may seem a small step but these local centres served a multitude of needs in small communities.  Isolation kills and shared spaces are becoming harder to find.  Don't get me wrong change can be good but change for change's sake is questionable.

I used to bemoan the changes in the education system.  The endless re-writes of course materials, the constant proposal of new teaching methods and strategies. Within a few years a newer model would be in vogue.  No one seemed to realise that just as plants grow organically so should education systems.  Instead changes are instigated that mean a whole generation of kids emerged less numerate and literate.  Decades later educational systems reap the costs of wholesale changes that actually did harm not good.  The sad truth is when you have a mediocre teacher, after ten years they actually learn to present their stuff better.  They learn techniques that help them improve and the classes benefit as a result.  Today's system requires yearly complete re-structuring both of material and methodology. That mediocre teacher never finds their feet.  They continually chase their tail and are made to feel that what they did before was wrong, inadequate and old fashioned.  Their despair and disintegration haunts school corridors and staff rooms up and down the country. The brilliant teachers suffer even more because instead of doing what they were born to do well, they are shackled and blinkered to perform like show ponies.  A show that will be re choreographed each year with relentless persistence by the powers that be. Even when successful they are a mere shadow of what was really possible.  

So electric cars, closing post offices and our education system: what am I actually saying here?  Well, a little bit of reflection on things usually allows you to see if progress has been achieved or not.  That daily, weekly, monthly or yearly pulse taking lets you feedback whether adjustments are in the right direction or not.  You can then make appropriate small alterations to improve.  Best practice is achieved when that process in built into our systems and ourselves.  Bringing ourselves to account each day would mean we could have a shot at making tomorrow a better one. Meeting as communities and consulting on the problems facing our neighbourhoods would help take the pulse of the wider group.  Making small goals and achieving them would empower local communities to make bigger improvements and to learn from them.  Mistakes will happen but a feeling of ownership helps ease the pain. After all, we all make mistakes each day but usually they do teach us something. In that light even an apparent disaster can reap good results.  Without those shared spaces change is seen as something imposed by others.  Something over which we have no control or say.  Our resentment and helplessness grows.  There is no learning, only an growing awareness of the chaos and disingration that underpins nearly every institution around us.

My father in his eighties had some sound advice.  He used to walk five miles every morning.  If he bought new shoes, he suffered.  If he changed the walking route too drastically he would wreck his knees and be off his feet for weeks.  If he changed his diet substantially his digestion would be affected.  If doctor's changed his medication (probably finding cheaper suppliers) he could feel the difference on his walk.  His advice was  - when you are past a certain age you are like a well oiled machine running in set grooves.  Don't make mad changes.  Don't leave that machine in the garage unused, don't fool about with the fuel for fun and don't tackle unknown mountainous routes.  Everything needs to be in equilibrium and finding that perfect balance means small adjustments to keeping things running smoothly.  Then you are able to notice when life is getting better or you are heading off a cliff!  

So may the changes in your life today be small measured and positive.  May you have time to reflect on their results.  And hopefully all of our tomorrows will be better.

My Letter of Attack, Dear Des....

A Letter to Des

You live in Northern Ireland and work the land. Generations of mine have worked this land and while shaping their landscape also carved from their time here characters as generous and as unique as the fields they are surrounded by.  

However, you are an interloper.  One of those parasites who move into a community and by terrorising your neighbours seize property and substance.  Owning nothing you hoodwink the widowed or elderly to give over their land management forms claiming you will do all the work for them.  Substituting your own signature you then proceed to claim this money for a full five years.  When owners of the land protest that you are taking their right, intimidation becomes the order of the day.  Forcing yourself into my relative’s home and holding one against the wall by the throat!  When an elderly neighbour is seen peering across the road into your garden you assault him and accuse him of looking at your wife.  Little realizing with his poor eyesight he can barely see his own fence and his habit of staring is born of this defect.  

From owning no land, you merely rented from others, you successfully took their forms and claimed subsidies in their place.  Years later, while no longer on the land and having illegally removed fences and gates from the property, you continue to claim money on this property you do not own.  This abuse of the single farm payment goes unchecked as years later you can still claim this amount despite not owning the land or even renting it anymore. Planning permits are ignored as you construct on property that is not yours, barns and houses.  Complaints by neighbours to authorities fall on deaf ears.  Bullies thrive in today’s world where confusion and legislation fight in incompetent courts.  Time delays in obtaining justice means such characters have their way and painful resignation is the order of the day.  

