Spring cleaning in September?

It began simply. Over Sunday lunch my mum was trying to tell visiting family members just what she’d done the previous day. However, she just couldn’t bring to her mind the words necessary to describe exactly what she had achieved. Sitting beside her I felt deep sympathy because I too have reached an age when perfectly simple words do not bubble up when you most need them. My mum adopted her usual approach, in these circumstances, she pointed out of the window and said “I painted the thing below the kitchen window outside”. The ‘thing’ of course was the windowsill. She had spent a happy hour painting the mucky grey windowsill a blistering white colour. In fact, this cleanness she had appreciated so much she had decided to paint another object white as well. Sitting at the table, I felt quite sorry for my mum when the word ‘windowsill’ wouldn’t come up and wanted to rush in and provide it. But I have learnt that when you start to talk for the person, though you think you’re helping, you’re actually sabotaging them. Longer term they start to cease using this tricky language business and rely on you more and more for translation purposes. However, having struggled to describe the windowsill paint job the other painted object was even trickier. I felt genuine sympathy as I couldn’t remember the name of the thing she had painted either. So, I explained, she had painted white the cement inside the tyre wheel holding up the post with the clothes hanging above it in the garden. I had forgotten the word ‘rotary washing line’. Such is life at present! Just when I begin to feel sorry that life is so confusing and tricky for my mum I discover that life has snuck up behind me and is proving equally problematic for me. This amuses my mum who often tells me triumphantly, “You become like the people you live with, you know!” It doesn’t stop with language quirks. Last week I discovered my mum has started spring cleaning. I should’ve guessed when the week before she started painting the windowsill. But to be honest it was only when she cleaned all the shelves in the sunroom and all the material on a nearby trolley and the windows that I suddenly tweaked that this spring clean was a real thing she had begun. I remonstrated with her that this is the end of September, no time to start a spring clean, but she smiled and said confidently, “Better early than late!” Since then she has gone on to tackle the kitchen cupboards, the large corridor storage cupboard and all the drawers. It is exhausting just watching her busily hauling out, cleaning and rearranging stuff. By the fourth day I was caught up in her wake and I started cleaning the bathroom even removing shower doors to do it properly. It is a contagious thing this spring cleaning. The problem is once you start you suddenly realise how dirty everything has become. In comparison to the sparking clean surface you have wiped, the tiles above it appear yellow and grease stained. Once the walls have been bleached into shiny submission the skirting boards take on a disgusting complexion. And so, it goes on! Having cleaned some tiny aspect of the house with much effort we both have a ridiculous evening show and tell session. She shows me what she has done, pulling open cupboard doors to display ordered shelves neatly stacked and I point out my cleaning achievements to her. I suspect with time this will grow into routine mutual applause at both our efforts. At first, I was annoyed especially when my mum was totally exhausted and stiff with pain after each cleaning frenzy but now I can see why she is enjoying it. There is a deep satisfaction from seeing the visible improvement around one. We catch each other examining our own work already done with a slightly smug air. There is a momentum developing and I hesitate to say it but we seem to be getting slightly better and try to raise our game with each passing day. There is also the deep satisfaction that this spring clean has got to be the earliest we have ever attempted. For once we feel we have a head start on life, after all it is months and months until spring. The other joyous discoveries are that you don’t need to know the name of something to clean it and we are gradually finding things we thought we lost. “It’s time for a spring cleaning of your thoughts, it’s time to stop to just existing it’s time to start living.” Steve Maraboli

Changing climate linked to changing partners

There is a recent article in the Scientific American entitled Breaking Up which caused me some concern.  It highlights worrisome unexpected changes that are arising as a result of climate change.  In order to set it in perspective, it helps to understand some background information first.  

