If you talk less, they listen more

My father’s attitude to looking after multiple grandchildren was rather unique. I like to think he had an odd mixture of backgrounds that lead to experimentation. His mother had died when he was very young (around two or three) so in one way he could easily relate to lonely and unusual children. Fortunately, his mother was one of 12 siblings so, on the other hand, there was an excess of aunts and uncles and cousins to lavish care and attention on him.  His sociability probably sprang from this huge extended network which he took long road trips to renew and strengthen over the decades.

Then, he was the headmaster of a secondary school and had taught in the UK, Canada and Australia. That gave him ample opportunity to get to know the developing mind of a wide range of youngsters. So, when he had grandchildren one would have figured he would use his extensive educational experience to great advantage.

However, he claimed that the best way to look after a herd of grandchildren was to leave them alone. He would generally take them to a huge flat beach where they could walk for miles and only get ankle-deep in the sea. Then, he would studiously ignore the children but follow them from a safe distance. He claimed parents were far too interfering with instructions like “Take your socks off”, “Keep your shoes on”, “Where is your coat!” “Do you need a drink?” Or be the font of too much useless information, “This is a limestone rock”, “Here is the shell of a mollusc” or “This sea is called the Atlantic?”

Or constantly made fear-inducing statements like “You could easily drown”, “The sun is really bad for your skin”, “That dog might bite”, “Beware of strangers”, “You could easily get lost, be careful”.

Instead, he felt that silence allowed the child to really explore their environment in a much more personal and intimate way. He discovered a herd of small children usually unconsciously appoints a natural leader and they keep the group together. All his energy would then be devoted to ensuring safety not distracting conversations. Adults feel the need to talk, inform, respond, elucidate to each other but especially to children. The frightening reality, he claimed, was that most talk is just gibberish and many of us have come to so many false conclusions it might be much safer to opt for silence instead.

Children were clean slates ready to write their own reality, he felt, and thought it really unfair to interfere or mess them up. This hands-off attitude changed when he had just one child in hand. Then, he’d question them mercilessly trying to work out how they thought, what they valued, their views on things etc. It was that unique ability to flick from silent bystander of the group to loving inquisitor of the single child that build epic bonds with children. When children sense you don’t need them to be an audience they relax. If you talk less, they listen more when you do speak. If you respect their space both physically and mentally they sometimes gain much more.

A friend recently described being in Africa on the savannah and learning that by walking a few steps in one direction stopping and then heading in another and stopping repeatedly, the nearby animals grew used to his presence and began ignoring him. To them, he just seemed to be another grazing animal. 

Perhaps by adopting the same approach with young children we can get the necessary closeness to observe the important interactions they’re experiencing rather than our own flawed expectations.

All happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of the object to which we are attached

I envy the young their sociability. Here in the shopping mall, they roam in herds chattering, pushing and laughing. At ease with their peers around them. Adults tend to be loan wolves or couples. Like the pair sitting beside me at the table with their Marks & Spencer's cups of coffee in front of them. 

Although sitting opposite he has his chair carefully positioned away from his wife. Occasionally, he points out someone passing and with a snigger nods at his wife. She is ripping a napkin into tiny minuscule pieces of confetti. Not in a random angry way but with slow methodical tidy strips equally broad and then dissecting these into smaller and smaller pieces. Folding carefully then tearing in half then folding again until her side of the table is covered in this patient display of inner turmoil while the husband carefully ignores her paperwork. 

He points out an obese woman waddling past and speaks a quick photo of her with his iPhone before nodding to his wife “Got her”, “I’ll add that to the collection”! She dips her head in acknowledgement of his smartness and then rips with violence the tender tissue between her fingers. She looks placid and contained. All her agitation focused in one monumental craft pursuit. He swings his coffee down and stares around. There is less to see. The shopping centre has emptied. His wife has completed her task. The array of equally sized tiny squares cover her side of the table. She takes them and one by one pushes them through the slit in her empty plastic coffee cup lid. Sometimes she needs to use the stick stirrer to push reluctant one through, but her fingers are fine and nimble. This is obviously a much practised art. It's harder for him to ignore her actions. There is less to take his attention. 

He glances down at her pile of little papers and says, “For shit’s sake, Beth”! In those muttered few words there is so much hatred and loathing. She sits back in her chair as if struck and drops the tiny squares, hands by her side she sits awkwardly before the table scanning all the confetti. Unable to put away her work. Yet captive before it, arms yearning to place them all into the calling slot. She fidgets restless and discontent, fingers scratching at her nail beds on opposite hands pulling, pushing digging. He spots the frantic activity and raises an inquisitive eyebrow mouth turned down in tight disapproval. She grips the arm rest of the plastic chair and with obvious effort is still at last. The concentration required has created a tense expectancy that radiates from her. I cannot take the atmosphere and beat a hasty retreat. Spinoza knew a thing or two when he said...