When the persistent few actually win against you, your approach is always the same. You pay the first instalment of the money owned and then stop all subsequent payments.  Knowing full well for the innocent, court orders, enforcement, unpleasantness is draining and demeaning.  Even appearing in court to explain how they have been abused, is a humiliation of the soul.  “Look how old, confused, helpless I am, such a rogue can seize my land, wrestle control of my property and here I appear month after month pleading for protection” they seem to convey.  And hence the rogue thrives on his tyranny of others.

You and I met many years ago.  I was visiting an aunt whose fields you rented.  You had allowed the cattle in the fields to gain access to her garden and the bullock happily played across the lawn.  I phoned to tell you that your bullock was loose and could easily get on to the main busy road causing serious injury.  Your resentment was obvious but you acquiesced and moved the animal back to your  fields.  Later, after I’d gone you complained to my aunt about my manner.   I know why you didn’t like me.  We looked at each other and I saw a petty tyrant intimidating all around him.  You didn’t know me, didn’t know who I knew, could not work out how I fitted in to the neighbourhood.  As it happens I know no one of importance, have zero knowledge of farming practices or the area.  But, I did sense something as you raised your stick and beat the bullock on its side to chase it out of the garden.    I recognised a bully and applied the same logic I have long used with them.  Never appease a bully, it only empowers them.  Accommodating them in any way will only add to suffering of the next victim of their tyranny.  

Years ago public opinion in a rural setting would bring its own consequences.  If you abused the elderly farmer, a widow etc the community would quickly let the person know their actions were not to be tolerated.  In such tight knit farming communities your actions would have consequences that quickly let you know lines had been crossed.  Now, such is the rural isolation and pressures facing farmers despair, suicide, economic ruin, family divisions, addiction all have broken down the once united communities.  The reason rural communities were so united was out of necessity.  You helped a neighbour build a shed, cut his field, herd a stock etc because you would one day need their help.  Your destiny was linked to theirs.  But more, generations before you had followed the same path.  It felt the right thing to do.  A moral principle was ingrained like table manners and instilled in future generations.  

When staying in my grandfather’s farm for a week, while he was unwell, I was shocked by how many characters came through the door expecting tea and chat.  The door was expected to be open under all conditions and a warm greeting extended whether I knew them or not.  You learned that this was deemed acceptable behaviour and to do any less was bad manners.  My grandfather helped build his neighbour’s houses and was paid in potatoes not cash and sometimes not paid at all.  That too, was okay because most people survived on the generousity of others and you knew that it would be repaid in friendship and respect if not in money.    We all have memories of those open doors and open hearts.  We were shaped at those hearths and kitchens that smelled of soda bread and roasts in the oven.  When something has been lost we have to look back at an older culture to summon a better way.  Each culture had a bedrock of social interaction that gently corrected and directed behaviour.  Today’s splendid isolation does not serve.  We are essentially communities of people in cities and countries who need each other more than we can possible imagine.  Working together on common goals in service will help remind us of the necessity of community cohesion and what wonders it instills in us and our children and grandchildren.  To proceed in the opposite direction will create unhealthy individuals, divided families, miserable communities and serve selfish materialistic agendas.

Rogue and genius - Caravaggio

Caravaggio was a rogue. At least, that is the mild term to describe this irritating and flawed artist. Putting a list of his activities on paper would make you think we were describing a street thug and not one of the most remarkable painters of the 16th century. Here’s a typical account of him,

“Much of what we know about Caravaggio's life comes to us through police records and legal depositions. During his time in Rome, he insulted his fellow painters, quarrelled, fought, broke the law, defied the police and was subsequently imprisoned. He was sued for libel, arrested for carrying a weapon without a license, prosecuted for tossing a plate of artichokes in a waiter's face. He was accused of throwing stones at the police, attacking the house of two women, harassing a former landlady and wounding a prison guard.”

