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.