In a world where separation and divorce are ever more common it is also interesting to note that marriage itself has experienced a drop in numbers per 1000 people worldwide – see graphic below.  Admittedly this data stops at 2018 and who knows how much a pandemic will have altered the stats, it is a case of watching this space.  However, there are already a few red flags as one leading British law firm, post-Covid, logged a 122% increase in enquiries on divorce from pre-Covid levels in just four months.

Certainly, it seems as if marriage numbers are dropping significantly across most countries.  How about divorce?  Well, the picture (see below) is a bit more varied with divorces per 1000 peaking in the US in 1980 and then falling whilst the other countries seem to show a steady increase in divorces.  Even in countries where divorce is illegal or against religious principles the rate of divorce may be lower but is usually increasing.   

 

Some studies have suggested that divorce levels actually fall during difficult economic conditions, simply because people cannot afford a divorce.  Others have pointed out that additional stress of any kind, can contribute to divorce hence the jump in divorces post-holiday periods when couples are having to spend more time together than normal.  But stress is difficult to ascertain even during a pandemic.  In the US suicide levels from 2000-2018 rose by 30% but actually fell slightly during the pandemic years. However, it is complicated as there is considerable research indicating that past epidemics such as the Spanish Flu and severe acute respiratory syndrome led to increased suicide rates.  Perhaps we are too close to this event to accurately predict outcomes.  Although many, during this pandemic, were stressed about increasing levels of isolation at home there were others who actually relished the absence of bullying and stress in the school or workplace.  It seems trying to understand stress levels via the divorce or suicide rate is too complicated in humans and a different cohort is required for clarity.  

If we examine the animal species only 5% of mammal species are monogamous.  Mammals that buck this trend and mate for life are Oldfield mice, dik-diks, titi monkeys, red and grey foxes, coyotes and grey wolves.  Prairie voles take it to a different level, they split nest building and child-rearing equally with their partner and not only mate for life but even after the death of their life partner 80% never have another.  Mind you how we learned about Praire voles and the strength of their bond with their partner is a depressing business. From this academic paper on Praire voles, it is strangely disturbing to read the following quote,

“Disruption of an established pair bond (between voles) leads to high levels of passive behavior (immobility) in the forced swim and tail suspension tests, a behavioral response reminiscent of grieving and bereavement in humans.”  

To understand this line, you need to know what the forced swim test and tail suspension tests involve. The swim test involves the scoring of active (swimming and climbing) or passive (immobility) behaviour when vole are forced to swim in a cylinder from which there is no escape. 

In the tail suspension test, the vole is hung from a tube by its tail for five minutes approximately 10 cm away from the ground. During this time the animal will try to escape and reach for the ground. 

The time it takes until it remains immobile is measured.  So, to sum up, in order to measure the stress and distress felt by separating a prairie vole from its life partner, it is forced to swim until it gives up and is hung by the tail until it ceases to struggle for release.  The time it takes to give up is a measure of the degree of bereavement at the loss of a life partner.  I don’t know why all this leaves me impressed by voles but totally disappointed by human beings in general.

Strangely 90% of bird species are monogamous and it is largely because their young (like human babies) are tiny, helpless, and immature and require a lot of parental care.  

Exceptionally strong bonds are found in lovebirds, Atlantic puffins, Bald eagles, albatrosses, geese, pigeons, black vultures, and scarlet macaws.  In fact, when the geese’s mate is injured it will guard them protectively until they recover or die.  

The article I referred to in the introduction in this year’s Scientific American was about the black-browed albatross who are socially monogamous as the pair alternate between lengthy foraging trips and egg-incubation duties.  If their breeding is not successful in the course of a year a female albatross will leave and find a different mate.  Such divorces have been noted for some time in the black-browed albatross which breeds on New Island on the Falkland Islands.  There is now 15 years of breeding data available and this has been examined in relation to sea temperatures and wind strength.  High winds allow for a greater distance of foraging while higher sea temperatures lower the nutrients available by reducing phytoplankton and subsequently the marine food web.  Higher sea temperatures have been recently observed to increase stress levels among partnerships and decrease breeding success.  As a result, in the warmer conditions more female albatrosses are leaving their life partners.  The paper proposes an explanation it calls the ‘partner-blaming hypothesis’ which is when the female conflates stress caused by environmental conditions with poor performance by a partner.  I suspect you know where I am going with this.  

