Jeannie McCafferty and the sorrow tree

Jeannie McCafferty knew she was unlucky.  It was clear from before she was born it would be the case.  Her mother Mary had had a difficult pregnancy and was strangely sick not just in the early months of the pregnancy but for the whole long nine months.  Mary’s wrists became as thin as a fragile child’s. Her husband George watched, worried and restless as the birth approached. When Mary died shortly after the birth George felt that he had stood by as his sweet wife wasted away and those shrinking fragile wrists were a marker of her gradually being taken from this world.  

For George, a poor farmer with no wife and a newborn the world felt empty and pointless.  However, his sister Taise moved into the home and helped with the baby and Jeannie was a happy healthy baby who gradually brought laughter to their little house.  She grew and though unlucky was as lovely as her mother so George was amazed how his heart healed with time and he knew his progress when he felt gratitude as he walked the fields around his small house with Jeannie’s small hand in his.  

Jeannie remembered as a toddler being afraid of the scary tree in the garden and crying each time she saw it.  There was something about its twisted tortured green moss-covered branches that reminded her of a crowd of people wailing and holding their thin arms aloft in distress.  When the wind blew the crowd became frantic and frenzied and Jeannie could not even look at the tree.  She called it the tree of sorrow and sadness.  George was amused at her sensitivity.  He knew the neighbours called Jeannie unlucky and noticed how they often sighed in sympathy when they saw the young girl in the fields playing.  George had no time for such nonsense his fields were few and earning a living was a full-time job.  They had a cow, chickens and grew tomatoes as well as vegetables in a small greenhouse outback.  But life was always close to the edge and George worked hard in his fields to squeeze out every penny they needed.  His hands were huge like shovels and Jeannie never felt as safe as when he clamped her small hand in his massive paw and walked with her chatting at his side.  

George’s sister Taise was a quiet kindly woman of few words yet she kept the range going all the year round and like a magician constantly conjured up sweet-smelling soda bread on its top and wonderful wheaten bread and cakes from its oven.  The three of them formed a team that worked well.  George and Taise were people of few words but kind hearts and they and the range warmed Jeannie’s days.  She loved the smell of fresh bread baking and felt sorry for those whose homes were not perfumed with its fragrance.  Jeannie talked nonstop and yet her tone was light and gentle so that George felt its absence from the house when she was outside.  He loved the evenings when the three of them sat around the blazing range’s open door and he listened to her talk about everything.  Telling him what she saw, what she felt and hoped for.  He knew her fear of the scary tree, how she loved the kittens in the outhouse and how tender her heart was.  Occasionally when he had enough energy, at the end of the day, he would take down his fiddle and play old tunes and Jeannie clapped her hands in excitement and sang along.  Her voice was gentle and yet she could hold a tune from a young age and had the ability to bring so much emotion to the old words they knew so well.  

If George could create a picture of their life together he would pick those evenings when he walked with Jeannie from the barn with his daughter beside him into the warm kitchen to find the table laid with food and his sister waiting to serve the hot meal.  The contrast between the cold cowshed and the cosy range and his family around him always raised his spirits and made him so grateful for what he had.  Then the potato blight hit and the whole country felt real hunger.  George was lucky to have his little greenhouse and his small vegetable plot with chickens.  Their potato crop rotted in the field and their diet changed.  All three lost weight but nothing compared to others.  George shared his tomatoes with his three nearest neighbours and hoped that it made a difference.  The rest they could not share as there was barely enough for the three of them.  When Jeannie held his hand George could not stop himself examining her wrists.  They were thin and she had lost that childish plumpness in her face.  It seemed to George that as her features thinned she grew more and more like Mary and a terrible fear filled him.  He and his sister did with less to try and boost her portion at mealtimes but Jeannie continued to lose weight no matter what they did.  There was not more energy for singing, no more abundant baking, each thing was rationed to make it last.  

