Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world

I have not written anything in weeks, perhaps months. Sometimes my lack of creativity is a result of anxiety, stress or upset. I usually find my mental state is in direct proportion to my creative output. But actually, this past period, Christmas and the New Year, has been a wonderful time with family and friends in Northern Ireland.

2018 was not a great year, I have to say. I lost far too many family and friends. I remember loved ones living or dead each morning and night. I write their initials down as they are recalled. The list is burnt into my memory with repetition but this year suddenly a host of new initials have been added.

I recall what my dad used to say in his 80s, “I have more loved ones in the next world than here, in this one”. It was a strange sensation, he said, to dream and be surrounded by those who have loved you and awake to find them gone. What is the mystery of this dream world where emotions run riot and our subconscious thoughts, past experiences and even future seem to flow together?

Because of such precious time over the festive period with loved ones I came back to Malta buoyed up with injections of energy and love. Wonderful conversations have worked their magic. Laughter quieted down the worries of this world. Instead of longing for all the things I don’t have there is a powerful sense of gratitude for all that I have been given.

Then, in the New Year this second week, news arrives of yet another loss. A dear friend who I visited only a week ago has died. When I called he had been in bed at home and was bone tired. When roused he lifted his head and opened his eyes seeming to recognise me. Then, he lay back into a deep restful slumber. Suddenly far, far away in a dream world and a better one. He was a Buddhist for much of his life and had meditated for an hour each day. It made him ever centred and calm.            

People brought him their problems because of that still centre. He was an excellent counsellor. Not one of the ‘new age’ bunch that prattle on “tell me more” without any valuable input of their own. Fear of litigation has created a new species of counsellor who say nothing for fear of doing harm. Given their lack of real experience and sometimes questionable motives it is perhaps not wrong for this to be their aspiration!

But real counsellors like him listened intently and then spoke to the issues raised. He never claimed the guru status or assumed he knew all the answers. The views he expressed were not channelled from a mystic source. Instead, they came from years of experience in healthcare, management and life. They were often insightful, at times unexpected, but always useful. The fact that his words never came from a desire for power or control but instead from a deep understanding and humility made them all the more welcome.

Utterance has the power to destroy or rejuvenate but real understanding can bring progress and healing. His honesty and humility allowed real consultation to take place and important truths to emerge.

For all those we have lost I find myself mourning their absence but also celebrating their loving presence in my memory banks and heart.  Today, when another dear friend’s funeral takes place in N. Ireland I am reminded of these heart-wrenching lines by a Pulitzer poetry prize winner.

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay

A North Coast Walk on the Wildside

My father used to sit in his  favoured seat in the living room at the window overlooking the busy seaside resort. Coffee shops, ice cream parlours and tourists melted in an economically productive slurry a floor below. After his early morning 5 mile walk he enjoyed the quiet rest his corner seat offered. In fact he liked it so much he eventually wore out the carpet in front of his chair. But it was the treehouse quality he appreciated most. Being on the first floor the living room  is perched at the perfect position to allow you to people-watch or if you raise your head you see the sweep of the coast towards the Giants Causeway beyond. 

The beach stretches for miles in pristine condition with sand, sea and sky creating new masterpieces each hour. Even in the winter storms he would return triumphant that the wind had buffeted his 15 stone but not managed to blow him off his feet. How many others struggled along the church rails opposite hauling themselves along handover fist in the 70 mph gales. He loved these battles with the elements even in his 80s and his all weather kit and strong walking boots usually won the day. I find I share the same Northern Irish habits. You can be suddenly caught out by the weather on the distant headland. The clouds close in and the ferocious rain stings your face and your anorak flaps in foetal distress against your chest. At times to put one leg in front of the other seems a physical battle. Then from inside suddenly springs an ancient ancestor who seems to shout in delight “Bring on your worst! I can bear this and more!” 

You screw your courage and strength within and delight in this unexpected challenge. Lifting your face to the rain you feel eyelids sting with the downpour and your feet beat a heady tune in time with your heart. This is an ancient landscape not cultivated like smooth English downs nor pretty like chocolate box Swiss villages. It is rugged and edgy with bog pits that can kill and treacherous sheer cliff path's that erode continually. The waves can become angry mountains at the flick of grimace  both terrifying and awe inspiring. They, like the wind, beat upon this headland with relentless timeless fury. As I round the most exposed part of the coast I want to scream at my victory despite my numb fingers. At that moment it is as if I feel my father's feet beneath my own, his heart beating with mine in celebration of another triumphant victory on the north coast. Perhaps it was ever so. When times are easy we forget even ourselves. But when tests or hardship bombard us we are forced to remember the fundamentals. Who we are, those we love and who loves us.

One minute you're defending the whole galaxy, and, suddenly, you find yourself sucking down darjeeling

Was invited out to tea by an eighty three year old Irish woman on Malta, yesterday.  We’d never met before.  I had been at a restaurant and her daughter, sitting at a nearby table, heard my Irish accent and said her mother would like to meet me.  She gave me her card and her mother’s phone number was written on the back.  I took a chance and phoned the next day before I lost courage and forgot.  A lovely Donegal accent replied and we arranged to meet at her home.  This was how I found myself at a lovely villa overlooking the sea along the coast outside Sliema, sharing a large laden table with this sprightly lady and her two friends (around the same age).  It felt surreal to find beautiful china, elegant linen napkins, homemade bread, apple tarts etc. with the strong Irish brogue coming at me.  Mother of eight, she spoke her mind and I loved listening to a familiar tune washing over me.  Despite having lived in Malta fifty years her accent was as strong as if we had just met on the back roads of Donegal today.  I cannot begin to tell of the delight of this company.  Their wit, the laughter, shopping exploits, collections of spoons, husbands all illuminated by three ladies who had lived life to the full.  Their openness and friendliness was like an antidote to homesickness delivered intravenously with copious gallons of tea.     When you are far from much that speaks of home it is delightful to fall into such company.  I thank God that my Irish accent was overheard, that her daughter handed me her card and for encouraging me to call and that for once I took the opportunity offered.  Life is far too short to waste what it brings unexpected to your door.  Unexpected kindness takes you by the hand and urges you gently to start thinking of others instead of yourself.  A memory from childhood blows to me on familiar breezes. 