If stress can do this to a monogamous albatross population perhaps we should be more concerned about what stress is doing to our community.  Whether stress comes as a result of climate change, a pandemic, or an economically challenging situation there are those out there who are already suffering.  They may be trying to keep afloat in horrific conditions or find themselves suspended in a state of distress. Do what you can for those you encounter. These days are not kind to Prairie voles, albatrosses, or people.  

 “Do not be content with showing friendship in words alone, let your heart burn with loving kindness for all who may cross your path.”

 (Abdu'l-Baha, Paris Talks, p. 15)

 

  

 

The scholar does not consider gold and jade to be precious treasures, but loyalty and good faith - Confucius

Once on a trip to Canada some years ago, my mum and were exploring the beautiful city of Vancouver. We watched fascinated as the little water taxi planes came down to land on the seafront. But after several hours of the city landscape, we grew weary of the shops, the noise, and materialism. We spotted a tiny sign, it said ‘the Chinese scholar’s home and garden’. We decided to enter. 

What a delight! It was a replica of a Chinese scholar’s home from the past and had wooden sliding doors, ornate desks with huge sheets of paper, endless paintbrushes for calligraphy, and the most exquisite gardens. It was built in 1986 by fifty-three master craftsmen from China using 950 crates of traditional material and constructed using 14th-century methods so no glue, screws or power tools.  Everything was made with so much care. Every tree, plant, rock, table, bowl or pond seemed to have been positioned with meticulous intent. 

Just as accurately as the traditional Chinese scholar would have placed his brush on the crisp rice paper to make his figures. The clean lines of the building and the beauty of the gardens nursed our weary spirits.  

Suddenly the noise of the busy city disappeared. Instead, the trickle of water or the noise of a leaf as you brushed past filled the quietness. Each view had been landscaped both externally and internally. A circular wooden opening captured a part of a tree, a corner of a pond or a storm perfectly. We sensed an eye with better taste had carefully honed all this beauty.  Its simplicity spoke to the senses and made you want to absorb it all in respectful silence. Our time there passed peacefully and it was only when the tour ended and we found ourselves on a busy Vancouver street once more, did we suddenly feel the loss of all its calmness and serenity.  

This week a dear friend was leaving the country. Returning to family members in the UK after many years abroad. The cost of posting her belongings, post-Brexit, was not only complicated by endless form filling but also plagued by horrendous shipping costs. It felt as if every item she owned had to be catalogued, described, and recorded by both Foreign Offices and UK official bodies before transportation could begin. Horrified by the high prices my friend carefully culled her precious belongings and then in panic as departure day loomed discarded even more.  She decided the only way to cope was to give her belongings to those she cared for. I received her treasured writing desk and chair, from her father. Soon all of her friends were blessed with her thoughtful bequests. The last few boxes were part of her father’s library and over the last few days, I have been sorting through his books in my flat.

What a delight. Here has evidently been another scholar, not of Chinese calligraphy or gardens but of that mindset. Books on history, religion, philosophy, and biographies abounded. Not one book on serial killers, paedophiles, or romantic fiction and it felt such a privilege handling the scholar’s library. Here, in a huge book on 'Excellence', he had placed a handwritten card with page numbers and recorded insightful quotes on this topic.

