Seaside of the Soul

The ebb and flow of the waves

Speaks to the spirit

Just as our blood flows

From the beat of our faint hearts 

so too this tide 

is driven by a celestial body 

whose effect, despite its distance 

shapes our coastlines. 

The sound of breaking waves

An echo of the blood surging

In our veins

A rhythm, ancient and powerful.

The first music to sooth our souls.

Earlier than the drum

Beating its unending rhythm.

The rocks are worn

Broken in parts.

Shaped by these waves.

Driven by the moon above.

We too are worked on

By this earth,

And yet orchestrated

From above.

What will this symphony produce?

Who will we become?

That is shaped by our nature

Granite or limestone.

By our condition

porous, sludge or crystalline.

By with whom we find ourselves

Shoulder to shoulder.

Or left alone to be polished or ground

Into shiny pebbles or gems.

But most of all

By our actions and deeds.

Gravity drives the tides

And this force requires

Our volition our movement.

Not until we take our first steps

Will confirmations shape us

and blessings flow

To grace our lives

and those around us.

We are the architects

of our own spiritual coastline.

Despite all these diverse powers

We alone will determine the result.

Diogenes, his barrel and his brutal challenges from over two milleniums ago

The sun, too, shines into cesspools and is not polluted.

quote of Diogenes

Growing up in a small rural village high in the Sperrin mountains of Northern Ireland, Diogenes was a Greek philosopher my father mentioned repeatedly during my childhood.  Much we know about his life is unsubstantiated by historical data but this colourful character is so different and unique somehow you never doubt his existence. 

Diogenes of Sinope was a Greek philosopher and one of the founders of Cynic philosophy. He was born in Sinope (modern-day Sinop, Turkey), an Ionian colony on the Black Sea, in 412 or 404 BC and died at Corinth in 323 BC.

He has the most who is most content with the least. 

quote of Diogenes

He considered his avoidance of earthly pleasures a contrast to and commentary on the contemporary behaviours all around him. This attitude was grounded in a disdain for what he regarded as the folly, pretence, vanity, self-deception, and artificiality of human conduct. He hardened himself to the elements by by living in a large wine cask, owned nothing, and seems to have lived off the charity of others. He destroyed the single wooden bowl he possessed on seeing a peasant boy drink from the hollow of his hands. He then exclaimed: "Fool that I am, to have been carrying superfluous baggage all this time!”  He used to stroll about in full daylight with a lamp; when asked what he was doing, he would answer, "I am just looking for an honest man.”

According to a story, Diogenes was captured by pirates while on voyage to Aegina and sold as a slave in Crete. Being asked his trade, he replied that he knew no trade but that of governing men, and that he wished to be sold to a man who needed a master. Fortunately, a Corinthian man called Xeniades liked his spirit and hired Diogenes to tutor his children. 

The vine bears three kinds of grapes: the first of pleasure, the second of intoxication, the third of disgust. 

quote of Diogenes

It was in Corinth that a meeting between Alexander the Great and Diogenes is supposed to have taken place. While Diogenes was relaxing in the morning sunlight, Alexander, thrilled to meet the famous philosopher, asked if there was any favour he might do for him. 

Dioggenes responded, “I  have nothing to ask but that you would remove to the other side, that you may not, by intercepting the sunshine, take from me what you cannot give.”

Alexander then declared, "If I were not Alexander, then I should wish to be Diogenes.”

In his typical direct manner Diogenes retorted, 
"If I were not Diogenes, I would also wish to be Diogenes!" 

He was known for brutal honesty in conversation, paid no attention to any kind of etiquette regarding social class or behaviour and when criticised, pointed out that most of these activities were normal and that everyone engaged in them privately. Indeed, Diogenes challenged codes of behaviour in ways that would startle us still even today!  I give just one example but there are much much worse. 
Someone took Diogenes into a magnificent house and warned him not to spit, whereupon, having cleared his throat, he spat into the man's face, being unable, he said, to find a meaner receptacle.

Diogenes could provoke both individuals and society and did so all his life under all circumstances.  As he approached old age he did not change his ways.

Of what use is a philosopher who doesn't hurt anybody's feelings? 

quote of Diogenes

Scolded as an old man who ought to rest, he replied, "What, if I were running in the stadium, ought I to slacken my pace when approaching the goal?" To someone who declared life to be an evil, he corrected him, "Not life itself, but living ill." When asked from where he came, Diogenes said, "I am a citizen of the world".

As he reached the end of his life, he was asked about how he wished to be buried. He left instructions to be thrown outside the city wall so that wild animals could feast on his body. When asked if he minded this, he said, "Not at all, as long as you provide me with a stick to chase the creatures away!" When asked how he could use the stick since he would lack awareness, he replied "If I lack awareness, then why should I care what happens to me when I am dead?”

