Undone, Unspoken and often Untrue

What is it about short-term highs that make us forget longer-term goals? Exactly the same principle applies to short-term lows. How many a young man has chosen death because the love of his life dumped him? With the benefit of hindsight, he might have been able to see that this wonderful love-filled intoxicating relationship could with time gradually morph into a loveless tryst.  That everything that once drew him to her could become, with decades, the most annoying habits in the universe. With the benefit of that hindsight, he would choose life, not death.

There is a line in the book ‘The Heart is a Lonely Hunter’ where one married character comes home to bed while his spouse heads out to work. By this stage he hates her so much he carefully reverses the sheets on their shared bed so that his skin does not touch fabric hers might have besmirched. There is something about that gesture that denotes hatred much deeper than even a verbal or physical attack. In the midst of fresh love, it is impossible for that suicidal young man to contemplate this other reality or even its very possibility.

But can I say to all the young, bereft and heartbroken at lost love that the heart is by nature a muscle. It, like all muscles, requires exercising to strengthen. Perhaps your first love was a family pet. Your heart learned to attach itself to another entity and your ability to love grew. Your friends during childhood provided bonds that illustrated what could be gained in all relationships within the family and without. And so the habits of love were nurtured and friends perhaps helped to reinforce the joy of closeness and companionship with all its ups and downs.  Losses were encountered, pets died, friends left, even family loyalties during the tempestuous adolescent years can be strained. Love and pain can ever seem to be opposite sides of the same coin!

Your ability to feel pain is almost proportional to how deeply you loved.  All of this is a journey of learning. Along the way, however, fiction has fabricated a great lie. That there is only one soulmate for you in this world. You have got but one chance and if you lose that precious one, life has lost any purpose it might have had.  This is just not so. There are definitely more fish in the sea. Some depressingly worse than the one you have just lost but many are infinitely better than you can possibly imagine right now.

There is an expression in Ireland that comes from the old hiring fairs where in those days the unemployed turned up with their tools of trade in hand waiting to be picked by an employer. As the day wore on many an eager worker’s head would sink in despair as those around him were chosen but not he.  He would often hear, from a friend, the encouraging cry of,

“Look up, look up, there is money paid for you yet!”

Meaning someone would yet make an offer and save the day. How does one find the words to convey how precious life is? To those who have decided to throw it away. How full of possibilities life is, even when flooded by pain. The young especially feel the immediacy of their own despair. They have not the same ability to think long term. Their own emotional misery blocks the sight of any positive outcome in the future. Too often are young men left with no one to excise this pain. They cannot like many girls run crying to good friends and share their loss. Discuss the hurtful details and achieve a kind of catharsis with time.  Instead, distress can slide into despair. From there it is a small slippery slope to total defeat and failure. Life becomes a game totally lost. Pointless and dreary, a mockery not worth pursuing.

Well, it isn't and you are worth so much more than this minute. Whatever has happened, whatever you have done, whatever has been done to you, you are much more than that. The pain is real, the loss is immense but you are more than even this. Don't pretend you are not unhappy but recognise you are much more than your state of mind at this moment, good or bad. It hurts to love but it's still important to love despite the pain. And if no one loves you this moment and I mean no one, then test the power of love and love anyway.

This great fiction of love and death, like Romeo and Juliet or Anthony and Cleopatra, all urge young despairing lovers to throw away the most precious gift of all - their lives. Life and love is worth a great deal. It shapes our lives for good or bad but like despair, the long dark night will yield to the dawn. Never let these lies about love untie your reason from you.

There are many journeys ahead. Rough storms will come and you may well in the future feel even greater fear, loneliness and despair than you can possibly imagine right now. But you will find days kissed by sunshine and quiet moments of love that will make all of what has been done to you and taken from you seem just a difficult path that helped you find this pristine joy. 

“Look up look up there is money bid for you yet!”

Your Loss is Remembered...in our hearts

My heart goes out to you on the loss of your son. Ever since I received the news the shock has left me devastated. He was such a special soul and one of the nicest young men it was my pleasure to know. His kindness and good humour was tangible. I must say of all my son’s friends he was my favourite. 

I'm sure I am telling you nothing you do not already know. The last few nights have left my heart aching that we have to go on without this sweet young man in our midst. Last night I could not sleep and could only think of him and remember his smile and ready laughter. Then, in the early hours of the morning, I registered that this tragic sense of loss must be nothing to that experienced by you and the family.

There are no words! 