One sensed the careful mind behind all these books. The delight in spiritual questions with many books on prayer, Saint Thomas Aquinas, meditation, the life of Christ, and from other different religions. Many were books on education and public speaking or the art of conversation. Then, there were the detailed history books on ancient Greece to medieval Europe and even modern political studies.  Classical literature was there from works by Shakespeare to Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s novels. There was an unexpected little map that folded out to show all the great monasteries and religious centres that had ever existed in the UK.  So many are no longer in existence. There were endless dictionaries in English, Italian and French. I felt like an apprentice who keeps finding his teacher’s tastes are so far beyond him. A book of idioms in both English and Italian, detailed descriptions of societies, intricate philosophy treatises all hurt my mind.  I began to feel like a huge carthorse following a thoroughbred and avoiding the tricky fences while they soared over all before them.  

I was delighted to discover that a scholar’s library is like peering into another’s interests and enthusiasms. It felt like being awakened by their dedication to learn, examine and search for truth wherever it can be found. Wide-ranging and omnivorous in appetite. It seems so refreshing in the world that seems focused on perversity, character assassination or killer’s confessions.  I finished going through the library inspecting the books and discovered I felt the same gratitude I felt outside that scholar’s home in Vancouver. Grateful that such people exist in this world and heartened to think that there are probably other scholars still out there now gleaning things of beauty from this confusing and distracting world.

“Every good habit, every noble quality belongs to man’s spiritual nature, whereas all his imperfections and sinful actions are born of his material nature.”

Bahá’í writings

Recalibrating in Dangerous Days

I sit and breathe deep. I think of all those we have loved and lost these days. Has not all thought become strangely recalibrated? It feels like one of those seismic moments when the atomic bomb exploded, ‘Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds’. 

The poor have suffered disproportionately. Refugee numbers have swelled as the fear of fleeing is outweighed by the danger of staying in areas afflicted by conflict, famine, or drought. In response, the wealthier nations have pulled up the skirts of their borders to avoid being besmirched by the hordes. Old racial, religious, national, and sexual prejudices have harmonized with the selfish preoccupation finding vogue. Fashions fly in and fly out, but who would’ve thought that while we face a global pandemic these old poisonous siren calls would lure us onto familiar rocks once again. 

We’ve lost 3,9 million citizens, so far, to this new virus and yet there is little soul-searching as to the lessons learned.   Older problems causing even greater numbers of deaths each year are usually largely ignored. 

• Globally, at least 2 billion people use a drinking water source contaminated with faeces. We shouldn’t be surprised then that 850,000 of them die each year because they have no clean water.

• Nine million die each year in this world from hunger. 

• Seven million die each year from smoking. 

• Three million die every year from the consumption of alcohol. 

• At least 2.8 million people die each year as a result of being overweight or obese. 

• 4.6 million die each year just from air pollution. 

We have money-making industries that thrive despite causing millions of these deaths each year and I fear it is viewed as merely collateral damage. 

Nations have shown a perverse greed to protect only their own during this pandemic, allowing others to die from a simple lack of oxygen or access to a vaccine. There are lessons needing to be learned about how corruption plagues society. Of how even personal protection equipment can become a moneymaking endeavour for those with the wrong perspective but the right connections. How much money marshalled to face this pandemic threat has been swiftly side-tracked into the coffers of those whose greed exceeds their integrity. I fear we are suffering from a moral decay that has been eating into the vitals of human society for some time. It has lowered humanity’s immune response and as a result, opportunistic cancerous elements have been given free rein. 

Yet, I have a hope that the younger generation has a clarity the older population may have lost. They are not afraid to make the changes that we, who have been moulded for decades by this system, cannot. Whether it is admitting climate change, addressing injustice, or simply wanting transformative decisions on gun control, I find myself respecting this younger generation more and more. Astonished at how much they understand and how clear their thought processes are. Not tied into toxic habits that have twisted our own mindset. They are more united and more in touch with each other. They question these false gods of consumerism, materialism, and all the other ‘..isms’ that have dictated so many of the poor choices we have made. 