We are all, Diogenes claimed, trapped in this make-believe world which we believe is reality and, because of this, people are living in a kind of dream state. Although, he was thought by some to be mad, it must be said Diogenes was not the first philosopher to make this claim; Heraclitus, Xenophanes, and, most famously, Socrates all pointed out the need for human beings to wake from their dream state to full awareness of themselves and the world.

He once begged alms of a statue, and, when asked why he did so, replied, "To get practice in being refused.

quote of Diogenes

Nose picking, B.O. and lessons to be learned

Dennis was dead by his own hand and even as I digested the news, the thought bubbled unwanted into my mind that I had never liked him. We met in primary school in the playground and his favourite trick was to run as hard as he could into unexpected victims. Pushing or pulling he seemed not to mind if you cut a knee as you fell over, or bashed the back of your head on the curb. His main satisfaction was in felling others. It was something he just could not stop despite repeated beatings from our headmaster. He was refused to be weaned from his favourite pastime.

In my first day at school, Dennis wet himself. The Headmaster’s wife, Mrs Harris, raged and locked Dennis in the cupboard off her class where the sewing baskets were kept. There Dennis howled for the full two hours until break time while Mrs Harris lectured us all on bladder control. I'm not sure what the rest of the class learnt or Dennis but those two hours taught me that people with grey hair in buns wearing respectable expensive clothes could be vicious beasts deep in their hearts. Every cry of Dennis that soared over her demands, that we sit straight, remain silent and colour in our drawings, left me with a lifeline horror of colouring in. I knew with every crayon stroke that all of our souls were being coloured by the cruelty of that situation in ways that would linger for decades.

Perhaps the soft play dough of young children hearts makes every such event traumatic? Not that Dennis endeared himself to anyone. His spontaneous acts of violence continued unabated in the playground and even grew with each passing year. I complained to my father about his behaviour and he pointed out that Dennis was from a dysfunctional home. I had no idea what that meant but learned that Dennis was being brought up by his grandmother, an eccentric woman whose hair was as wild as her language. 

My father claimed our dog Monty could identify people with unusual tendencies. In their presence Monty would change from a placid ever good-natured Labrador into a barking aggressive hound. He wouldn't bite but barked as if a bear had entered the garden. Dennis's grandmother got by far the worst reaction from Monty and so I reckon dysfunctional was something dogs sensed that we humans had to guess at. It didn't make me dislike Dennis any less.

The headmaster Mr Harris would regularly throw Dennis over his shoulder and carry him out of the class after slapping him hard across the face and knocking him out of the school seat. Beating Dennis seem to be the main educational response to any misdemeanours.

He seemed to search for ways of annoying others. Not just by pushing but by laughing at other’s discomfort. A Kindergarten child was crying in the playground for her mother. She was tiny and vulnerable in this new world absent of parents. I overheard Dennis telling her she’d never see her mother again! That was what school meant. She was so distraught at this news she cried hysterically until she wet herself. At which point, Denis ran to tell Mrs Harris of the incident. Horrified we watched as this tiny girl was frogmarched into Mrs Harris’s dreaded cupboard as punishment. Her cries were far more tragic than Dennis’s as fear rather than humiliation fuelled their volume. I remember I broke four crayons that day pushing the nibs deep into my paper, digging into the white sheets in huge red stripes until they snapped. Why on earth do people think childhood was the happiest days of their lives? Was their childhood so good or what followed so awful in comparison?

In my last few years of primary school Mr and Mrs Harris retired and there were speeches of gratitude to these two monsters. Even the local MP came to sing their praises, mentioning their love of children and dedication to others. When Mr Harris died I remember the same MP weeping real tears copiously while reading a piece from the Bible during the service. I sat in church watching the whole pantomime, thinking what must God think of all this? None of it made any sense to me.  Not the cruelty, nor the adoration of abusers nor the incessant nose picking of Dennis who sat beside me during the service, stinking of BO. The horror of it all was mixed with the smell of pee, the memory of warm crayons between my fingers and bitter injustice burning in my belly.

Towards the end of primary school the girls all grew into giants while the boys remained the same height. At least, that's how it seemed to me. With only brothers at home I knew how to fight and dealt out  instant justice to those I felt due. Any time Dennis played his cruel games with kindergarten kids I’d hammer him. When he pushed others over I punched him hard. It never stopped him behaving badly but it made me feel good. As if at last I could play a role in fixing things. He became my pet project for world betterment. I couldn't control Mr and Mrs Harris but I would try with Dennis.  To his credit he never held any grudges against me. I think he was beaten so badly by adults all round him he viewed our exchanges as just rough child's play. At times, on some strange level, we were close. I watched out for him in the playground and rather than resenting my interference he felt a bond that I was ashamed was one-sided.   