May I just offer you my deepest sympathy for your loss and my sincere congratulations that you brought up such an exceptionally unique character. I am so grateful to have known him and know the bewildered sense of loss must be shared by many. Such sweet souls are rare and touch so many hearts.

love

Getting over hurdles and not under them

It was the opening of the Baha’i terraces on Mount Carmel in Haifa in May 2001. Only 19 would be chosen from each country to attend. My sons were both teenagers in Greece at the time and were lucky enough to both be chosen. Youth were a priority and hence their selection for this wonderful event. As always with such great opportunities comes great challenges. My husband was knocked off his scooter and fractured his back entailing hospitalisation and months of recovery. The second setback was as the boys were under age they could not travel alone and would need to have a guardian appointed to travel with them. Fortunately, our dear friend Ursula from Rhodes volunteered to be their guardian as she was also one of the 19 representing the Greek Baha’i community. This was a blessing as both boys loved Ursula so much and I could not think of a better guardian then this elderly tiny spiritual giant of a woman. Anyway, the British consul on the island had to sign the guardian consent forms as well as my husband and myself. Unfortunately, as my husband was in hospital and the form had to be signed by everybody involved at the same time, the only way to achieve this was for all to arrange to meet in my husband’s ward and to sign there. The British consul staff informed me that there was a considerable charge for this service. I was shocked at the amount. It far exceeded anything reasonable. I proceeded to have a very heated discussion with them during which I, in very forthright terms, told them exactly what I thought of their attempting to rip-off British subjects when abroad and hospitalised. Having never contacted them in a decade while living on the island I was less than impressed and ended the conversation by telling them to get stuffed. Not a wise move when the clock was ticking on getting this guardian form signed and legal before flights departed. 

Without this form they could not travel. Fortunately, I am a citizen of more than one country and so I turned to the Irish consul who turned out to be a likeable competent person whose services were provided at an unbelievably reasonable cost. All was signed and legal, so I did not have to turn to my third citizenship and contact the Canadian consul! Such is the weirdness of being brought up in Northern Ireland. I am entitled to both Irish and British passports and because my parents emigrated to Canada for two years, during which I was born, I am also a Canadian passport holder. You know it pays to have as many passports as you can possibly acquire!

It it seemed as if we had cleared all the hurdles when the boy’s school flagged up yet another major one. The opening of terraces coincided with the end of year Greek school exams and they were informed that if they missed their exams they would have to repeat their entire school year again! We discussed it as a family and both boys agreed they would rather miss the exams and repeat the entire school year then lose out on this special trip. They went to the school to meet with their headmaster and headteacher to explain. I didn't envy them explaining the event, their Baha’i Faith to a school dominated by the Greek Orthodox religion. When they returned from the meeting the tale they told was surprising indeed. 

After explaining the event and their desired attendance the boys informed the headmaster and headteacher of their willingness to repeat the year because of missing the end of year exams. The headmaster and teacher talked among themselves for a while and then suggested a way forward. They said that repeating year could be avoided if a note was sent in saying the boys were sick on the days of the missed exams. Both men were rather pleased at finding a clever way to avoid the boys having to repeat the whole school year. This time it was my two sons who conferred with each other as to how to respond. Their decision was - they weren't prepared to lie to go to a Baha'i event, it didn’t seem right. I don't know what the headmaster felt about this unexpected response but he suddenly decided that they could go to Haifa and would not have to tell a lie or repeat the year. Our next door neighbour who was a teacher at the school told us the headmaster had been floored by their youthful integrity. They had a fantastic trip.  It was one of those wonderful life affirming events for them both.  Sometimes out of the midst of unexpected challenges we learn not only about ourselves but also the hidden depths of others. 

Managing Animals with kindness

Teaching animal management for two years in a college in Northern Ireland was a good experience. The teenagers were full of heart and soul. They looked out for each other and radiated goodwill. I was shocked at how wholesome the group was despite Mohican haircuts, piercings and tattoos. In the animal room in the college we had hamsters, guinea pigs, birds, rabbits and on occasion dogs, cats, kittens and puppies, miniature goats and snakes. The students had to learn animal handling skills and needed to practice. When I started I viewed these kids as dangerous to the vulnerable animals. With each passing month I reversed my position and realised the kids had much more to fear from the animals.  