He got involved in street fights regularly and used the street characters such as prostitutes and beggars in his paintings regularly.  He even killed a man (over a wager on a tennis match!) and had to flee for his life. He grew up in a rough area and was shaped by the social life around him.  There is hardly any written work by him in existence.  He usually never even signed his work.  He earned money on the street selling paintings at one stage.

His work has grown in popularity especially in the last century. That is no mean feat, because he was hated by so many respected voices for 300 years after his death. In fact, he and his work were completely forgotten and overlooked for centuries. It highlights how even in the 16th century bad publicity can smother the best of artists.

Poussin, a leading painter of the classical French Baroque style, upon viewing Caravaggio's Death of the Virgin, cried: "I won't look at it, it's disgusting. That man was born to destroy the art of painting. Such a vulgar painting can only be the work of a vulgar man. The ugliness of his paintings will lead him to hell.”

Another Italian Baroque painter, Giovanni Baglioni was Caravaggio's direct competitor and arch-enemy. Although he himself was influenced by Caravaggio's style, Baglione virulently attacked Caravaggio's personal life as well as his artworks continually.  Following Caravaggio's death, Baglione maliciously authored a biography that criticised the artist's works and described Caravaggio as "a degenerate failure".

Even in the 19th Century, Caravaggio was getting attacked by the art critics.  John Ruskin, an opposer of the Baroque style described Caravaggio's paintings as filled with "horror and ugliness and filthiness of sin. " 

He became an artist forgotten and his works were even attributed to others.  It was not until fairly recently that there has been a resurgence of interest in this unlikely artist and his incredible work.  There are now a growing number of people who go on Caravaggio’s trails to visit each of his paintings wherever they exist in the world.  There is something incredibly powerful about his pieces and it is hard not to be touched by their potency.

He certainly didn't make life easy for himself and his actions undoubtedly lead to disgrace, exile and eventual death. I first discovered his work in St John's Co-Cathedral in Malta. 

In the opulent cathedral with its huge gold ornaments, aged gravestones underfoot and beautiful intricate tapestries, Caravaggio's painting of the beheading of Saint John the Baptist shines like the work of a real genius. Listening to the audio presentation of Caravaggio, as I walked around, they explained he was thrown out of the order of the Knights for his indiscretions. Perversely, his powerful painting easily outshines and outclasses everything else in the cathedral. 

This is no angelic representation of Saint John the Baptist's beheading. The violence is evident in the burly man forcing his blade across the Saints neck. The blood flows from the growing wound and boldly Caravaggio signs this painting in the blood running from the gaping wound. Of course he knew that John the Baptist had a real resonance for the Knights of Malta. They prayed before the precious gold plated relic, forearm of Saint John the Baptist, before heading off to sea during the crusades. The symbolism is especially potent because it was the right forearm which was used to anoint Christ. Caravaggio transformed what was a traditional interpretation,  a formal religious painting with the careful halo around the Saint’s head and angels ascending on all sides into a brutal realistic killing. You would believe that Caravaggio’s villain is indeed a murderous killer.  The act of this death is neither celestial or full of grace but ugly and horrific as indeed it would have been.  No wonder his work shocked and appalled those used to more restrained and artificial devices.

In his portrayal of the conversion of Saul on the road to Damascus Caravaggio also took a completely different tack from the common approach.  Remember that Saul had been a persecutor of the early Christians. He had hated Christians. He had made it his goal to capture, then bring Christians to public trial and execution. Saul was present when the first Christian martyr (named Stephen) was killed by an angry mob.

"... they all rushed at him (Stephen), dragged him out of the city and began to stone him. Meanwhile, the witnesses laid their clothes at the feet of a young man named Saul. . . . And Saul was there, giving approval to his death" (Acts 7.57 to 8:1).

After Stephen was martyred, Saul went door to door in Jerusalem finding people who believed that Jesus is the Messiah.

"Saul began to destroy the church. Going from house to house, he dragged off men and women and put them in prison" (Acts 8:3).

After putting these people in prison, Saul learned about their Christian friends in Damascus by somehow getting letters from the prisoners.

"I persecuted the followers of this Way to their death, arresting both men and women and throwing them into prison, as also the high priest and all the Council can testify. I even obtained letters from them to their brothers in Damascus, and went there to bring these people as prisoners to Jerusalem to be punished" (Acts 22:4-5).