“All happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of the object to which we are attached by love. “                                                  

Baruch Spinoza

It's hotting up, our lives matter

In August 2003 there was an extraordinary loss of life that occurred in the heart of Europe that seems to have been overlooked by many.  In these days of terrorism, mass shootings and Ebola quiet deaths are just not news.  So when 70,000 people died during the month of August it barely made a ripple abroad.  It was caused by an unusual heat wave and the deaths were mostly elderly.  France alone lost 15,000.  The temperatures rose into the 40s and stayed there for days.  Strangely, even the nights were hot and with so many without air conditioners the elderly were particularly vulnerable.  Social isolation and fragmented families meant that there were just too few to care or notice.  From the 4^th – 14^th August France suffered its longest sequence of hot days on record.  The extent of the human toll was first detected by undertakers, who were being overwhelmed with unclaimed bodies. In Paris, some of the corpses had to be kept in a warehouse outside the city when mortuaries were full.  By the heat wave’s end it became clear that the nation had some soul searching to do.  It was made worse by the fact that bodies, in large numbers, remained unclaimed for burial.  

Given that global warming should contribute to more, not less, of these unusual extreme conditions we have all much to reflect on. Dehydration, hyperthermia and heat stroke fuelling cardiac and respiratory diseases claimed many lives.  The elderly were the vulnerable section of society that bore the brunt of deaths. A disheartening discovery was that one of four victims had no family, friends, or even a single social link.  Such stark isolation along with a lack of national policy of how to deal with such extreme conditions meant the deaths took everyone by surprise.  Shame was also felt by the nation as a whole.  If we judge our society by how it treats the young, the old and the ill then this tragic event highlighted deep problems.  In this electronic age of world wide communication, instant messages, Facebook and Skype it seems, in reality, people are often more isolated than every before.  Loneliness and isolation can actually kill.  How we live as a society can either contribute to our wellbeing or lead to us dying alone and unnoticed.

Lessons must be learned.  Heat waves have happened before in other places.  Chicago had a heat wave in the summer of 1995 and fatalities were mostly from the poorest and most vulnerable African American community.  One community that bucked the trend was the equally poor Hispanic population.  This community is thought to have better survival rates due to its unity and cohesion.  In July 2010 Russia lost a third of their wheat harvest in fires due to a heat wave reaching temperatures of 44 degrees.  By the end of that month 56,000 Russians had died.  

Climate change is happening and its costs are already being felt by life on this planet.  Society is wasting time on wars and battles that are using resources that should be put in place to save lives not end them.  This is one planet and we are one race, the human race.  Each life lost diminishes us.  How we choose to live will effect who and how many will die.  As a society we need to make wise informed choices and learn to build cohesive communities, as if our lives depended on it.  Because they do!

I am pretty odd to start with

I have been alone far too long and am beginning to become even more odd than normal.  This will be of some concern to those who know me, as I am pretty odd to start with.  Yesterday I jumped on any bus and travelled as far as it went.  Got off at a village and walked and walked until I grew tired and found a bus stop.  The time schedule showed that the bus would come in 45 minutes.  It is a given fact that I am unable to wait at bustops.  I’m not sure what it is that gets to me about waiting below those signs.  It occurs to me that these 45 minutes will never be returned to me but are totally wasted.  Suddenly, life seems short enough without the loss of these 45 minutes.  As usual, I cannot wait and proceed to walk to Rabat, a good 3.5 kms away instead.  

Today I jumped another bus this time to a place called the Golden Bay on Malta.  It has a secluded sandy beach on the far side of the island.  After ages the bus drops me off and instead of enjoying the beach I go to the Radisson Hotel and eat at the Mokka a ridiculously expensive restaurant on a balcony overlooking the bay.  It had been rated quite high on trip advisor.  I had the cheapest thing on the menu Ceasar Salad and water.  It came after a huge delay and it is the first time I had this salad without chicken and without crotons.  As you might suspect without these it becomes lettuce and cheese.  In fact it resembled a child’s idea of making a cheese sandwich with lettuce instead of bread.  It is far too posh a place to complain and even when they charge 5.50 euros for a bottle of water I have to act as if that is fine instead of tearing my hair out and screaming – “what a rip off!”  

On the way back by bus I kept falling asleep.  For some reason, when asleep, my leg would slip forward and kick a very dignified Maltese white haired gentleman.  I would wake up and apologise and then fall asleep again and do the same thing.  He was very gracious and when I said how sorry I was he just smiled and waved his hand dismissively.  I proceeded to kick him five times on that journey but his good nature never wavered.  Got home and went straight to bed and sleep an hour – talk about exhausted.  

Yesterday I noticed I had begun to talk to myself.  Not long speeches but short invigorating comments – like “you can do this”, or “never mind, another day!”  But today, I noticed my talking to myself has become much more convoluted.  Long segments of a good talking to, the kind of thing you would say to a demented aunt who has pushed you beyond your limits.  This I have to admit is not a good sign.  Rather worrisome, I think.  Even worse, there is no one to notice.  Three weeks of being alone has done something to my brain and not a good thing.  Thank goodness incoming troops are arriving on Tuesday.  I do hope I have not reached an even worse state by then, my visitors may not even get a word in.  I could be giving parliamentary-like addresses for hours by that stage!