Magical Maltese Taxi Driver

Our Maltese taxi driver was a large, middle-aged woman with a warm smile. While our cases were being loaded in her boot, another driver hooted impatiently. Her car was blocking his way through the narrow street. She responded with an open-handed gesture that seemed to say, “What do you expect me to do?” His irritation did nothing to disturb her good humour.

As we drove off, she explained that many taxi drivers were paid per ride and therefore rushed to get their customers to their destinations. With eCabs, she told us, she was paid by the hour.

“No need to race,” she said, smiling. “We can go at a reasonable pace.”

On the way to the airport, she told us about her life as a taxi driver, a mother of five and a grandmother of many more. Then she announced her household rule.

“No mobile phones in my house. They all have to put them in a box at the front door. That way, I get proper conversations with them all, instead of their heads in a screen all the time!”

I was impressed and asked how she kept her grandchildren amused without screens.

“We play the old games. I draw a line in the yard and we all throw coins to see who can get closest to it.”

I pictured them gathered in the yard, absorbed in this simple competition, with their grandmother joining in. What memories those children would carry with them: the games, the laughter and the conversations, all presided over by this good-natured matriarch. I wondered how those hours together would shape the people they became.

There was something worldly-wise about her, a weariness perhaps, but also a resolute good nature. She was not blind to the faults around her. She simply seemed determined to remain loving and cheerful despite them. Another driver could hoot, the world could hurry, and her grandchildren could arrive with phones in their hands. She would still set her own pace and insist on time together.

By the time we reached the airport, we felt heartened. An ordinary taxi journey had become a reminder of how much one person can bring to the lives of those around them.

We all have choices about the kind of world we create in our own homes. Hers began with a box by the front door.

“Every child is potentially the light of the world…”

‘Abdu’l-Bahá

A rare and precious manuscript

A large bag sits at my feet, full of purchases. One is a plastic container for The Lady's Newspaper from the 1850s, bought to protect it from Malta's humidity. The journal itself was an unexpected gift from my great-grandmother to my father—her granddaughter's new husband. She had often clashed with neighbours and even members of her own family, but for some reason, when she met my parents on their first visit as a married couple, she disappeared into another room, returned carrying this priceless collection, and presented it to my father.

It is full of exquisite detailed plates, instructions on lacemaking, fashion advice of the day, serialised fiction, reports from abroad, accounts of accidents across Britain and—even more surprisingly—move-by-move analyses of chess games! Modern women's magazines, by comparison, seem more likely to be filled with cosmetic procedures, celebrity news, relationship advice, fitness, fashion and gossip. Indeed, many modern tabloids are written in language considered accessible to a ten- or twelve-year-old.

I sometimes wonder what future historians will conclude if they judge our aspirations by the reading material we consume, whether in print or, more often, online. What will our magazines, newspapers, websites and social media feeds tell them about us? Would they see a broadening of horizons, or a narrowing of them? Have we become more curious, or merely more distracted? 

Mind you, The Lady's Newspaper can be mind-numbing in its own way. Its meticulous reports of life at the Royal Court include not only every event but lists of those who attended and even detailed descriptions of what they wore! Some things, it seems, never lose their fascination.

I also inherited my grandmother's letters to this same great-grandmother, written while she was studying at Stranmillis College after winning a King's Scholarship to train as a teacher. They are penned in magnificent copperplate handwriting rarely seen today. Through those letters her excitement shines: life in Belfast, the lectures, new friendships and the bustle of college life. Coming from an isolated rural community, the city must have seemed an exhilarating new world.

Perhaps that is what all this is really about. We become, to some extent, what we expose ourselves to and, more importantly, how we respond to it. Is that exposure a deliberate choice?

In my great-grandmother's day, people selected a periodical that suited their interests and often devoured it from cover to cover. The magazine was then passed around the family, becoming a shared experience and a starting point for conversations. Today we tend to drift alone through endless streams of information—Facebook, Instagram, YouTube, Netflix, Disney and countless websites—wandering wherever the next algorithm leads us, sometimes into surprisingly dark tunnels. We have access to more knowledge than any generation in history, yet it has become much harder to distinguish nourishment from noise. I am not entirely sure which age is better, but I do wonder whether our digital diet can sometimes be more toxic to our mental well-being than we realise.

Fortunately, we are often drawn back into the light by people of genuine worth.

Can I confess that I already miss David Attenborough? In a world where so many seem intent on deception, greed or division, his life and work feel like a golden thread of goodness. I know it is premature to miss someone who, at one hundred years of age, is still with us, but I already dread the day the world loses such a remarkable man. People like him are indeed precious like a rare manuscript.

Kicking the Breeze

Sitting with my son

Kicking the breeze

Time to be silent

Time to chat

The luxury of hours and days

Rather than minutes and seconds

The delight of real hugs

Not blowing kisses at skype screens

Awakening to a loved one

Padding around the flat

Filling memory banks

With rich anecdotes

Of music making

Word crafting

Thought inducing moments

Make me realise

Such conversations are a process

As ancient as the hills

As noble as Socrates

As profound as morning light

Bringing illumination

to the hurting heart