In the secondary school, he attended, my mother taught him Maths.  She used to bring a complete clean uniform, shirt, tie, blazer trousers, socks and pants to school for him each day.  Whenever, he had an accident she would bring him the clean set, from her room, to change into.  Two years into secondary school the wetting stopped but she continued to supply him with new clean clothes when his own were unclean. 

We went our separate ways then, Dennis and I. His grandmother was still a visitor to our home occasionally and treated with good humour. On a family outing, with her in the car, I can remember my father parking outside a huge palace of a house with elegant rhododendrons on either side of the drive. He managed to convince her that his relatives lived inside this massive mansion. She was impressed beyond words and later when he told her he’d only been joking she roared with laughter that was too loud and too long.

Years later, Dennis joined the police. My mother was stopped by the police one night in the Glenshane pass. The officer that peered through the window was Dennis. She said he looked smart and proud in his neat new uniform. He had thanked her that night for her maths lessons in secondary school and told her she'd been his favourite teacher. Dennis we learned even had a girlfriend. Then, out of the blue she dumped him for someone else. 

On a rainy night in his new car, high in the mountains, near our village, he put his police revolver to his head and blasted his life away.  When I heard the news I felt a physical ache within. His ex-girlfriend went on to marry three other men in the years ahead, breaking more hearts no doubt in the process. I wished he had been able to know she wasn't worth it. Not worth one second of the life that should've been his. Too many young men seem to take their own lives in despair and betrayal. Alone in the dark their anger turns inwards with no other bond to hold them in this world.

Dennis had really tried. He'd come through so much in his short life. None of us had ever really understood him. I still hear his cry from the cupboard and can only pledge to be more kind to the souls around me. Some journeys are so tough you can't imagine or know how bereft of love and kindness such lives can be.  If we did, I hope we’d all be different to each other.

war fuels disease and messes with our minds

It started by accident.  I got lost in Senglea in Malta.  

That triggered a hunt for news in the archives of the British papers on Senglea.  So great to have this resource with newspapers available from 200 years ago.  The two earliest mentions of Senglea in the British newspapers were interesting.  One, from the Manchester Courier June 26th 1847, concerned a lady from Senglea who was bitten by a cat and subsequently caught rabies and died of the condition.  

The second was an article entitled The Sickness at Malta, from The Dublin Evening Mail on Monday 30th October 1848.

This recounted a strange sickness affecting the British troops stationed in Malta.  This article talks of a prevailing disease amongst the military, but chiefly in the barracks at Fort St. Elmo.  The 1st battalion of the 44th, the 1st battalion of the 69th and the head-quarters of the Royal Artillery were stationed in this area.  The Lieutenant-General Ellice, in charge of these forces, ordered a change of quarters.  He unwisely moved the 69th from Senglea to St Elmo and sent another battalion to Floriana and other random movements of the troops in response to the outbreak.  This backfired in that the Senglea battalion, who had been previously free of disease suddenly started dying of the same complaint.  Those battalions moved to various other places continued to suffer from the disease in the same numbers as before.  The only result of this movement had been to spread the disease among a wider population. Dr Potelli, the chief surgeon of the civil hospital, was convinced that the disease was Asiatic Cholera but Dr Barry, the principal military medical officer, persisted in his claim, supported by other military doctors that it was no such thing.  

In one day on 11th October they had seven deaths and still the disease progressed in the midst of conflicting opinions.  There is a strange mention of a native, meaning a Maltese, being brought in, suffering from what appeared to be the same complaint.  His illness was dismissed as being brought on by unwholesome food or possible neglected disorders of the bowels!!  A curious twisting of facts making it the patient's own fault.  To allay the fears of the general population the presence of stagnant water within the Fort St Elmo was blamed for the outbreak of disease.  The fact that mostly military personnel were affected (they claimed) pointed to this being the case.

By 1850 despite their conviction to the contrary, Cholera was indeed found to be the culprit and yet the practice of responding to outbreaks had not improved.  When a company of the 44th Regiment, stationed at San Francesco de Paolo Barracks, lost a third of its men to the disease the military reacted by sending the entire company to Gozo.  Within ten days of their arrival no less that 26 men fell ill with 16 deaths.  Unsurprisingly, cholera then appeared in the village of Ghajnsielem, beside the Fort and spread throughout Gozo resulting in 105 attacks and 78 deaths among the civilian population.

All of this makes one think about how disease and war could be linked in more ways than we could possibly imagine.  Apart from the movement of troops which provide a perfect vector for the spread of disease throughout a population, war itself is a perfect breeding ground for disease.  