The world is tired of words it wants actions. It requires deeds that show we have found a way to live moral, responsible lives that contribute to the health of both this world community and our precious planet Earth

Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated

This plane is far too full. Given the many precautions of the airport with careful separation of passengers by means of floor signs, sealed off areas, seats taped over to enforce distancing and even the queueing policy and masks mandatory there was a sense of these people know how to make this Covid-safe space. But even in the airport, despite all appearances, there were obvious flaws. Every single hand cleansing dispenser was empty. I knew because I’m paranoid enough to insist on using them all. That should’ve given me a heads up that all was not what it seemed. However, it was only when I entered the departure lounge that everything went really pear-shaped. My gate was absolutely packed with the queue snaking right around the entire hall. People were trying to keep a safe distance but the room was just not big enough. 

Then, we were jammed into the airport buses, on route to the plane, like sardines. Gone was any pretence of social distancing. We were packed far too tightly to permit even a bulky handbag to separate us. I consoled myself with the thought that the plane would be better. After all, the last time I flew on this route, in Covid times, there were only 16 people on the whole plane. I actually managed to stretch out and sleep across three vacant seats for the first time in years. Not this time! The plane rapidly filled to the brim. Obviously, being a Christmas flight, many were returning to Dublin for the festive period. I initially thought I would be the only fortunate person on the plane to have vacant seats on either side of me. Unfortunately, once the door of the plane closed there was a rapid reshuffling and a man took one of the empty seats in my row. I briefly contemplated the social etiquette of pointing out he should sit in the seat indicated by his ticket. However, since there was by now a massive reseating going on all over the plane I decided making a fuss was not in order. At least I didn’t have the chap two rows ahead beside me. He was wearing a mask so small it did not cover his mouth or nose, more of a chin strap. Who does he think he is fooling? Never mind I put my head back and try to relax. The stewards came around to take the food order and I politely declined. I have purchased an expensive FFP3 mask for this flight and I’m not risking removing it to either drink or eat. But darn it the people all around me are suddenly removing their masks so they can stuff their faces. Perhaps I should just relax after all I have had Covid already in May. 

On that last trip, I had flown to Ireland from Malta and brought a packed lunch to eat on the plane during the journey. After the flight, I got onto the bus for the long journey to Belfast. On that particular last leg of the journey, I did not feel at all well. In fact, by the time it arrived in Belfast, outside the Europa hotel, I barely managed to stagger off the bus before vomiting on the pavement. This startled me as I rarely ever vomit. As I’ve mentioned before, even in the face of food poisoning (a dodgy Chinese family meal) all vomited but my dad and I.  Then, when sailing with friends in rough weather, who were vomiting in unison either side of me, I managed to still enjoy my Mars bar. So, it was weird for me to feel so bad. I recovered once I had emptied my stomach. But within two weeks my mum and I both had Covid. Did I catch it on the plane? Somehow two weeks seems too long. Who knows, it could have been from a supermarket trip, getting petrol for the car, a neighbour who came too close to talk.   I’ll never know but Covid was horrid. I had a mild but nasty period but my poor 87-year-old mum was eventually hospitalised and had to have oxygen. Thankfully she fought her way back to health despite her age, damaged lungs and asthma and came home safely. Mind you, both of us are convinced our brains are just not the same. 

So, the reason I’m a bit paranoid on this plane is because I’m heading once again to be with my mum and I’m frankly terrified I’ll pick up the virus on route. The science is rather vague about how long antibodies and T cells remain in your system after you’ve been exposed to the virus and recovered. A few months was mentioned initially but then it seemed to depend on the severity of the original infection. Those who with the milder symptoms seem to lose their immunity faster. Then, there’s also vagueness about whether you yourself could be immune but still carry the virus to others. Just the possibility of that has generated a longing for 2m between me and all my neighbours on this flight. The younger generation seems much more relaxed about this disease. The young man behind me is chatting up a pretty girl in the seat beside him. They have that excited nervous first conversation, not exactly flirty, but each wanting to put their best foot forward. I’m wishing they would talk less as they’re too close to me. 