They all felt that terrible days were upon them and all they could do was hang on as best they could.  The suffering around them grew and famine was evident. Their neighbour Mrs Tiley died an active sixty-year-old and her cows cried their pain from the barn.  George milked them, took them to her fields regularly and watered them enough to keep them alive.  He explained that he couldn’t let them starve but her son, who eventually arrived from Dublin at the homestead weeks after the funeral, had been resentful as if George had stolen their family milk.  He tried to explain that without milking the cows would have died,  but George could tell his actions were resented.  

Rumours spread about the farmer who stole milk from his neighbour in times of famine and in those days of hardship and anger the words gradually grew more toxic in the telling and spreading.  George told himself it didn’t matter what people thought but it hurt more than he could say.  Taise and Jeannie were furious that people could be so cruel, especially those neighbours who had known George for years.  For Jeannie it felt as if the tree of sorrow had now manifested itself as an angry swarm of people around them.  She felt the condemnation and the gossip and it sapped their spirits.  Up to this point, however difficult things had been they had managed but this accusation broke George’s back.  Already living on reduced food rations his health failed suddenly and dramatically.  Pneumonia set in and strong George found himself bedridden with lungs full of liquid drowning him.  Taise was frantic to help him and wrote to their brother Tom who lived in Scotland explaining the situation.  

It took Tom a week to arrive but when he did he helped.  Shocked at how ill George was Tom paid for a doctor to come from the nearby city.  Immediately treatment was started as the doctor explained there was now a new antibiotic available in injection form. Taise and Jeannie prayed and hoped that George would pull through.  Tom was a thin, short man efficient and quick in actions and words.  Two brothers could not be more different: the slow quiet laid back large George and this small agile clever sibling.  George began to rally and as Jeannie sat by his bedside a miracle seemed to have been granted.  George was able to sit up and eat some soup at last.  But his face was ashen and he had lost so much weight even his features looked different.  Both Jeannie and Taise fretted and worried.  

Neighbours commented that no good comes to those who do bad and George’s illness was felt to be a divine judgement of sorts. “Stealing milk from your dead neighbour!” There was a coldness and Jeannie overheard one toxic gossip say that the family had never had a good day since her birth, “Badness brings badness” she crowed.  Tom found Jeannie crying beside the kittens in the old outhouse.  He led her back into the house and explained “I think it better to focus on George than his reputation. You know what his character really is while his reputation is merely what others think he is”.  For Jeannie this was deep beyond words and evident truth.  It eased her heart and she looked afresh at this brother of George.  She had been so angry at this cruel neighbour but Tom waisted no words on blame but answered falsehood with insight.  She wrote his words down in her diary and would re-read their words many times.  She might have been born unlucky in the eyes of others but she knew a different reality and she felt armed against all the blows both past and future that others might throw.  Within a month George had recovered and was able to work once more.  The famine ended and Tom returned to Scotland while George, Tasie and Jeannie luxuriated in having their range producing heat and all sorts of goodies from its oven.  Jeannie knew they had all recovered when George took down his fiddle a month later and played while she sang.  They smiled at each other and were grateful to have back again all that they thought they had lost.

Pearls within, sun powered, holding fast and drawing near

    "... the pearls of wisdom and utterance have appeared from the shells of the great sea of 

    Thy knowledge ..."

    So fascinating to learn about pearls as they are truly unique. They are the only

    gemstones in the world that come from a living creature. Mollusks such as oysters

    and mussels create pearls when an irritating particle gets inside their shells.

    This particle, when trapped, causes the mollusk to defend itself by coating this

    annoying irritant with nacre. The beautiful glow of pearls comes from numerous

    layers of this coating and the process can take anywhere from two to four years

    to develop. For all of us, problems often enter our lives and bring consequences

    good and bad. If we respond in the right way to such tests we can forge things of

    beauty in our own lives. Such inner gems will be formed by the wisdom gained as

    a result of these experiences and are reflected in what we say and how we treat others.

    "..and the heavens of divine revelation have been adorned with the light of the appearance of 

    the sun of Thy countenance."

