What is it about golden rooms that scream inadequacy?

A beautiful garden, a lovely blue-skied day to soak up the welcome winter sun rays. The Palazzo Parisio is a treat. The building is grand but the gardens are beautiful. I remember when visiting Versailles I was spectacularly unimpressed by the over-the-top furnishings. I mean one can have too much of gold, embossing, mirrors and intricate coving. 

It reaches joke-like proportions and you cease to be awed but feel a growing revulsion instead.  Wondering around the Palace of Versailles I did not envy royalty their silly gilded home.  Then, I entered the gardens around the palace and felt an unpleasant envy of the bloody rich.

Here in Naxhar on Malta, the  Palazzo Parisio has also pleasant rooms but a bit Louis the XVI, if you get my drift.  What is it about golden rooms that scream inadequacy? 

The Palazzo’s gardens outside are a wonderfulI place to have coffee and I sit on white garden chairs soaking up the smell of flowers and the sound of birds. 

There is only one other table occupied and I hear that peculiar braying voice of the wealthy, declaring they started their business years ago and have made so much money! They're sitting on the table next to me. How they have moved from Florianna to Naxhar to be closer to smart bars and better parking. Their gloating satisfaction sets my teeth on edge. What is it about ‘the rich’, ‘the would-be rich’ or ‘the has been rich’ that their exaltation in their material successes (real or imaginary) hits such a sour note with me? I must admit to it being nauseous to my system. A similar reaction to encountering a vomit smelling toilet onboard a rough cross-channel ferry. Don't get me wrong an aspirational attitude is admirable in so many ways, but a gloating self-satisfaction is never attractive. 

All of us vaguely know the humility that is truly appropriate when you examine yourself closely. You get a whiff of your own hypocrisy, your shells of pretence, the lies you tell yourself to cover over the cracks. In those moments of truth, we all shift in our seats in discomfort at the truth bubbling up from within. Instead of cackling over the misfortune of others like this lot. They are now discussing, their friend Lola’s disastrous boutique dress shop with inappropriate glee. They knew in advance it would end badly! Now, they speculate on another friend who has withdrawn from Facebook. “She was always a bit odd into nature and stuff! Must be something disastrous happening in her life?” 

I am asking myself, what no meaningless selfies of random spectacular venues, no gloating achievements/homes/cars etc what a loss! I sit here judging others so harshly when I am so rarely as vicious on myself. Perhaps this pernicious self-gratification habit sneaks into all our lives without us even noticing. Instead of examining our internal landscape we begin enjoying speculation on the ruins of others.  Just as I do now on my neighbours in this garden.

I will cease this attack on the rich around me and just enjoy the coffee, the sun's rays, the flowers and beckoning gardens instead. It's probably why being in nature is such therapy for the soul. You look at beauty and find nothing to criticise and just soak up its wholesomeness. Sigh with appreciation that it, like the sun beams on all with uniform abundance, impervious to all our inadequacies and shortcomings.

"Busy not thyself with this world, for with fire We test the gold, and with gold We test Our servants."

Bahá’u’lláh

Spiritual illness, assaulting us all

It has been lovely having visitors in Malta. The island worked its magic and my mum’s lung infection healed in three days after having had three weeks of suffering in Northern Ireland. My mum and aunt are regular visitors, popping over in spring and autumn for usually three weeks. They are both over 80 full of energy and good humour. As we live in Sliema, they have instigated their own SAS style training. One day they will walk to George’s beach by far their favourite direction and the next day they head off to the Point and then around to the direction of the Black Pearl. They are creatures of habit and only stop twice. Once for ice cream and once for a large cappuccino. Walking from 11:30 AM to 4:30 PM is made more sustainable by regular bench stops and all their endeavours are fuelled by constant chat. You’d think after eighty years these two sisters would've said everything they had to say before now but even late at night they lie in bed laughing and reminiscing. Four years of such visits have become a lovely routine of life and they are touched by the huge ice creams served by the Maltese. “I like lots of ice cream”, my mum informs them. Huge towers of ice cream are obligingly constructed by easy-going shop assistants. There must be something about these two smiling ladies that brings out the goodness in most folk. But not all!!

This year their visit was somewhat marred by unexpected events and I feel duty-bound to expose them because I fear they are happening to other elderly in our communities. When walking at Saint Julians up the pavement from MacDonald's a young tall English man shouted, “Excuse me, Excuse me!” and pushed his way past as he raced through the crowds. My mother was shoved into a nearby wall and the damage to her forearm was considerable. 