There are only two elderly people on this flight and I can tell they are panicking. Both wear a visor and a mask to protect themselves, a smart move I should have thought of. When the old man had entered the plane he had started a heated argument with a young man with a crewcut seated in 1A. The elderly man was sure this upstart was sitting in his seat and argued loudly while hitting his boarding pass with a red pointed finger. The air steward intervened as the young man searched for his boarding pass on his phone. It took time for the truth to emerge as the elderly man behind his mask and visor couldn’t hear the steward very well. It turned out his boarding ticket was in row three not row one and he and his grey-haired wife were eventually persuaded to move on down the plane to their real seats. In the middle of the confusion, his wife took a severe cramp in her calf and had to stop and rub it while groaning in pain. I have real sympathy with this getting older. Along with more pain, it makes mistakes more likely. There really should be compassion for the elderly. Remembering to wear masks is tricky once you get past a certain age. You can easily forget. 

In Malta, masks are mandatory everywhere outdoors and I have managed to get a block from home before remembering to pull a mask from my bag. Why is it so tricky? It’s because it’s foreign. The younger generation can adapt to change but older people have their life long habits engraved in brains of cement.  When you periodically lose your train of thought, can’t find that word and miss place inanimate objects with depressing regularity then obeying brand new regulations is really tough. There is a video of a pensioner online, entering a supermarket and mistaking a drink dispenser for an alcoholic hand spray and pouring the brightly coloured sugar drink over both palms and then rubbing in the sticky stuff earnestly. One’s heart leaps in real sympathy. When they hand out fines for not wearing a mask I think old age should be a valid excuse! 

Travelling had already become harder, even before Covid hit and was becoming very tiring. The distance covered by travellers in the airport has become longer, time standing in queues in steep stairways adds to the torture. The steps on a Ryanair aircraft are rickety and narrow with steps that are smaller than normal-sized feet. You end up coming down the steps on your heels with most of your foot projecting out mid-air. The whole structure moves like a rickety ladder and there’s no room to carry a suitcase by your side. Instead, you have to hold it in front of you pulling you forward dangerously over your toes. The fact that these ladders fold into the plane has to be convenient for the airlines but it’s a real liability for the elderly/pregnant/parent with small children. 

Another couple in front of me is also courting across the aisle. I suspect young people are desperate to socialise. Planes are replacing nightclubs, pubs and other social venues. We older ones avoid such unnecessary exposure to germs.  The young are excited to have these hours to get to know someone new at last. I cannot blame them. After all, they are young and feel invincible. Their immune systems are humming along nicely. Fighting off infections like crack troops. Ours are a withered bunch who have been whittled away by chronic conditions. Our systems often already need medication to keep our troops in line and in order.  These elderly troops seem less vigilant and effective.  I can remember getting deep cuts in my knees, when younger, and they healed so quickly. Healed and left no scars. Now marks remain for years and can even grow to form deep creases. Opportunistic growths appear in unlikely places and these old bodies view these invaders as bedfellows that just have to be endured. Decisions are sometimes made to rip such opportunistic growths off a shoulder or back but need to be weighed with the scar that will be left. Deciding to go for the scar or just ignore this new tenant have to be thought through.  In fact, with time you are a bit embarrassed by your battlefield body.  Once a nurse was worried by a huge bleeding sore on my forearm when I had decided this particular growth had outgrown my tolerance for it.  On my next visit to a health clinic, a different nurse was horrified by the size of an unsightly growth on my wrist.  As I made my way home I was trying to work out which had caused more distress in medical staff.  To rip off or leave alone, difficult to decide?