Take for example Syria.  The war there has resulted in millions of Syrians being displaced.  High percentages of its ambulances and hospitals have been damaged or destroyed.  Only 10% of its pharmaceutical need are now being met.  Vaccination coverage was 91% in 2010, now a mere 50% of children born since the war broke out have been vaccinated.  To put that in perspective, there were no cases of cutaneous leishmaniasis before 2008.  

cutaneous leishmaniasis

By 2012 there were 52,982 confirmed cases.  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  Poliomyelitis, measles, meningitis and scabes  are all spreading among the vulnerable population.  Could those parents who peddle anti-vaccine rhetoric please take note!  Leave emotions and gut instinct aside and look at the facts, so many lives depend the presence of effective vaccines.  Those living in refugee camps and in poverty do not have the luxury of your options.  Poor diet, lack of sanitation, stress, contagions from close quarters are not choices people make.  They are a result of external forces beyond their control and for those who have an excess of money, food and good healthcare to be so short-sighted is frankly inexplicable.

War and disease have a history together.  During the Napoleonic wars , eight times the number of British army soldiers died from disease than from battle wounds.  In the American Civil war two thirds of the 660 000 deaths of soldiers were caused by pneumonia, typhoid, dysentery and malaria.

The result of the so-called Spanish flu, following World war 1 in 1918, was a worldwide death toll of between 50 and 100 million worldwide. Recent investigative work by a British team led by virologist John Oxford of St Bartholomew's Hospital and the Royal London Hospital has suggested that the major troop staging and hospital camp in Étaples, France, has almost certainly being the centre of the 1918 flu pandemic. A significant precursor virus, harboured in birds, mutated to pigs that were kept near the front is proposed as the source. 

The Second World war had its own contributions.  One of which was that dengue increased in South-East Asia during the war and the immediate post-war period, due to the spread of mosquitos and different virus strains throughout the region.  This disease produces a spiking fever, searing muscle and joint pain, blood seeping through skin, shock and possibly death.  Today this disease threatens 2.4 million people worldwide.  With such tasks facing humanity it begs the question should we be wasting valuable resources on wars?

In order to really understand why war is so conducive to disease we need to understand the various changes that contribute to the spread of disease.

1. mass movement of populations
2. lack of access to clean water
3. poor sanitation
4. lack of shelter
5. poor nutritional status
6. collapse of public health infrastructure
7. lack of health services

More than 25 countries in Sub Saharan Africa are affected by conflict and 70% of all deaths in these countries are caused by infectious diseases.

When you have a displaced population they will have a 60 times higher mortality rate.  Today there are 40 million refugees and displaced people.  The figures are heart-breaking, almost too huge to take on board.

The Zaatari refugee camp in Jordan

The loss of life can be quick and huge.  When there was an outbreak of cholera and dysentery in Goma (formerly Zaire) in 1994, twelve thousand Rwandan refugees were killed in just 3 weeks.

In Afghanistan malaria was very well controlled before conflict began in 1979.  In the past twenty years there have been 2/3 million cases every year.

In the Democratic Republic of Congo, 1930 there were more than 33 000 cases of trypanosomiasis (sleeping disease).  With health care initiatives by 1959 this figure had dropped to less than a thousand cases.  The conflict that erupted in the 1960s meant that by 2001 the number of cases was estimated at 40 000.  It is hard not to hold your head in despair.

In focussing on physical complaints alone, of course we do not have the whole picture.  It is estimated that 10% of the World's population lives with mental illness.  In 2008, five years after Liberia's civil war had ended 40% of Liberians had symptoms of major depression.  Conflict leaves scars that we have yet to understand fully. For example, in Northern Ireland there has been a doubling of the suicide rate since the peace agreement in 1998.  Conflict, it seems leaves effects that linger and eat into the mental wellbeing of a population long after peace has been established.

What strikes one is that we cannot afford to have war.  We must learn the lessons of the past.  War is far too expensive in terms of human suffering, creation of disease and far too distracting from the vital tasks that lie ahead in this world of ours.

refugees in Europe   Photographs that speak to the heart

Parcels, journeys and lessons learned

Tried to go to the post office centre in Marsa, on Malta, and got hopelessly lost. Ended up in the Three Cities having started in Sliema. Totally the wrong direction what a failure. Seems to typify most of my endeavours at this stage of my life. Set up simple task clearly in my mind this morning - retrieve parcel from post office. Expend huge amounts of energy and end up exhausted but with totally nothing to show for it. At times you feel everything in life is a spiritual metaphor. Reflecting back to us fundamental truths that need to be heard whether we like it or not. 

So let's look at today. The parcel had been delivered to Malta. Being from outside Europe the parcel goes to an office in the middle of the island. You have just seven days to pick it up and must pay a percentage tax on it. I have no idea what it is or how much it costs. Without a car you must master the intricate bus routes that exist on Malta. It is a tiny island and a mere 27 kilometres by 15 kilometres but by bus almost every destination is over an hour, or more, away. You spend ages at bus-stops waiting for buses which completely ignore their timetables. It's not their fault. The roads are gridlocked and ,as no one gets anywhere fast, anger grows. You can see it in the faces of car drivers who sit breathing in fumes.  It is also apparent in the erratic bus drivers who brake, accelerate, swerve and stand on their brakes, sending passengers flying down the aisle. Bus passengers here have adopted a weary resignation tinged with humour. Only when driven to extremes do they display anything other than determined good nature. I burn with agitation that I must have sailed past the proper stop and ended up at the opposite part of the island. Today I have failed in my endeavours.