When I was a child we had a caravan in Donegal on a windswept beach that even in bad weather was breath taking.  It struck me how empty all this landscape was with sand stretching off into the distance devoid of any humans.  As we made the journey to our caravan and back we’d go down tiny bumpy back roads equally empty.  But, if  ever we did come across a solitary human being high in the mountains it was usually an old farmer type, wearing formal dark suits.  He would straighten as the car passed and wave a warm welcome and nod their head sweetly in our direction as if you were a fond cousin newly arrived.  I asked my father why they did this and he said, in olden days everyone would out of simple courtesy.  Sitting in the back of the car I watched the green fields flash by and I mourned the loss of such simple civility in our brand new world. 

A strange thing would happen when we passed a funeral cortege.  My father would slow the car and remove his hat, setting it on my mother’s lap beside him.  A sober silence would reign and as a young child I knew that no talking was allowed.  Later, I would ask, why this careful ceremony and he gave different answers, like “every man’s death diminishes me”, or “every life deserves respect as does every death” and “it reminds us all powerfully of our own mortality”.  Every time, a different answer as if the actual answer was too deep to put into normal words.  Even now, when passing a funeral, I long to have a hat to remove and show my respect.  I make do with a silent prayer and remember my father’s small gesture and the lessons it inculcated in all of us.

Once, we caught the train to Dublin and my father played chess with a friendly priest in our compartment.  As they played they discussed Irish history, politics and religion.  It was like watching two experienced swordsmen testing each other capabilities.  Quotes would be used from historians, writers and the bible.  Anecdotes given and tales told to make a point and always laughter as the wheels of the train rocked us south.  You could tell they were pleasantly surprised to meet a worthy opponent both on the board and off.  At times, the discussion became heated but it was always courteous.  From the clash of differing opinions the truth does emerge and it was thrilling sitting eavesdropping on this epic battle.  When they said their polite farewells, my father asked his name and the old priest replied, “It’s William, sure you’ll not forgot crossing the Boyne with Father William will you?”    I drank it all in, their wit and good humour along with their eagerness to test their insights and experience with each other.

Yesterday, drinking gallons of tea at a laden table, listening the Donegal accent work its magic, a fragrance of that lost world wrapped itself around me.  That old-fashioned courtesy and kindness no longer extinct, as I feared, but sitting opposite me, pouring tea and forcing slices of freshly baked cakes onto my plate.

“Well is it with him who is illumined with the light of courtesy”

Cruel or kind - the animal is the test

Taught my lesson this week feeling truly ill.  Teaching in colleges is tough at the best of times and I dread that moment when you are under the weather.  It usually brings out the pack instinct in a class.  They sense your weakness and go in for the kill.  If you have ever watched a pack of animals turn on a weakened member you can guess the scenario.  Last year I became run down due to a family member’s illness.  Travelling across the London for heart treatment and back really drained me and the class I walked back into was quick to ascertain the lay of the land.  They became increasingly out of control and I hated it and them.  Strange how fragile the relationship you can have with a class can be.  Usually, I find you gradually grow to like classes.  They all have their oddities but then don’t we all?  But at that moment something died between me and that class and I never got it back.   The warmth that should exist between us was gone and I viewed them with active dislike.  However I tried to rationalise my feelings I just could not get past the memory of their abuse of my weakness.  You like to think one can be the bigger person, forgive and forget, but at times you have to name and shame the fact that you simply can’t.  All you can do is move forward with the experience and learning that may have been acquired along with the damage.

So this week heading into college feeling really unwell brought back bad memories.  However, the classes were great.  They sensed my vulnerability and they behaved better than normal.  I put it down to them being animal husbandry students and they have a higher empathy than the norm.  When working with animals you never have to check them for being rough they aren’t.  You don’t have to tell them to think about the animal’s well-being, they are already in that mode.  In fact when you watch how they hold a young goat or a rabbit you see their compassion in the very way they use restraint.  Gently and calmly, stroking the animal into restraint with the least force.  Perhaps, when we are with the very vulnerable our real side comes out.  We are free to be as we really are.  Cruel or kind, nurturing or a bully anything is suddenly possible.  So it was nice to see this week the classes responded almost better than I would have even hoped.  Their kindness to animals included teachers such as I.  But then the real links between animal abuse and child abuse have already been proven by statistics.  Now vets who find a suspected case of animal’s abuse are instructed to let social services know, as those who abuse their pets will often be the type to abuse their children.  (see – this link for other patterns http://www.peta.org/issues/companion-animals/animal-abuse-and-human-abuse-partners-in-crime.aspx) A horrible but effective poster in the US shows patterns of abuse linked to treatment of animals and has the saying “men who beat their children often start with their best friend” above the picture of a puppy.