    From time immemorial God has sent Educators to this world and their teachings have

    transformed the societies and civilizations that have arisen in their wake. Such divine

    teachers have always been subjected to persecution and suffering but the truth of their

    spiritual teachings nurture humanity just as powerfully as the radiance of the sun brings

    life-giving energy to the physical world.

    "Thou beholdest them clinging to the rope of Thy grace and holding fast unto the hem of the mantle of Thy beneficence."

    If you have ever clung to a rope you will be familiar with the frightening feeling of being

    hauled about without you being able to decide either direction or pace. Dragged off your

    feet at times but clinging stubbornly throughout it all. We have to grip tightly and trust

    God even when swept up by events we can neither predict nor control. Holding fast to

    God's love, under all conditions, is the only viable option!

    "Ordain for them that which may draw them nearer unto Thee, and withhold them from 

     all else save Thee."

    It has been said, the worst thing God can do to a soul is to bless them with such good

    health, good family, good fortune, and good home that they totally forget God. We

    often only draw near to God in prayer when all goes wrong in our lives. Our desperation

    can drive us to real communion with God and our humility then allows us to receive just

    what we need at that moment. Drawing nearer to God should be a constant daily urgent

    goal whatever the distractions of this world.

quotes used from the writings of Bahá’u’lláh

A cull of the best of us

 

The table is set, the tree decorated slowly by stiff, twisted fingers and even red cushions added to make a festive statement.

But no faces around the table, because of love.

The Christmas cards from loved ones hang in the hallway. These cardboard tokens of love from all are cherished.  Each one re-read with news of the passing year. 

But no conversations face-to-face, because of love

The box of children’s toys, from decades ago, remain packed away in the garage.   Stored with a custodian’s devoted care. No squeals of great-grandchildren as they rediscover their parent’s playthings. 

But no cheeks pressed against wrinkled faces, no hugs to give energy to old bones because of love.

Christmas music is not played this year. Familiar songs of shared times somehow hurt the spirit in this season of suffering.

No singing of old favourites with others because of love.

Presents are left on the doorstep, while their givers stand 2 meters away. Strange for those of so many, many decades to remember these rules, after a lifetime of love and hugs. 

They are no longer allowed because of love.

Christmas dinner is delivered to the same doorstep with all the trimmings including dessert. Made with care, a real expression of love.

But they cannot hug those that share these gifts because of love. 

Behind the glass boundaries, there is an aching void.  Age already has taken so much away. Memories evaporate. Joints stiffen in pain and simple tasks become fraught.  Bowls of pills become one’s daily fare.  Breathing is constricted without inhalers. They must work harder just to cope but the years have taught them its lessons of endurance and steadfastness. These later years are ever tough and now the grim reaper has reached their field. 

Yet habits ingrained of care and devotion continue because of love.

Even in these days of Covid-fear, the elderly still think of others. Relatives, friends and neighbours they hold them tenderly in their failing hearts. 

Their hearts are lacerated by the suffering of refugees or children in far-off lands because of love.

Sometimes I think we are losing the best of us. A horrid cull of those who have amassed so much valuable knowledge and experience. In their place,  an army of social media, internet intoxicated fools, who know everything not worth knowing.

"The second half of a man's life is made up of nothing but the habits he has acquired during the first half."

—  Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1821-1881, Russian writer

Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated

This plane is far too full. Given the many precautions of the airport with careful separation of passengers by means of floor signs, sealed off areas, seats taped over to enforce distancing and even the queueing policy and masks mandatory there was a sense of these people know how to make this Covid-safe space. But even in the airport, despite all appearances, there were obvious flaws. Every single hand cleansing dispenser was empty. I knew because I’m paranoid enough to insist on using them all. That should’ve given me a heads up that all was not what it seemed. However, it was only when I entered the departure lounge that everything went really pear-shaped. My gate was absolutely packed with the queue snaking right around the entire hall. People were trying to keep a safe distance but the room was just not big enough. 