What are the fundamental truths learned today? Despite being a foreigner in Malta people are universally kind to me. They offer me seats on overfilled buses. I must have reached that age of visible vulnerability? On the second bus, going in the wrong direction, the Maltese, dignified, elderly man beside me, sensed my growing agitation as I consulted my map and signs of passing bus stops. Eventually, he asked, “Where is it you want to go?” I showed him the Maltapost address and he sighed in some distress. “You are in the Three cities and will have to go back the way you came”. He carefully wrote down the name of the stop I should get off at and then instructed me to catch a completely different bus from there. I thanked him profusely as he got off at his stop. A tall white bearded figure in a suit with a briefcase. Hands like a musician and kind concerned eyes. I then, typically, totally ignored his instructions. The bus came to the end of the line and I got off there instead. 

In between tall old houses I can see the ships and oil rigs. It looks too interesting not to explore. 

Going back on one’s tracks always feels like failure somehow.  I eventually find myself close to the ferry terminal it will take me to Valetta and home. Travelling by boat is such a treat. I order a cappuccino and enjoy the moment. 

Lessons learnt so far. 

1. Even when given a clear and limited objective, I have the infinite capacity to fail. 
2. People are exceptionally kind and courteous much more so than I deserve or expect. 
3. Being beside the sea is a constant joy. 
4. Travelling by public transport forces me to engage with people. This is a necessity as I am by nature a loner and odder than one can possibly imagine. 
5. The days of one's life march past at an incredible rate and I do hope no one is tallying up my productivity. It seems an inverse relationship. The more days pass - the less I appear to achieve. The only logical explanation is that I must be in reverse!

I better go and catch this ferry as I've already missed the first two sitting here having a coffee daydreaming.

PS caught ferry after being distracted by Senegal and then decided having reached Valetta to try once more my original destination in Marsa. I have now found the Maltapost office and am awaiting customs inspection as the item is from Turkey. After waiting for a customs official for forty minutes, I am now thinking perhaps it is far from being such an innocent gift from an ex-student! Will it contain illegal substances of which I know nothing? Suddenly, images from Midnight Express film flood the mind.

Since, I have instructed the customs officer to open said package to determine its value (necessary to pay tax) I am now awaiting to see if the amount is of the order of the few euros or serval tens of thousands. In the latter case I will be in deep trouble. I could be totally innocent but also a stupid drug mule! Why does customs the world over make you feel as guilty as sin?

PPS gift turned out to be a simple backgammon set. I'm not a drug mule as I feared. I feel a heady sense of freedom. Another lesson learned - take nothing in life for granted!

Nasty History - learning from the shadows

I always hated history in school. There were several reasons.

1. I have long suffered from the blackboard memory. In order to learn a date or name or event something else has to be erased. The actual content in memory banks does not seem accumulative but substitution in nature.  I cite for evidence, the fact that I studied French for seven years without any success. Spent 10 years in Greece and remain bereft of the Greek language. In fact despite my love of writing the reason I chose science as a profession was largely due to my atrocious spelling in English.  Anything requiring memorisation, I have always sought to avoid.        

                                                               

                                                                        

2.  For some reason history syllabus’ all around the world have a ‘cockeyed’ view of history. So, for example, in the UK thousands of years of history is almost ignored in favour of modern world wars. Which always struck me as a wasteful direction of human intellect. If we studied war history with a view of avoiding future conflicts and their associated catastrophic loss of life then perhaps it would be beneficial. Future generations could learn from past mistakes. Instead history, wherever it is taught, seems to focus on the glorification of battles and nobility of killing fields. Stirring up nationalistic fervour in the younger generation so they will be willing fodder for the warfare of the future.

Or as in the words of George S McGovern

“I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.”

More impressive still when you know the background of George S McGovern.

• He was a pilot of World War II 
• Holder of the Distinguished Flying Cross 
• On one his missions as a pilot, his plane had 110 holes in the fuselage on its return
• Was a history professor
• Sought to end the Vietnam war
• Was instrumental in the creation of the United Nations World Food Bank program
• Was the First UN Global Ambassador of World Hunger 

Not bad for someone who once was known as an average student, painfully shy and afraid to speak a word in school when young.  On to my third reason to dislike history.

3.   My history teacher was a vindictive woman who really should not have been left in charge of children or indeed sentient animals of any kind. In future, I think we should look at teachers and “ask would I trust this person with an ill hamster”. That sensitivity to see to the needs of vulnerable dependents, nurturing their well-being and their growth and well-being, free of any hurtful tendencies to those under their care should be the basic benchmark.

