Patchwork quilt journeys and lessons learned

It seems surreal to be sitting back in Malta on my favourite bench, enjoying the sound of the sea and blue skies above, after an absence of almost 3 months. Travelling leaves little time for writing. Family time must be savoured wholly not crammed in between tasks. At least when I travel that's the mode that seems to operate best for me.

Now I sit and digest the experience of the past months. Savouring time with my mum in Northern Ireland where the pace of life is slow. There is a focus on gardening, eliminating weeds and tending borders. Her home is ordered and tidy with even cupboard contents and drawers all lined up with military precision. There is a never-ending battle with dirt and grime but she has fought these foes for seven decades and has honed her techniques. I looked on in amazement as she tackles the tasks of the day. At almost 85 she does not measure her energy levels and recalibrates the duties of the day. No, she looks at the goals needing to be accomplished and just goes and goes until they are completed. Even if afterwards she has to collapse in her armchair, it is with a deep sense of satisfaction – her tasks completed.

I look on in amazement. I am not like this. A book, a thought, a walk comes into my orbit and I down tools, instantly distracted. My tidiness is purely superficial. Examine the cupboard or a drawer in my home and you will find evidence of the chaos that permeates this universe.

Perhaps my writing is also my chaos. This trip has fuelled a thousand thoughts but none of them fully formed. I'll share some of them in the hope that they will give a patchwork quilt of these months.

A close friend has spent weeks in a mountain house in southern France. Situated in an idyllic hamlet overlooking spectacular views, it has proved the perfect antidote to years in the Paris city centre. Normally hard-working and ever up to speed with the virtual world he has had to cope with no Wi-Fi. The shocking change of place and pace from a hectic dirty city to the silence of the hillside and the buzz of insects and happy birds. He took to whittling, carving odd-shaped wooden light sabres and became engrossed in moss removal from old stone flagstones.  Both, he told me were the pastimes of paradise. Interspersed with meals and coffee on the table positioned outside to soak up the views.  Reading books was the main entertainment and with what excitement did he share their contents. Afterwards, I sighed in remembrance of days past when a slower pace of life allowed us time to digest what we read. Not this fetid immediacy of media assault online. 

The permanent indigestion of too much input dulls the senses. It's good to be reminded of other times, other places, other ways.

My other joy during this trip was to spend time with my grandsons in England. After two months of endless rain all summer in Northern Ireland it was shocking to discover that Folkestone still had proper summers. Even in September, the sun shone and school kids wore shorts to school. As my son his wife both work in London, my mission this trip was to accompany my four-year-old grandson in his first three weeks of big school.  I also had his two-year-old brother to care for. It was somehow weird pushing a toddler in the buggy and holding the hand of a small school child again after three decades. Given that I hated school myself it was with some trepidation I took on this epic task. Fortunately, Charlie made the job much easier being almost eager to run through the school gates. Other parents or guardians had weeping youngsters to disengage from while Charlie never even looked back. He explained patiently to his younger brother that he was going to school and would be back in three hours to see him, so he was not to worry. Then he’d turn on his heel and scurry into school.

I was left with ample opportunity to notice the tears unshed in parents’ eyes as they faced this cruel test - the first separation. Some mothers stayed on, ages after the school gates had closed in case a familiar head appeared above the window ledge in the classroom.

One father had adopted a prolonged waving goodbye ritual to his daughter.  She was a  tiny fragile figure who waddled slowly and reluctantly towards the classroom door. He climbed the school gate so that she could still see him waving even from a distance. She would occasionally stop, shoulders slumped in apparent despair and turn to look back sadly at her dad. This would engender a huge arm waving movement and shouts of  “have a grand day Leanne, I love you!! “ Not easy to do, halfway up a six-foot metal gate. His forced good humour and bonhomie would end with her entering the classroom. Then, he'd suddenly be silent all emotion leaving his face. He would drop down from his perch on the gate and walk hastily away. It's hard for dads, mostly it is mothers at the school gates and they tend to chat in bunches with other mothers. Comparing notes on how first days at school are doing. Remembering coats, water bottles and school bags. Hugging their children, they reluctantly let them go.