The Englishman didn't stop to see the fruits of his rudeness and was already pushing others ahead shouting “Excuse me, Excuse me!”  I’d like to think that if he’d seen the painful results of his lack of manners, he would've been horrified at what his thoughtless action caused . I'd like to think that, but I'm not sure. 

Later in the week I took my mum and aunt to Gozo and they loved the bus tour of the island. It was the return journey that caused challenges. Waiting for the 222 bus from the ferry to Sliema, a crowd of young people raced up and down the pavement next to the bus stop. They obviously felt that with the odd car/taxi parking in spots they would be better positioned to get a seat on the bus by being in the right place. So herds of people ran from to one spot  to another only to move again when the cars/taxis cleared. Knowing my aunt and mother would not be able to stand for the whole bus journey I began to feel a frisson of fear.  They suddenly seemed so much more vulnerable in this frenzy of activity. The bus came and the driver stopped almost in front of my aunt and mother. I was relieved to see my mother enter safely but within a few seconds a group of people surrounded us and with much pushing and shoving fought to get on the bus. My poor aunt was practically lifted off her feet by the press of the mob. Despite my best efforts to shield her, the momentum of the crowd pushing to get on board could not be held back. Shouts from the bus driver had no effect and my fear grew. My aunt was carried along by the crowd and was terrified and in some pain. The pressure only eased when two dozen of the most anxious to board had pushed past and grabbed seats. When I was able to follow her on board, all the seats including those for the elderly were taken. I found my mother seated and the seat beside her occupied by a large German man. Approaching him I asked if my aunt could sit beside my mother. He told me he was saving the seat for his wife who had yet to get on board the bus. I remonstrated with him that due to my aunt’s age she could not afford to stand all the way to Sliema. He replied in a determined fashion that his wife was 65 years old. I found myself in an awkward conversation with a complete stranger where I pointed out that an eighty-year-old should have priority over 60-year-olds. Reluctantly, he rose to allow my aunt to sit but sullenly and with great sighs of annoyance. 

I know it is probably just me but do general everyday manners seem in short supply these days? Have the elderly among us become like canaries in the mine flagging up the toxic nature of society’s selfishness? I'm not sure where I'm going with this but surely society makes rules to protect the vulnerable, the young, the sick and the elderly. It does so because our civilisation is built on such principles. They are the bedrock of our society and speak of the priorities that should be in place for all members of the community. Bad manners undermine that foundation. The insidious selfishness that fuel such behaviour has to be tackled. All of us have to set ourselves higher standards. Acts of kindness fuel the same in others but harmful selfishness can also become endemic to a society. We must guard against such infection as it is a sign of spiritual illness and influences all who are its victims even those who observe it and come to see it as normal.

It reminded me of two seemingly unrelated incidents.  I taught animal management for three years in a College in Northern Ireland.  One lesson was on animal abuse and we covered the new legislation that if for example a dog is admitted to a vet's with clear signs of abuse there is an obligation for the vet to inform social services immediately.  Why?  Because there is now a known link between cruelty to dogs in a home and cruelty to children in the same home.  The person who mistreats a pet will usually have no qualms about abusing children under their roof.  In fact the link is so strong that authorities are using the treatment of pets to flag up those danger zones for children.  

My second point was a neighbour of ours in Rhodes, Greece.  He was an architect and he called at our door one evening as his mother-in-law had badly injured herself and he had decided to move her into his flat until she recovered.  Unfortunately, they lived on the third floor and there was no lifts. He had called because he wondered if one of my sons could help him lift her up the stairs.  My son Lewis, was delighted to oblige and only complained that their staircase steps were too small for his feet.  It is hard having size 12 feet and being over six foot when you are only 14.  This architect was involved in the tree planting association on the island and also would feed all the cats in the neighbourhood on a daily basis.  My father teased him one day, watching him put out piles of dried cat food at the street corner while cats ran in great numbers from all directions.  My father shouted from the balcony, "Well, you have earned your place in heaven!"  To which the elderly architect replied with a smile, "perhaps I will be allowed in cat heaven anyway". The thing which shouldn't have surprised us was that the person who cared about the environment, cared about his family and about the animals in his neighbourhood also was kind to his neighbours.  