The other change that age brings is that you are more sensitive to stress.  You’d think with experience you’d be able to weather difficulties better.  But the truth is with age you long for peace and quiet and toxic atmospheres corrode your wellbeing.  Unexpected stress freaks you out.  As do last-minute changes or having to rush because you are late.  Responsibilities weigh more heavily.  You sweat over grandchildren.  Worry about their safety, fear you will fail them through inattention or carelessness.  Knowing how tricky inanimate objects have become, like jar lids that won't open, you are freaked out by these active strong-willed characters.  Their minds are like quicksilver and you feel like a heavy-footed cart horse.  These bones don’t move so fast anymore and these old brains don’t process thoughts so well.  There are benefits. Strangely emotions grow stronger with age.  A beautiful landscape can move us to tears.  As can a child’s smile or a sweet memory of an old friend.

Sleep changes. When you are young you can do without sleep all night. Function pretty well all the next day before collapsing the next night. When you are old, sleep becomes something you keep track off like a bank balance. Every morning you will enquire of everyone you live with if they slept well. It is a subject of interest to you as sleeping has become a hit or miss affair. No more total collapse into a blissful full night’s sleep. Instead, bladder trips pepper the night and often sleep does not follow these outings. Then the night shift of bedroom roof inspection begins.  Tired of the horrible thoughts that bubble up in a sleep-deprived mind I generally get up and have breakfast at 3 am. With a full belly sometimes sleep comes as an unexpected desert. With such varied experiences at night no wonder the elderly have daily conversations about sleep. And that doesn’t even cover the dreams. In old age, you can find yourself back in stress-inducing situations that years ago you might have faced. But now, at this stage in life, the stress is hyper experienced and unbearable.  You wake up traumatised by an experience you manage to wade through with difficulty in your prime but is now played in your dream as an awful sequel. When an older person asks you with genuine concern ‘Did you sleep well?” Know in what context they ask.  They know what a bad night feels like, the emotions that rip open wounded hearts. So, out of love, they want to be reassured that your sleep was sound and blissful. It pleases them to know someone is getting a good night’s sleep.

My romantic neighbours behind me are on their second meal of this flight. They consume vast quantities of drink that we older travellers would never challenge our bladders with. These young people after hours of flight look remarkably fresh. It reminds me of two friends of mine who went into the local maternity ward at the same time and gave birth on the same day. Amused by the synchronicity of this event, photos were taken of the two friends with their new babies on the ward. The young mother in her 20’s looked like a model in her nightgown with a freshly flushed complexion glowing with happiness. My 43-year-old older friend held her baby like an anchor that was too heavy to hold and looked like she had been through 20 rounds of a vicious heavyweight boxing match.  Even her hair seemed freaked out. The contrast between the two mothers in the photograph had us all roaring in laughter and sympathy. As I look around this plane I can see a similar phenomenon.  The young look exactly as they did when they entered this plane. We oldies look like we’ve been dragged through bushes backwards for several nights. Eyelids are closing independently of their owners and mouths seem to be pulled by gravity into grimaces that speak of back pain that has reached intolerable proportions. Old bones shift uncomfortably and long to be flat on orthopaedic mattresses. Cramps come and go in unlikely places and vague indigestion has begun to brew. Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated.  The noisy happy flirtatious chat of excited young people has become like dentist drills in our heads. We admire their energy and commitment but long for our own oblivion in a deep sleep. Our bank balances are running extremely low and being polite to others takes incredible effort. Excited chitchat from youngsters is like fingernails on the blackboard. 

But we must endure.  That’s what age teaches you. Patience with yourself and others, the flaws, the worries and the pains. It’s a hard-won quality and it makes you wish for all onboard this plane a safe journey and a good night sleep at the end of it. Because isn’t that what we all long for at the end of these lives of ours.

Flight to the Light

Transmutation calls not for a cloak to hide distress nor an icy barrier to protect. 

Not even splendid hermit-like isolation to guard against all blows verbal, physical or emotional.  

But that alchemy of the spirit that burns the dross off and polishes the mirror of the heart. 

Creating that cleansed pure channel to allow the divine confirmations to flow through. 