These kids harboured no nastiness but I knew even carelessness can damage. However, I saw nothing but consideration and kindness shown towards the animals. Even then I was careful. People in my experience can be kind in public but in private moments lash out. Just because they were gentle when I watched did not mean that when left alone in charge of an animal they might show another side.  Being a teacher made you suspicious of humanity! You discover those with no discipline, those who are physically careless, the occasional student totally void of conscience and it makes you guarded and cynical. For example, I taught pure science in a college in a different town twice a week.  The science students there had a few cruel students in their midst. You saw the way they hurt others in the corridor by word and deed. As a teacher you intervened as necessary, but was well aware that such viciousness would find its expression in other areas outside your control. Students who desire to hurt others can find spaces to practice their favourite sport. Educators have to be equally inventive to spoil their game. 

Walking from one group with such dynamics back into my animal management class was like emerging into sunlight. You got to focus on niceties instead of the basics of civil behaviour. On one session on euthanasia they were shown videos of dogs being euthanised. Such was the effect on these tender hearts I learned to have a game or outing to compensate for the anguish it in engendered. Many of them did their weekly placements in vets around the town. They spoke of young healthy dogs been put down because owners had lost interest, moved house or divorced. Their outrage was tangible. Another student spoke about how an animal nurse had sniggered while euthanising an elderly ill dog. The class was outraged at this insensitivity and all pledged to do things better. No laughter or smiles in such circumstances. The ending of life deserved respect. Months after the death of a dog, a heartless snigger can be both brutal and unkind for its owner. One boy said a man brought in his dog to be euthanised and acted as if it was no big deal. All swagger and brass indifference. As the dog died the vet gently stroked the dog on the table. The owner started sobbing and crying in an emotional outburst which surprised the student.  It was another lesson learned. People often hide what they're really feeling. Don't make assumptions.

 All had tales to tell of pets they lost. The bereavement was often still raw years later and would fill the classroom with its intensity. The tenderness of their hearts was a mighty lesson for me. I confess I had become jaded in teaching. You begin to expect less of students and even less of yourself. You wait to be disappointed with their actions.  This class revived my hope in humanity. They were therapy to be with and to this day I am so grateful for what they taught me -  “Every child is potentially the light of the world.”

Lying in Style

Was with a small group of junior youth (10 to 13 year olds) at a day camp here in Malta. My role was purely supervision. They had been given a task which they had 45 minutes to complete. All the teams where handed a sheet of information which they had to prepare a presentation on. At the end of the 45 minutes they would all have to present what they had learnt to the plenarily session. It helped we were all outside seated at a park in the sun working at a table.  Another big help was the A2 coloured sheets of cardboard, Sellotape, glue, colourful pens etc. What was an issue was our particular topic, wind erosion. Nearly all of them had already covered this topic at school and were reluctant to become involved with it again.  As they spoke about their school, their total boredom with the educational process leeched into the atmosphere. When I asked them to get started, one covered an area of the cardboard with glue and poured a handful of soil onto the sticky surface. Determined to be encouraging I praised this initiative and asked how they could show it blowing in the wind?  Immediately, a small girl starting work with large arrows but was restrained by the rest, "Do it in pencil, In case you make a mistake”, they said. She drew arrows in light pencil checking with her peers as to size and position. 

My heart sank. What is it about our systems that they kill creativity but bolster self-doubt and and the need to avoid criticism at all costs. The group was concerned that too much space had already been used up by the soil and arrows. “How would they get the rest of the information on the page”. This was combined with various cries of “No way, am I saying anything during the presentation”! The only heated discussion was on who would claim the role of holding the poster. That obviously was a nonspeaking role and much sought after. Since, the wind erosion affected rocks, I suggested perhaps we could include this on the poster I lifted a large pebble and put it on the corner of the poster. The group was horrified. It's far too big!” Followed by, “It'll never stick!” One courageous soul got going with masses of Sellotape and the rest grabbed their own stones and got sticking. Glue turned out to be useless, but by means of half of a roll of Sellotape all succeeded in placing their own rocks. They insisted on checking stability by holding the poster up right and doubling Sellotape on a pebble which showed signs of movement. Water waves erosion of sea arches was captured in a series of five pictures beginning with an arch and ending with two solitary pillars pointing skyward. Rain and it's effects was beautifully drawn in intricate coloured tear drops of rain falling abundantly above a stuck on pebble. 

It reminded me of how I used to spend ages colouring in the sea in history maps for homework. On one on the Spanish Armada I had had tiny blue lines extending out around the entire European coastline.  I cannot remember a single historical fact about the Armada but I recall with pleasure the intricate blue lines faning out from Cornwall in the south to the Hebrides in the north. It took me hours and my history teacher was not over enthusiastic about my efforts. So, when critics began complaining about how many raindrops the girl had drawn, I countered with ample enthusiasm for more! She purred purred in delight and did 10 more of the multicoloured drops. 