These things have ever been linked.  Just as our cruelty radiates out to all in our vicinity (including our pets) so too our inherent kindness illumines those we come into contact with.  May you be that light for those around you.

"Words must be supported by deeds, for deeds are the true test of words."

Baha'i Writings

Sticks and Stones - Sister Bernadette learning to float

Sister Bernadette held her coffee cup between her cold hands and heard the young woman at the table beside her scolding her six or seven-year-old son. 

“Eat it, eat it! If you don't! I'm warning you! Eat it, eat!”

The child was playing with the free toy inside McDonald's child’s meal pack mesmerised by the colours and shapes of the toy still wrapped in plastic. She berates across the table.

“Next time you ask for anything you’ll get nothing. I'm warning you!”

He says nothing but fidgets in his chair. His mother's voice rises in anger.

“I told you not to order the chicken, you never eat chicken, but that's what you wanted. Well, I'm sick of you wasting things. I work hard for my money and you don't care, you just don't care. Eat! Eat!”

It seems as if the Saturday morning treat is going down hill rapidly. The boy idly picks up a chip and chews it.  This seems to enrage the mother, who shouts,

“Don't just eat the chips, you have to eat the chicken. It's a complete waste to have the whole meal and not eat the chicken. You've done this before. I'm not having it, eat eat!”

Sister Bernadette lowers her head and prays. For what, she's not sure, but a more peaceful environment for the mother and son would do. The boy has not spoken since they arrived at the table in the cafe. His excitement in opening the box had been tangible as he searched for the toy inside. But now Bernadette notices a nervous twitch around one of his eyes. Her middle-aged cousin Henry had the same twitch. It was no wonder, Henry’s life had been difficult, full of trauma. Watching the young boy’s nervous mannerism made her want to weep.  Despite her prayers there is tension building and sister Bernadette feels her futility in the face of it. Unable to stop the storm reaching a crescendo.  

“Okay, that’s it! If you're not eating the chicken, you're not having chips!” 

She picked up the McDonald's children's box and threw it in the bin. 

“I warned you, I told you before, didn’t I? Why can't you listen. Why do you ruin everything. Even this is spoiled! Are you happy now?”

She is tidying away the trays slamming them down while clearing their table. The boy is holding tight to this free toy held below the table, out of sight, as the mother grabs his other arm and hauls him to his feet.

“Come on, that's all finished let's go!”

Her anger has a justified, righteous ring to it. As if she is enjoying being angry and making a clear point to the silent twitching child. As they pass Bernadette’s table, she wants to reach out a hand and ask the mother. 

“Who are you really angry at?” In gentle curious tones. But that would be unforgivable. 

The mother and son have reached the front glass doors are exiting when the mother spots the toy still wrapped in its plastic wrapping unopened in his hand. She snatches it from him and throws it in the bin at the front door.  He howls his distress and tries to reach in the bin to retrieve the toy. She pulls him away from the bin and suddenly both are gone. This righteous angry young mother and her thin tiny nervous screaming son.

Bernadette's coffee has become tasteless and cold. The cafe feels contaminated by the toxic argument. When a novice Bernadette had hated the arguments in the convent. They had made her stomach churn and her constant indigestion that meant she seem to live anti-indigestion tablets for months. In those early frightening months it had been a red haired novice with a furious temper who seem to be at the root of all disputes. She seemed ready to explode over the slightest word, perceived slight, inconvenience, shortage of biscuits or even an accidental nudge on the way to the chapel. Bernadette remember going through a long mass with the red haired girl glaring angrily across the cold chapel. The unpleasantness lasted two days and nights Bernadette had practically overdosed on anti-acid tablets during the long weekend. Such was her dosage the elderly nun on nursing duty called her in to question her.

“Do you have problems with the food here?”

She had asked when looking through the dispensing records. She was in her 60s and was called Gerty. The face was wreathed in smile lines and she spoke with a heavy Yorkshire accent. Bernadette had admitted.

“I've always had a sensitive stomach, if I get upset about anything my stomach seems to suffer.”

Gerty smiled,

“We will have to find a solution to that, won’t we?

Bernadette had lifted her face at that benevolent tone and asked somewhat tearfully, 

“But how sister?”

“Well, I suggest we start with prayer, shall we?”