Having said all that I am a voracious reader even at school loved Edward Gibbon’s ‘The history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire’. It covers the period from 98 to 1590. In particular, I liked one of his lines of bitting comment,

“As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors, the thirst of military glory will ever be the voice of the most exalted characters.”

or rather more pessimistically still,

“history is indeed, little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind.”

If you ever despair of today's morals and standards. Feel that they have reached levels of degradation beyond that ever encountered before. Read Gibbon’s book and be reassured that humanity has ever had the ability to sink to levels almost beyond our imagination  in their grotesqueness and cruelty. In fact, it is our ability to sink to levels  far below those of wild animals that almost defines us as a human species. Don't get me wrong. I believe humanity can rise to heights we cannot see in the shadows of the present valleys. But if we are to attain future summits we must never lose sight of the very real gorges and chasms that make up our historical landscape. We need to recognise the dark places and hateful deeds that make this world hell like. Register them for the decline they represent and turn away from such darkness.

Then, when we hear the hateful prejudices that have ever blighted mankind’s history we can make wiser choices. Or when nations flee from war or starvation to our borders we would realise our response is a test of our very humanity.  When cities of civilians are bombed into oblivion does our silent acquiescence not speak volumes?  For history always judges on what was actually done to our fellow humans and our role for better or worse in response to that. These heroes or villains are made, today and in history, by how are they responded to what went on around them. Hard choices in difficult days by heroic individuals, down through the ages, create lights that lead to better days for us all.

Receptivity, hearing loss and dancing hairs in your ear

Hearing is such a wonderful sense. We forget how unique it is. Until we lose it. I have several family members whose hearing is severely damaged because of exposure to loud noises. In those days farmers didn't use ear muffs so machinery and the firing of shotguns did irreparable damage to their hearing. The effects of this often only show themselves in later years. It is particularly hard to learn these vital lessons when the effects are not immediate. My eldest brother returned from a punk rock concert forty years ago, where he had been standing a little too close to the wall of enormous speakers at the event. For three days he had a ringing sound in both ears and it lasted long enough that he thought permanent damage had been done - it wasn't, he was lucky. Who would've thought years later that the very headphones we use to protect the ears of workers are now damaging the ears of our young who blast themselves incessantly with load music. 

We lose your hearing in many different ways and for many different reasons. Conductive hearing loss is when there is a problem in the transmission of sound to the inner ear. Wax and ear infection or middle ear ossicles (when the tiny bones transmitting the vibrations on the ear drum can no longer do their job) can all contribute to this form of hearing loss.  It is sobering to think that the ear drum which is the fragile link between the outer ear and the middle ear is only 10mm in diameter.  However small that appears, the drum thickness is tinier still at only 0.08 mm.  It can be easily ruptured by excessive noise, pressure or physical trauma.  For those among us who insist on jamming ear buds in their ear to clean them - remember a typical sheet of paper is thicker than your ear drum.  Hearing is a sensitive business from every point of view.

This fragility is matched by the bones, the ossicles, which are on the other side of the ear drum resting against it to pick up the vibrations of the drum. The ossicles are the three tiniest bones in the whole body and form the coupling between the vibration of the eardrum and the forces exerted on the oval window of the inner ear.  This system is connected to the cochlea which looks a bit like a shell.  It has tiny hairs inside that vibrate and transmit the sound to our nerves in the brain.  Usually, age related hearing is when these tiny hairs become damaged and die off.  Our high frequency hair cells die off before low frequency ones and we lose some every year.  If you want to see what these hairs look like, check this out.  You need to press the video button to actual see the hair dance to music.

If you have ever wondered how it sounds to have a cochlea implant you can experience it here (click on link below and listen to both tracks).  I must admit I was disappointed with the results but then my expectations were high.  If you cannot hear at all then this must seem like unbelievable progress.  For Beethoven losing his hearing must have been a torment almost impossible to endure.

https://auditoryneuroscience.com/prosthetics/music

To see how wonderful these implants can be for those experiencing deafness this young boy's face says it all.

It is startling to discover that the young generally are more receptive.  They literally hear a much broader frequency range than older people.  Another fascinating feature is that if you lost 166,000 photoreceptors in a retina of your eye you would not be able to see a patch in your vision smaller than the moon’s image.  Everything else would look okay. However, destruction of 166,000 hair cells in your ear would result in disequilibrium and profound deafness.  

We need to respect this sense so much more than we do at present.  Think of an inertial guidance system, an acoustic amplifier and a frequency analyser inside the volume of a marble and be impressed.  Hair cells detect motions of atomic dimensions and respond 100,000 times per second.  

Remember that over time, repeated exposure to loud noise and music can cause hearing loss. To put that in perspective we need to know a few facts.