We were left with all the knowledge in diagram form but no words. An entire 30 minutes had already passed and there was now growing rebellion about speaking in public. They all looked at the poster's assortment of sketches, stones, arrows and soil. At one point tiny branches of trees had been added to the sides by someone unable to find an appropriately sized pebble. I could see why they were doubting their creation and dreading the public humiliation of having to show it to the wider group.  

I advised them to take one fact each and talk on that. That way each person would only have one sentence to say in public. They reluctantly agreed that this might make it easier. They had a diagram to point to for each fact so that would also help.  There were many doubtful looks at each other. Obviously, they figured their poster would be more confusing than helpful. I pointed out that half the difficulty in explaining the different processes involved was the stupid names given in the text. 

“How about each of you rename them and when you explain to the group use your name instead of the technical terms.”  

There was shocked looks around as if I'd asked them to lie in public. “You mean just make them up!” One shouted. 

“Sure as long as you know what it means, what odds what you call it? You're more likely to remember your own chosen name for the things anyway.” I added. 

This was greeted with howls of laughter and delight. They all came up with ridiculous names.  Wind blowing soil and sand across the landscape was renamed Wind-oh!  (pronounced wind dash oh). Rain water falling into cracks in stones was called H2O Sponge formation. Water freezing in the cracks as ice and causes bigger cracks was renamed Aquacracking. And so it went on. Strangely knowing that they could use their own 'made up' names, all were eager to present their idea. The deliciousness of falsehood in public was heady. So pleased were they with their new terminology they decided to end with a quiz to test if the audience could remember the new words. 

The young presenters had a field day. Each spouting on about about their names. Getting the audience to pronounce it properly. Spelling it aloud so everyone could appreciate it’s cleverness. During the quiz the entire audience remembered each term perfectly, the team was ecstatic! In triumph, they stormed off. One concerned whistleblower stayed and warned the audience that all these terms had been made up. That they didn't actually exist. Just in case someone used them in school. 

“You mean all of them!”  One boy in the front row asked in despair. None of the adults there noticed or questioned the strange terminology. We have long grown accustomed to new terminology and are willing to swallow it down wholesale. 

But it struck me that isn't that what most education is about?  The memorisation of facts and terms and the regurgitation of the same in tests. Knowledge of these code words means passing and ignorance of them failing. Isn't it mostly a complete waste of time that just sucks creativity out of every topic. Education becomes fence jumping, teaching entails training the horses to jump higher and faster over a known obstacle course. Those who mastered this useless skill are called the intelligent among us and go on to further education. More advanced fence jumping takes place. Astute at swallowing terminology wholesale, with excellent memories and obedient regurgitators when faced with the end of term exams. They used to say only the cream of the cream get to university 'the rich and the thick'. Now I have begun to question everything we commonly accept as education. When did we think the information conveyed mattered more than the purveyor or the recipient? Exactly what do we celebrate on their graduation? My son and nephew refused to go to their graduations. At the time, I resented not having the ceremony, the photographs the shared celebration. But, in hindsight, I reckon it was a statement about how little any of that actually meant. Three years of what exactly? The brains that emerge from many of our educational systems are stultified by its regime. Somewhere, along the way they lose that most vital of all things. The passion for truth and discovery. Jaded and unsatisfied they become excellent folder for this world. Hungry for things to buy to fill the void.  We have forgotten that when a horse gallops it does so instinctively, it was born to run free across its landscape. Perhaps, we have forgotten the purpose of education.  If our system converts curiosity into apathy we must ask how can we recapture the joy of learning?  

Religion, Rooster Cogburn and a lack of grit

In searching for progress we are sometimes nudged gradually, painfully in certain directions.  For me one of the earliest turning points occurred during my confirmation classes at my local Church of Ireland.  The clergyman when alone with a dozen 13 year olds, instead of preparing us spiritually, engaged in a bit of indoctrination instead.  He lectured us on the disgusting betrayal marriage to Catholics would entail.  He then proceeded to spout a narrow minded evangelistic agenda that even I, a fairly naïve 13 year old girl from the high on the Sperrin mountains, could not tolerate. 

His predecessor the reverent Wills had been a mild elderly man, with metal circular glasses, who lectured in his sermons with soft pleas for humanity and understanding of one’s neighbours.  My father had queried this gentle little man, during a visit to our home, to be more demanding in his sermons.  He asked him,

“Why don’t you tell them to not just love their neighbours, but tell them to love their Catholic neighbours in particular.  Don’t you think that’s what Christ meant?”