Cleaning this poor backwater of all regrets, expectations or disappointment. Focusing all one’s rays of hope on the spirit of Faith. No defence of the heart but open to love allowing that magical transmutation into a worthier me. 

Fingernails gripping each painful centimetre upwards. Aware of the ego drop but clenching the rope of security in my fist. 

Closeness requires sacrifice and my eyes must be on this journey of discovery and my heart filled with kindness for all I meet on the way. 

Understanding that like the butterfly, a rotten cocoon must be broken free to enable flight to the light.

blah, blah, blah.....

I was complaining bitterly about my chronic sleeplessness on my 60^th birthday this year. I talked of my worries to my older brothers over the Christmas table groaning with goodies. They both confessed to having poor sleep themselves and blamed it on being over 60. “It’s just one of those things”, one said, “that comes with age like a dodgy ankle, bigger stomach, poor eyesight, a stiff back or arthritic thumbs”.  I was shocked. A lifetime of being a sound sleeper was no preparation for these long dark nights of ceiling inspection. It was my brothers’ knowing resignation that frightened me most. I thought insomnia was either in your genes or not.

My father had suffered his entire life from insomnia so I had naïvely thought that either you were born a poor sleeper or are one of the lucky ones like me. To find after six decades you could turn vampire like into a non-sleeper was a total betrayal of who I thought I was.

So, I have complained long and hard through this new way of living to all who have the patience to listen. Some proffer herbal drinks or bedtime routines as possible cures. Late night walks, banishing the laptop or avoiding taxing conversations all have been suggested and eagerly embraced by this pathetic night fugitive.

It was the next day weariness that wore me down. I felt as if I was operating on a half a tank and found simple tasks required stupendous effort. Typical sleep deprived mistakes included writing an entire set of appointments and meetings on the wrong week of my diary. That was followed by a confusing number of missed calls from furious people and knocking on my door by students while I was out doing anything other than what I was supposed to be doing.  “Sorry, sorry” became my new mantra that week.

That was also the week I started talking to myself on public transport. People began to give me odd looks as I gave myself a good stern dressing down for missing another important meeting. It’s fortunate that nowadays, I can pretend I have a particularly modern, almost invisible, headset to my phone. I have become cunning and when I would notice the glances of perplexed onlookers, as I blabber, I place an index finger in my ear and pause as if hearing a response from someone, then nod knowledgeably.

Some dark days when I see others talking heatedly into their hands-free phones I wonder have they lost it too but are even better experts than me at hiding their mental state?

They use sleep deprivation as torture and I know why. After three weeks of continuous poor sleeping, I transmuted into a different entity. When people spoke to me all I heard was blah, blah, blah. But for some reason, I was able to read their minds with particular intensity. Their mouth would be going blah, blah but the tiny muscles around their mouth indicated their anger or sadness. Not hearing their actual words, their body language seemed to shout more clearly. A particular nose touch indicating a lie, a quick pursing of the lips, dislike. I remember standing in front of one chap at a party hearing his braying blah, blah but seeing his eyes furtively dart to a young woman seated on the sofa nearby. His evident longing for her was louder than his braying.

After the fourth week of continuous disturbed sleep, a new dangerous state emerged. Now, I no longer heard or saw people. Acquaintances would accost me in the supermarket and I would examine them as if they were trying to sell me something on the phone. My response invariably would be “no thanks, no thanks” before I shuffled off politely.

Sleep deprivation finally ends in madness I can tell! Another week and I would begin rampaging through the shop shopping centre overturning goods while trying to undress myself in public. One more month of this and I would be a drooling, twitching, incontinent.

Thankfully and I do mean thankfully last night I had a wondrous night’s sleep. As a result, I have leapfrogged back to almost normality. I can keep appointments, hear what others say and have conversations again. I’m still scolding myself in public but the tone has become much more sympathetic like a firm mentor giving constructive criticism and I can actually almost pass for normal once more.  Miracles do happen!