1. The decibel (dB) is a unit to measure the level of sound.
2. The softest sound that some humans can hear is 20 dB or lower.
3. Normal talking is 40 dB to 60 dB.
4. A clap of thunder from a nearby storm (120 dB) or a gunshot (140-190 dB, depending on weapon), can both cause immediate damage.
5. A rock concert is between 110 dB and 120 dB, and can be as high as 140 dB right in front of the speakers.
6. When listening to a personal music system with stock earphones at a maximum volume, the sound generated can reach a level of over 100 dBA, loud enough to begin causing permanent damage after just 15 minutes per day!

But it is the effect that this sense can have on our spirit that surprises me constantly.  Just as we can damage this amazing organ with abuse, when used appropriately it be transformative.  I love these quotes on what music can bring to all our lives.

“..although sounds are but vibrations in the air which affect the ear's auditory nerve, and these vibrations are but chance phenomena carried along through the air, even so, see how they move the heart. A wondrous melody is wings for the spirit, and maketh the soul to tremble for joy.”

`Abdu’l-Bahá

“Music produces a kind of pleasure which human nature cannot do without.” 

Confucius, The Book of Rites

The Death roll verses the Pitchpole

I like yachts.  Love messing around in them like my dad loved airports. It is that spirit of movement and sense of adventure they embody. The smell of salt water, the tinkle of the halyards against masts set the pulse racing. Not that I am sailor I got my first job in my 20’s and spend my salary on a sailing dingy - a Topper. That year I lived and worked in Cowes, which is quite a sailing Mecca. I seem to capsize in front of the posh sailing club every time I had to turn direction. Do you remember learning to ride a bike? For me it was riding in straight lines that came first. Every time I had to take a bend, off I came with knees, elbows and hands bearing the brunt of my mistakes. Eventually, I learned to corners on bikes. Unfortunately, in sailing I never mastered certain manoeuvres.  The two main reasons for my capsizing have wonderful names.  One is called the Death roll and the other is called the Pitchpole. 

“Death roll

This is an interesting setup to the broach.  Sailing downwind can cause an oscillation of the boat rocking back and forth.  An inexperienced helmsman will tend to try to correct this by steering away from the "roll" but this will cause it to get worse.  Once the roll gets to strong the boat broaches.

Pitchpole

This is a different sort of hydrodynamic problem.  The boat is going at a certain speed and the sails are under enough pressure to maintain the speed.  When the hull suddenly slows down the sail "keeps going" and the boat pitches over the bow in a spectacular summersault.  This is usually because you're racing down the back of a wave and when your bow hits the next wave it slows down abruptly.”

When in either position and moving fast  I invariably managed to capsize the boat. I didn't let it stop me sailing. One colleague from work who foolishly came sailing with me abandoned ship after the third capsize.  I watched him flee for shore as if his life depended on it. 

I didn't belong to any sailing club and I never minded the Hurrah Henrys looking on with their irritating nasal laughter, canvas shoes and wine glasses. It was the wind, waves and adventure that had me mesmerised. There is a feeling being really in the moment that confirms you're really alive not spectating or waiting for life to begin. My Topper taught me that.  I learned to right the boat again with remorseless painful practice. It's not the end of the world to find yourself in the water with the sail on your head. Sometimes, you have to work out which way is up and down. You can be that disorientated. Breathe as much air as you can before working on getting the boat upright. Before you can get moving again you will need to find your bearings and get above water.

At times life will do that.  It will take the feet from under you. Don't waste time worrying about who is watching you. Focus on deep breaths and conserving your energy for the task in hand. Wind direction changes, waves can come in all sizes and at times your skills don't quite meet the challenge. There is no shame in that. You're not responsible for what comes your way. Only for how you choose to respond to it. We need to remember that! Don't waste time on being humiliated by life. Instead, fill your days with times worth remembering.

"It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live."

Marcus Aurelius (Roman Emperor from 161 to 180 AD)

Art in Valetta, all shapes and sizes

Entered the St James Cavalier Centre and was rather confused by an art exhibit.  But to be honest, I am no artist so take my opinions with a pinch of salt.  So here goes...

I found the rather long explanation on video by the artist unconvincing.  I reckon if you have to emphasis simplicity and witter on about the hidden meaning in each brush stroke you are stretching the margins of artistic endeavour a little too thin.  Looking carefully at each one I searched for what I could find and came up with very little.

Moving onto the galleries upstairs I really enjoyed the photo display on exhibition.  I urge all who haven't been to check it out before it goes.  To entice you I am showing a few with my own captions (apologies to wonderful photographers whose work this really is).

Running down sand dunes with kites is something only kids think of doing - but we all should.

Children make such wonderful subjects of photography.

Real beauty cuts across all cultures and boundaries.

Some photographs are so good they become paintings in our heads.

You can never have enough colours.

A whole new meaning to the expression, "The train was packed this morning!"

A new way to use old bottle tops and carry it off with style.

Making art is about getting down and personal with your creation and becoming part of the joy of it.