Fathers tended to festoon children rather like preparing them for battle. School bag over head and shoulder, coat over the other arm as if supplying armaments for the day ahead.  I noticed one morning, an older boy (P3?) waiting for the school gates to open. A crowd of older students stood waiting impatiently laughing together.   The P3 student was tall for his age and had his foot on his scooter. Strange that they have come back into fashion those odd-looking contraptions from my childhood. 

As he waited, he rocked to and fro on the scooter. A little bit overweight with thick glasses he seemed absent-minded. He didn't even notice a group of mothers behind him waiting with the youngest children hand-in-hand, his scooter almost hit one mother behind him and she scolded him whispering disapprovingly to the other mothers beside her. Suddenly, the scooter slipped up the gate. Perhaps the pushing crowd put him off balance and he fell awkwardly landing full weight on top of his own scooter. The crowd stood back while he jumped to his feet, face almost against the gate not moving. It had been a bad fall and the scooter was damaged but we all stood as a fellow statues watching his ramrod still back. Then a huge builder type man pushed through the crowd and picked up the broken scooter and asked the boy, “Are you alright mate?”  Immediately the boy burst into tears of pain and the man put his hand on his shoulder and lead him away to the open area away from the crowd. After the children had rushed through the now opened gate into school, I spotted the father kneeling examining the damage to the scooter and talking soothingly with the P3 pupil.  I then realised the boy was not even his son. His own son, a small reception class pupil, was standing patiently beside his dad. I could see the older P3 boy was calmer now and all three of them walked together to the now deserted school gate. 

I felt rather ashamed that in that sea of mummies and grandmothers, including me,  it was a father who saw the hurt in that small straight back facing the gates and took decisive compassionate action. It is probably in such small deeds like this real education takes place for all of us.

“Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”

— BAHÁ’U’LLÁH

What gives me joy!

I have ever filled notebooks with my scribbles.  A dear cousin in N. Ireland, foolishly volunteered to store my diaries and notebooks when I left for Malta.  When I turned up with five huge plastic containers filled to the brim with writings, she coped really well and kept her promise to look after them all.  I did feel guilty leaving her dining room a quarter filled!  My favourites are the moleskin books and for some reason they need to be with squared paper not lined.  They have an envelope at the back for bits and bobs, they can cope with photos stuck in, flowers, cards etc and are pretty indestructible.  

When, I was at school and university there was a family tradition that my Dad would present us with a parker pen before an important exam.  My parents never asked any of us if we had done our homework.  They never pushed school work or studying as of vital importance at all.  Strange in a sense because they were both teachers.  So this purchase of a pen was the sole encouragement to excel.  It was all that was needed.  To this day I get excited by a new pen.  Full of hope for the future and armed to cope with it all.

My mother uses Oil of Olay and every baby I ever handed her was pressed lovingly to her cheek while she sang songs to them.  When they were handed back at the end of the day they all smelt of this cream.  They later brought out a new version with suncream and I tried it, but realised that it was the familiar smell that I associated with my Mum that made the difference.  So I am back to using  the original cream and each time I use it I remember all the love and closeness we have shared.  Why is smell such a powerful trigger to memories?

I discovered Bach rescue cream decades ago.  When any of my children fell and hurt themselves this was the stuff that was slapped on.  We called it a miracle cream and I was never sure if its ability to cure was psychosomatic or genuine.  All I can say is that to this day when I find an ache, rash or pain this is the stuff I rub on and invariably feel much better. 

Look to this day,

For it is life, the very life of life.

In its brief course lie all the

Verities and realities of your existence.

The bliss of growth,

The glory of action,

The splendor of beauty;

For yesterday is but a dream,

And tomorrow is only a vision;

But today well lived makes

Every yesterday a dream of happiness,

And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day.

Such is the salutation of the dawn!

(A beautiful old Sanskrit poem) 

We all need that toehold at times!

I am persuaded that happy people are a rare sighting.  Not to be found at the table to my right, a British family on holiday in the Med.  Two parents and two sullen teenagers imprisoned for two weeks on a package tour.  The couple’s dislike of each other is only trumped by their adolescent’s loathing of their parents.  They all sit in miserable silence at a table. 