Gerty rose and beckoned Bernadette to follow her. They went down a long corridor to the empty chapel. In an alcove the two kneeled in silence. At first, Bernadette felt disappointed. She had begun to hope Gerty had sensed the reason for her distress, the red haired girl’s toxic presence. Or had a treatment apart from the constant diet of anti-acids that she consumed all her life. But no, here they knelt in the darkened chapel, back where Bernadette had started the morning with her adversary’s toxic glare.

But as she peeped at Gerty kneeling beside her, upright, habit folded neatly, hands covered, with her shoulders relaxed, she was shocked at the intense expression on the elderly nun’s face as she prayed. She was so obviously asking for divine help that Bernadette shut her own eyes and copied. It seemed the very least she could do, given all this effort on Gerty’s part. After a long silence Bernadette had another sidelong look at the elderly nun beside her. The expression had changed.  It was now a listening face. As if somewhere in the chapel a voice had begun to speak and Gerty was taking in everything said.

Bernadette closed her eyes and tried to listen too. Not to ask, pray or demand but wait for the answer to come. The quietness stretched out and a stillness settled within her. She felt the hardwood under her knees, the smell of the candles in the corner, she fancied she could see their flickers through her closed eyelids. Then, the silence of the empty chapel seem to embrace her. With her hands wrapped in her habit the coldness of the chapel did not make her restless for the sunny cloisters. Instead a thought bubbled up.  

“A servant is drawn unto Me in prayer until I answer him; and when I have answered him, I become the ear wherewith he heareth….”. 

Bernadette breathed slow and deep, feeling her heart rate change. A memory of the stream near their home came to her. She could see the boulders, the grass verge, hear the bubbling sound of water swirl round the stones. The river racing down the slopes of the mountain, clear, cool and fresh. As a child she love to hold her head above its surface and observe the pebbles below the water. They were shiny and coloured and so beautiful. Sometimes she would reach down and stir at the bottom of the stream so that stones and mud mixed and the water would become brown and mysterious. Then she would lie and watch as gradually the constant trickling stream would clear away the debris until again crystal clear pebbles appeared magnified in all their beauty. Returned to an ethereal beauty that could not be destroyed by intent nor time. In the chapel Bernadette breathed in deeply and opened her eyes. This time it was sister Gerty who was watching her and smiling.

“You look much better! “She queried, “But are you?”

Bernadette felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. But not at all sure how.

“Thank you, sister, I do!”

As they left the small chapel Bernadette felt as if she'd learnt a lesson of value and for the first time found herself looking forward to all the other valuable lessons ahead. When she’d finished the novice training, she was given a new name, sister Bernadette. At first, she been in a state of disbelief at being given this of all names! She had admired the Saint of course. But it had to be a horrible coincidence that it was also the name of that angry red haired novice who had tormented her throughout her training. Then, she learnt to let that go too and could laugh at the coincidences that come along in life. Let it all go.  Her acidic stomach, hurt feelings, discomfort, breath deep and let it go. Sometimes you had to laugh at the journey we are all on and be patient until the water clears and translucency returns, which it will!

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

Not one extra prune

My mother and aunt stayed with us on Malta for a glorious two weeks this October.  I luxuriated in their presence.  Their daily routines were fixed.  In the morning after their showers they had breakfast, eating exactly the same thing each day.  A bowl of porridge and five prunes followed by a pot of tea with one slice of wholemeal bread toasted, with butter and marmalade.  Then they would hand wash all their dirty clothes.  My practice of dumping all colours into the washing machine was an anathema to them.  They are of the generation that hand washed, bleached and bullied laundry into blistering white submission – my half grey whites did not do!

The sun here in Malta dried their clothes in a few hours and they delighted in the speed of the whole affair.  Then, after tidying my flat with equal thoroughness and a demanding level of order and neatness they filled their water bottles and headed out for their daily forced march.  They would walk the promenade beside the Med each day, choosing St Julian’s Bay one day from Sliema and then the next heading right towards Valetta.  These walks were no mean feat in the burning sunshine.  They allowed themselves just two breaks during this four-hour marathon.  One was for ice cream cone, or a ‘poke’ as my mum calls it.  

My Mum, with eight decades under her belt, would order their cones with a smile, asking for loads of the white cooling ice cream on top.  God bless the Maltese café staff who universally responded with unrestrained generosity filling the two small cones to abundant heights.  The happiness with which these two grandmothers/great grandmothers devoured their treat had to be seen.  With two hours of walking in the baking heat it felt like a life saver and their toes practically curled in delight at the delicious coolness.