Transporting nuclear warheads in an ecologically sound manner. (only joking)

Why are you looking at me? it is purely circumstantial evidence, I am totally innocent.

Leaving the galleries I am confronted with the beautiful square outside and wonder why someone thought it a good idea to put a pillar with what looks like part of someone's colon on top!  (see white monstrosity on black stone underneath) There are some modern art sculptures that seem criminal in their ugliness.  The surrounding beauty serves to only stress its hideousness.

On leaving Valetta through its main gates I check out an exhibition in the Parliament Building on diversity and loved the Maltese children's take on this topic.  Their pure hearted expressions won me over completely and filled me with hope for the future of us all.

A Love Affair

I have a deep and abiding love of libraries.  My father had his own extensive collection of books and I can remember lifting a green book from his shelves unable to read at that early stage but burning with curiosity.  Many libraries often began as private collections.  For example Pierpoint Morgan's Library in New York was made by the financier Pierpoint Morgan (1837-1913) during the years of 1902 - 1906.  Eleven years after his death his son J P Morgan converted it into a public institution.  It is startlingly beautiful.

So lovely to have this resource available to the public, mind you they have to pay 20 dollars to get in.

You don't have to pay to get into the New York Public library.  It was created from the private libraries of Astor, Lenox and Tilden being amalgamated into a new library in 1989.  The new library opened in its present position in 1911.  The building itself is grand enough.

 But it is the Rose Main Reading Room which lies inside that makes my heart beat, despite never having had the delight of visiting it.

So during a visit to my son in Manchester, this summer, I took advantage of both the huge bookshops and lovely libraries available.  Rylands library in Manchester is a Gothic structure strangely imposing from the outside.

Despite its deceptively aged exterior look it was constructed and took ten years to build, opening in 1900.  It was built in memory of Manchester's first millionaire John Ryland (1801-1888) by his widow.  It has a somber beauty to it.

With strange dark corners and bookcases that hint of mysterious contents.  The Rylands Library contains a fragment of St John's gospel, only 3.5 by 2.5 inches in Greek dating from the second or early third century. Recently, one team of researchers stated that they may have found the oldest-known copy of a gospel within the papyrus-wrapped mask of mummy. When wrapping mummies scraps of papyrus from all kinds of sources were used including it turns out stories from the the Greek poet Homer to mundane business/personal letters etc The writing on this scrap is thought to be a part of the Gospel of Mark and dates back to around 90 A.D.—decades earlier than any other previously discovered gospel text.

But by far my favourite library is the Public library of Manchester.  The Public Libraries Act was passed in 1850 and in response Manchester was the first local authority to provide a free lending and reference library.  The official opening of the public library was attended by Charles Dickens in 1852. The present existing public library was opened in 1934 and was based on the Pantheon in Rome.  It is wonderfully impressive from the exterior.

Having gone through much restoration the inside is equally delightful.

High above this dome there are inscribed the memorable words from the bible,

“

Wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom, and with all thy getting get understanding. Exalt her and she shall promote thee; she shall bring thee to honour when thou dost embrace her, she shall give of thine head an ornament of grace, a crown of glory she shall deliver to thee.Proverbs 4:7”

What a wonderful reminder of what libraries should be all about.  I found the library full of people from all walks of life.  There were media booths, archives, maps, computers, coffee shop, study booths and books in all languages.  I felt strangely touched watching a Chinese couple choosing from the extensive Chinese bookshelves.  How wonderful to find yourself in a foreign country and yet discover your culture respected and acknowledged so openly.  A down and out character with holes in his socks and no shoes sat in comfort staring at the ceiling but enjoying the warmth and company around him.

Moving to a different level of the library I discovered the music section with pianos, drum kits, mixing decks and other musical instruments all available to members of the public. This is the Henry Watson Music Library. Henry Watson(1846-1911) was originally an errand boy in a Blackburn music store and by six had taught himself the dulcimer.  By ten he was a session musician and by fourteen he was touring the county as an accompanist to an antislavery show.  At 18 he was part of a booming instrument repair business.  He went on to get a doctorate from Cambridge and was a prolific composer and arranger.  He founded a library of 15,000 rare scores, 300 instruments and 200, 000 volumes of printed music.  Despite being completely self taught this errand boy ended up a professor of the Manchester College of Music.  He would have been delighted, as I was, to come upon an African teenager with headphones playing the set of drums with intensity and concentration in a library donated by him.  A famous composer was curious about a detail in the horn part of the slow movement in Beethoven's 4th Symphony.  Fortunately this library contains the 1st edition of the full score and band parts.  He was able to find the notes never performed in modern editions but there faithfully recorded as it was originally played.

If ever you are in Manchester check out this amazing building and soak up its wonderful atmosphere.

"There is no force on earth that can equal in its conquering power the force of justice and wisdom. "

from Baha'i writings