So Saul’s conversion on the road to Damascus into Paul was a stunning transformation.  Caravaggio caught it perfectly in his painting,

“He has re imagined Saul's transformation into Paul as a night scene in which the saint writhes on the ground, his arms thrown open, blinded by a moment of illumination witnessed only by a muscular, exhausted-looking horse and a melancholy groom.”   

Who else but Caravaggio would picture such a scene as an inner struggle, eye’s closed with the light indicating where all the action takes place.  How Saul must have suffered when he realised exactly the extent of his previous deeds.  What a rendering of that instant of bringing oneself to account and immediate transformation.

In David’s beheading of Goliath, it is Caravaggio’s features that are on the face of the decapitated victim.  

Caravaggio's behaviour throughout his life became even more erratic and impulsive.  A reason for this decline could have been found recently. In 2010, a team of scientists who studied Caravaggio's remains discovered that his bones contained high levels of lead—levels high enough, they suspect, to have driven the painter mad. Lead poisoning is also suspected of having killed Francisco Goya and Vincent van Gogh.  Who knows?  But his pieces of art startle now even as they did in the 16th Century.  Check out the one nearest to you and experience this gifted artist at first hand.

Hoshi Ryoku, oldest spa in the world? Built in 718 AD

In the year 717 AD a Buddhist monk climbed Mt Hakusan in Japan.  

Mt Hakusan

To put this period in historical perspective the Roman Empire had fallen and the world was dealing with the aftermath.  There would have been people alive in those days who would have lived in the time of the Prophet Muhammad.  Great Britain had not yet been invaded, but soon would be, by the vikings.  That lets you know how far back we are talking about.  

His name was Taicho Daishi and he spent a year there carrying out rigorous spiritual practices.  At the end of this period he had a dream.  In the dream he was told, 

”Lying 20-24 kilometers from the base of the mountain is a village called Awazu. There, you'll find an underground hot spring with wondrous restorative powers that Yakushi Nyorai (the Physician of Souls) has bestowed upon it. The people of the village, however, do not known of this good fortune. Descend the mountain and head to Awazu. With the people of the village unearth the hot spring-it will serve them forever."

Daishi went down to the village, uncovered the hot spring, and it was noticed that some sick people immersed in the water were cured immediately and their health restored. He bestowed the task of building a spa building at the site upon his disciple Garyo Hōshi, who really took this task to heart.   In fact, Hōshi’s family have diligently run a modest business at the site for nearly 1300 years. Hōshi has survived the rise and fall of the Samurai, the Ninja, many Japanese emperors and two world wars. His family have been running the business continuously for 46 generations.  It is still running to this day as a spa.  One of the oldest spas in the world. 

With such a history, when the Guiness Book of Records investigated the Hoshi Ryoku, for inclusion imagine their disappointment to discover that there was in fact an even older spa in Japan. This spa had been founded in 705 and had been running for 52 generations, the Nishiyama Onsen Keiunkan!  But I reckon the Hoshi Ryoku has a whole mystical side that keeps it high on my list of favourite places to visit.

http://www.gizmag.com/worlds-oldest-hotel-hoshi-japan/13017/

Why are the Wealthy buying all the Water?

Sometimes the immediate problem is so overwhelming that it does not allow a broader perspective. Scenes of thousands or tens of thousands of refugees fleeing to Europe has tested the heart and integrity of many institutions. Since so many European leaders were elected to reduce newcomers to their borders, there was a major landslide of right wing groups to positions of power. Contrast that, with the overwhelming humanitarian response engendered in so many European citizens at the obvious helplessness of refugees fleeing war.  That photograph of a tiny drowned three year old on a beach in Turkey hit home. 

The media shows its ingrained amoral approach with headlines screaming, “Build a bigger wall to keep the hoards out!” or “Our Culture under threat!” The next day they proclaim self righteously, “How many more must die getting to Europe?”  Our frenetic bipolar media is driven by circulation figures and set their moral compass by the prevailing wind direction. It seems our politicians, institutions or media are not to be trusted. So perhaps a clearer perspective can be gained by examining not what they are saying but what they are doing? 