Then on for another two hours of walking and chatting.  These two have so many memories to share, so much news to tell and experiences to debrief they talk non-stop for the whole two weeks.  Listening to them chatting away from their beds to each other until they fell asleep was the best background music to have.

The second pit stop is for a large cappuccino and they have by now found the best cafés to stop at.  

Not only the café but also they also have a favourite table near the door from where they can observe the world go by.  My aunt has an eye for detail.  Noticing people who chew with their tongues out, peculiar gaits, unusual hairstyles or fashions ensembles.  She notices everything and views the entire spectacle with excited voyeurism.  This is fortunate, as my mother sees nothing.  She is a ‘starer off into space’, happy in her own skin and head with a coffee mug held tight in delight.  So this unusual team works well.  My aunt points out what my mother would have missed and my mother restrains her sister from tucking in shirt tails, turning down labels that stick up and generally rearranging the hairdos of complete strangers.

I tease them because they do not vary their routine.  Not one extra prune, not one different flavour of ice cream ventured, not even their footwear has changed in the last few years.  But they are happy, fit and in great shape.  Their laughter and giggles filled the flat and our lives from the moment they arrived until they disappeared into the departure lounge in the airport on the way home.

So if anyone happened to see me standing at Malta International Airport last week waving and sobbing at two elderly ladies while tears tripped down my face try to understand.  Such people burrow into your heart and letting them go is akin to open-heart surgery.

Coffee time in Malta

There are a wealthy couple sitting with friends at a nearby table in this café.  The man is complaining about the delay in the delivery of his new Porsche to Malta.  Later, they move on with relish to discuss their forthcoming holiday in Moscow where they hope to visit the Winter Palace and are twittering on in a fashion fit to annoy anyone.  They have that peculiar plumy English accent that sets your teeth on edge.  He is babbling again at the top of his voice,

“Life is still fun and worth living”, the sixty odd year old proclaims. 

“The economic situation has not touched me, thanks goodness.” He follows in smug tones. 

I believe fate places such people nearby to annoy and test me.  Now, he is complaining about his computer system’s inability to respond to his commands.  I find myself strangely comforted that PCs, at least, do not jump to the beck and call of that “rulers of the empire” tone.  Computers are democratic and as such equally rebellious to all.  It’s weird that in Northern Ireland I’ll  be specific about coming from north of the border but when on an island in the Med I morph into Irish for fear of being associated with these colonial types.  My father always claimed that there was something about ruling an empire that damaged emotions.  He would name them one by one, tapping on each finger in turn, pausing at each tap to raise his eyebrow as if exhibiting another proof of his argument.  His reasoning was, if you had to keep the locals underfoot it required you to be missing on certain wavelengths including for example compassion, empathy, humility, modesty.  It has taken years for recent research to prove that keeping a nation or people in subjection is as damaging to those who rule as it is to those who are abused. 

It stands to reason then that keeping women in a lower state will have equally negative effects on both men and women.  Injustice is evil, not just because of its unfairness but also due to its long-term damage on all concerned.  In India 50 million girls are missing due to abortion of unwanted female babies.  In that culture boys are preferred.  The end result of this tragedy is that girl abductions/rapes are common.  How horrific that following the quiet death of millions of female girls, young women who have survived this first cull are being singled out for yet more violence.  Of course India is not alone, violence against women crosses all borders, Rwanda, Sierra Leone, Yugoslavia, South Africa, Afghanistan and one of the highest rates of domestic abuse is found in Papua New Guinea.  So much of this violence is under the radar despite its horrific nature.  Violence against females in our midst is a world problem and not limited to any one nation. 

Whatever the realities that lie beneath the statistics you can be sure that both men and women are being damaged in this process.  I look forward to the day when we realise that injustices such as prejudice of race, religion or gender damage us all.  Sense that the growing gap between rich and poor is another unsustainable trend.  Otherwise the corrosion eating into the vitals of human society will continue, I fear.  

Time to leave, my one coffee has lasted an hour and a half and the staff are becoming increasingly restless round me.  At least I outlasted the plumy toned fellow on my left.  Obviously, I have prejudices of my own to weed out! 

PS Proceeded out of the café and walked a good half hour along the coast only to be brought up short with the dreadful realization I had forgotten to pay for my coffee.  Walked back guilt ridden, apologized and paid.  This growing older business is embarrassing at times!