The tiny man had carefully wiped his glasses in his lap and said apologetically,

“Now, Mr Stringer, I have to be careful not to offend the congregation, you know yourself what people are like in these parts.”

Rev Wills raised his narrow shoulders in sympathy but continued,

“Sure, if I did anything like that, I’d be preaching to an empty church and what purpose would that serve?”

Having just watched John Wayne in True Grit, I listened to this conversation with disappointment and could not help thinking what the nice Reverent Wills lacked was grit.  I’d have preferred if he had mounted the pulpit, a bible in each hand, and blasted the church goers left right and centre (like Rooster Cogburn), whatever their particular prejudices.  

Unfortunately, his successor lacked the essential goodness of Rev Wills and his gentleness.  His sermons were full of hell and grinding of teeth for all sinners.  His children classes were sufficiently traumatic with their burning pits and devils with horns that I’m sure he kept psychologists/counsellors and psychiatrists in business for decades later.  I had been dragged, by my father, to Sunday School classes and services for years and had complained bitterly.  It was the confirmation classes perversely that really confirmed my suspicions that this man was not good.   So clearly did I articulate my abhorrence for the content of these confirmation classes my father accepted my decision never to enter church premises ever again.  I viewed this new clergyman with the distain I had previously reserved for villains in a Dicken’s novel.   It was hardly fair but adolescents are many things but not forgiving. 

When, I was obliged to attend weddings or funerals I did so out of politeness and respect.  However, I listened to the sermon like a literary critic finding satisfaction when he spouted something that I disagreed with.  When the clergyman asked the congregation to kneel or bow their heads in prayer, I refused to do either.  Instead, he and I would often find ourselves eyeballing each other across the bowed heads of the devout.  I cultivated an accusing stare while he had a bewildered look.  I was confident my stare told him exactly what I thought of him.  Hardly fair, I am sure he had more good qualities than I.  To my adolescent mind he had fallen short of St Francis’s standard and did not deserve my respect or ear.  Ah, the black and white clarity of youth.  There are not even greys, just right and wrong.  The good guys and the bad ones.  In a divided community between Catholic and Protestant I found myself examining both with forensic intensity.  There was so much this autopsy unearthed I felt like a coroner disengaged from both sides.  It was a blessing that my father read so widely as through him I had an appreciation of the Bible and knowledge of Buddhism, Judaism, Islam and Hinduism.  In our family, reading was an obsession, whether it was the Quran, the recently translated  Dead Sea Scrolls  or the writings of Zoroaster.   It has long shocked me how terrified people are to truly investigate.  To search for the truth.  To set aside petty prejudices and really look.  This independent investigation was a constant call to arms.  Truth becomes obscured by ignorance and gradually disclosed by rational effort.  It leds to an appreciated of the essential truths that all the main religions share.  It helps elucidate the qualities that are needed in society if we are to improve our civilisation.  There have been enough rises and falls of civilisations to chart the symptoms of deterioration.  Even without a historical perspective an examination of present day society would suffice to tell us we are on a downward curve. 

After fifty years I am no longer an adolescent and colours have entered my palate.  There are forces of disintegration all around and people’s lives are caught up in this old world order. That is being rolled up.  Look into any institution and you cannot fail to find the corruption just beneath the surface.  Even the most well-intentioned bodies are hounded to a standstill by persistent selfish agendas.  But, I am no longer hopeless or in despair.  There are worse days ahead I’m sure.  Human society will weather storms we cannot even guess at now.  The intensity of such catastrophes will serve to decrease the strange lethargy we are all afflicted with.  Perhaps, anything that serves to allow us to come forth from the sheath of self will transform not just us but society.   The degree to which we engage in building that noble society the happier and more positive our mind-set.  Fighting the forces of darkness is like trying to dam a flood.  Constructing our personal defences, uniting with others who share a vision for a better future is empowering.  Change is coming, we can choose to endure it or embrace the transformation it entails.  It had ever been so. 

In the second century the early Christians were the victims of persecution. Polycarp, the venerable bishop of Smyrna was arrested and imprisoned. While under guard he prayed so fervently and powerfully the guards regretted that they had been involved in his capture.  Later, called upon to recant his faith he refused. "Eighty and six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong", Polycarp goes on to say, “Bring forth what thou wilt."  This elderly gentle bishop in his nineties was burnt at the stake.  Talk about true grit!

I firmly believe we are designed to be noble.  To be better, than we can even possibly imagine.  In reaching that goal a new and better civilisation becomes inevitable.