The teenagers hold their iPhones as shields to block out all those they dislike.  Even being quizzed as to what they would like to drink, brings a roll of the eyes and a disgusted look at the menu.  The young waiter is holding his order pad patiently waiting.  Both teenagers are taking their time competing to see who will be the last to order, to succumb to parental pressure.  The wife orders a coffee and the husband a beer.  She remonstrates with him, as they have rented a car and he’s already had a beer earlier.  He glares at her and then changes his order to a whiskey in a belligerent tone to the waiter.  He shrugs his shoulders at her as if to say what are you going to do about it, now?  The waiter is now awaiting the teenager’s order.  There is an awkward silence followed by an expletive from the husband.  The wife interjects,

“You’d like the iced tea, Sonya, I’m sure you would!”

Sonya stares at her parents as if trying to decide which she dislikes more.  Meanwhile, her brother says he’d like a beer.  The waiter shakes his head and explains that he cannot serve alcohol to someone underage.  The father interjects,

“Look boy, bring me a whiskey, a beer, a coffee and an iced tea!”  He stares at the waiter daring him to argue.  As the waiter leaves to get their order, the wife objects to the beer for the boy and he holds up his hand to her,

“I’m on holiday and am not here to be lectured by you!”

All four lapse into silence after this outburst.   It reminds me of that hurtful quote.

“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”

I am left wondering are they more unhappy at home and this is their ‘happy holiday mood’.  Or is this, their miserable holiday trapped together while at home they can exist in happy isolation from each other?  Anyway, what makes a happy family?  Perhaps, like many of us this family has reached the brick wall of despair.  We all meet it sometime in our lives.  That point in one’s personal life when absolutely everything has gone bad.  You question everyone in your existence because it has all become so truly awful you can see no way ahead.  No hope for change, no light, no relationship that can be mended.  No trust capable of being rebuilt.  Most disturbing of all, when not disliking everyone around, you examine yourself and can find little of worth there either.  Whatever youthful spark of capacity has been douched by life.  At such a point, every slight, upset, hurtful comment, injury, illness, loss becomes the last straw.  The tiny nudge that can put you over the edge. 

I remember too, the random acts of kindness of strangers, family or friends that gave me a toehold out of nowhere.  Unexpected, they reached out with love and compassion, as I plunged ever lower down a slippery slope.  They may never know how tiny words of kindness, letters of encouragement, calls of comfort, turned the tide.  Even a look of understanding across a crowded room nurtured hope.  I appreciated those who were prepared to listen, really listen. 

This happiness business comes and goes.  We all hit walls.  I can only pray that when you’re face to face with it somewhere, sometime, someone, somehow provides that toehold that makes all the difference in the world. 

How to buy happiness

http://www.ted.com/talks/michael_norton_how_to_buy_happiness.html 

How to buy happiness an interesting perspective on how to get that illusive prey.  Nice to know that science is gradually coming to conclusions that make sense when one thinks about building a more peaceful and just society.  Fascinating results that somehow echo what one already knew deep down.  Reminds me of this quote.

“ Is any larger bounty  conceivable than this, that an individual, looking within himself, should find that .. he has become the cause of peace and well-being, of happiness and advantage to his fellow men? No……. there is no greater bliss, no more complete delight.”

(Abdu'l-Baha, The Secret of Divine Civilization, p. 2)

               

Tips for a happy life

When you are full of wind and need to fart
Let it go, let it go, let it go
When you’re angry fit to burst
Suck it in, suck it in, suck it in
When someone’s hurt your feelings to the bone
Have a big sweet coconut bun.
When you’ve done something wrong move on
But do something good twice, to cancel out the debt
When you’ve said the wrong thing  and hurt someone
You’re a pratt, you’re a pratt, you’re a pratt
If you meet a bully in this life
Stand firm, stand firm, stand firm
If you meet a hurt  soul
Listen well, listen well, listen well
When you walk a beach alone
Soak it up, soak it up, soak it up
When you’ve a good friend through thick and thin
Thank them well, thank them well, thank them well
When you can see the beauty in the rain and cold
Hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight, hug yourself tight
When you can’t sleep at night no matter what you do
Let it go, let it go, let it go
But be sure to leave the window open like your mind
Let it go, let it go, let it go