George Bush (net worth $20 million) is busy buying huge qualities of land, 300,000 acres in the sparsely populated wastes of Paraguay, in South America. His land, though not impressive in appearance, rests atop one of the largest freshwater aquifers in the world: Acuifero Guarani.

Acuifero Guarani covers roughly 460,000 square miles under parts of Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay and Argentina and is estimated to contain about 8,900 cubic miles of water.  Other major companies are following his path, as water has been identified as a critical commodity. Wall Street banks and multibillionaires are acquiring water assets as fast as they possibly can. Philippine’s Manuel V. Pangilinan (net worth $508 million), Hong Kong’s Li Ka-shing (net worth $26.6 billion) and T. Boone Pickens (net worth US$1.2 billion) are racing to get their hands on this newest commodity, more precious and vital than oil.  Legal structures are already strengthening their strangle hold on water rights. Gary Harrington’s case in Oregon is an example. He tried to use rain water collected in  three ponds on his own land ended up in prison for 30 days. Contrast this with Boone Pickens draining 65,000,000 gallons of water a year from the Ogallala Aquifer.  Note: Once depleted, the aquifer will take over 6,000 years to replenish naturally through rainfall

Those of you experiencing an endless downpour (as in N. Ireland!), are probably asking what is so special about water? Well, like most things such as mobility, health and security  it is not until you lose something that you begin to appreciate how important it is. In the case of water, man-made climate change has altered our world. To get a broader perspective we have to look at our world and understand where droughts have been happening.

East Africa has suffered from the worst drought in 60 years.  Somalia. Dibouti, Ethiopia and Kenya are suffering and the resulting disastrous harvests mean starvation is not far behind these droughts.  In Afghanistan, as a result of droughts, 60-80% of their livestock has died.  In India 130 million people have been affected by water shortages.  Iran has just had their worst drought in a hundred years.  Morocco’s worst drought in a decade has affected 70% of its arable land.  Three million people in Pakistan face starvation due to drought devastated crops.  Brazil has faced its worst drought in 80 years and São Paulo with a population11.8 million (a megacity) is dealing with a nasty water crisis.   South Africa has had their worst drought since 1992 (twenty three years ago).  Syria, from 2006 to 2011 suffered their worst drought and crop failure in recorded history.  Is the picture becoming clear?  Climate change is happening and the resulting water shortages with crop failures are destabilising, creating wars and millions of refugees.

How does the world respond?  Will nationalism, xenophobia and chaos do anything other than empower the really rich and really powerful to proceed with an agenda that beggars belief.  The gap between rich and poor has never been greater.  “Billionaires and politicians gathering in Switzerland this week will come under pressure to tackle rising inequality after a study found that – on current trends – by next year, 1% of the world’s population will own more wealth than the other 99%.” Don’t expect those without water, food or security to stay and die at home quietly.  They cannot be the price the rich are willing to pay for their bottom line.  Ask yourself, if it was your family what would you do?  Would staying put even be an option?

By not standing back to see the broader picture we can waste so many valuable resources.  When Southern and Central Somalia’s acute malnutrition rose from 16.4% to 36.4% in 2011 the world was having to spend three million dollars over five months to truck in water.  Spending only 900,000 dollars to mitigate the drought and build up water resources beforehand would have saved money and more lives.

We have an obligation to ask the larger questions.  Why, when the earth is facing global challenges  that are frankly more scary than anyone wants to admit (climate predictions) are we allowing the flames of nationalism and economic greed prevent us from finding a sensible and sustainable way forward. When people get annoyed at an influx of refugees from Syria, Afghanistan or Somalia at least let us be armed with the facts behind their heartache and suffering.


1. http://www.globalresearch.ca/the-new-water-barons-wall-street-mega-banks-are-buying-up-the-worlds-water/5383274
2.  http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/corporations-grabbing-land-and-water-overseas/
3.  http://www.citymetric.com/horizons/drought-megacity-sao-paulo-withering-after-dry-wet-season-1244
4. http://agorafinancial.com/2015/04/24/why-did-george-bush-buy-nearly-300000-acres-in-paraguay/
5.  http://www.wri.org/blog/2015/06/global-tour-7-recent-droughts