Then, we were jammed into the airport buses, on route to the plane, like sardines. Gone was any pretence of social distancing. We were packed far too tightly to permit even a bulky handbag to separate us. I consoled myself with the thought that the plane would be better. After all, the last time I flew on this route, in Covid times, there were only 16 people on the whole plane. I actually managed to stretch out and sleep across three vacant seats for the first time in years. Not this time! The plane rapidly filled to the brim. Obviously, being a Christmas flight, many were returning to Dublin for the festive period. I initially thought I would be the only fortunate person on the plane to have vacant seats on either side of me. Unfortunately, once the door of the plane closed there was a rapid reshuffling and a man took one of the empty seats in my row. I briefly contemplated the social etiquette of pointing out he should sit in the seat indicated by his ticket. However, since there was by now a massive reseating going on all over the plane I decided making a fuss was not in order. At least I didn’t have the chap two rows ahead beside me. He was wearing a mask so small it did not cover his mouth or nose, more of a chin strap. Who does he think he is fooling? Never mind I put my head back and try to relax. The stewards came around to take the food order and I politely declined. I have purchased an expensive FFP3 mask for this flight and I’m not risking removing it to either drink or eat. But darn it the people all around me are suddenly removing their masks so they can stuff their faces. Perhaps I should just relax after all I have had Covid already in May. 

On that last trip, I had flown to Ireland from Malta and brought a packed lunch to eat on the plane during the journey. After the flight, I got onto the bus for the long journey to Belfast. On that particular last leg of the journey, I did not feel at all well. In fact, by the time it arrived in Belfast, outside the Europa hotel, I barely managed to stagger off the bus before vomiting on the pavement. This startled me as I rarely ever vomit. As I’ve mentioned before, even in the face of food poisoning (a dodgy Chinese family meal) all vomited but my dad and I.  Then, when sailing with friends in rough weather, who were vomiting in unison either side of me, I managed to still enjoy my Mars bar. So, it was weird for me to feel so bad. I recovered once I had emptied my stomach. But within two weeks my mum and I both had Covid. Did I catch it on the plane? Somehow two weeks seems too long. Who knows, it could have been from a supermarket trip, getting petrol for the car, a neighbour who came too close to talk.   I’ll never know but Covid was horrid. I had a mild but nasty period but my poor 87-year-old mum was eventually hospitalised and had to have oxygen. Thankfully she fought her way back to health despite her age, damaged lungs and asthma and came home safely. Mind you, both of us are convinced our brains are just not the same. 

So, the reason I’m a bit paranoid on this plane is because I’m heading once again to be with my mum and I’m frankly terrified I’ll pick up the virus on route. The science is rather vague about how long antibodies and T cells remain in your system after you’ve been exposed to the virus and recovered. A few months was mentioned initially but then it seemed to depend on the severity of the original infection. Those who with the milder symptoms seem to lose their immunity faster. Then, there’s also vagueness about whether you yourself could be immune but still carry the virus to others. Just the possibility of that has generated a longing for 2m between me and all my neighbours on this flight. The younger generation seems much more relaxed about this disease. The young man behind me is chatting up a pretty girl in the seat beside him. They have that excited nervous first conversation, not exactly flirty, but each wanting to put their best foot forward. I’m wishing they would talk less as they’re too close to me. 

There are only two elderly people on this flight and I can tell they are panicking. Both wear a visor and a mask to protect themselves, a smart move I should have thought of. When the old man had entered the plane he had started a heated argument with a young man with a crewcut seated in 1A. The elderly man was sure this upstart was sitting in his seat and argued loudly while hitting his boarding pass with a red pointed finger. The air steward intervened as the young man searched for his boarding pass on his phone. It took time for the truth to emerge as the elderly man behind his mask and visor couldn’t hear the steward very well. It turned out his boarding ticket was in row three not row one and he and his grey-haired wife were eventually persuaded to move on down the plane to their real seats. In the middle of the confusion, his wife took a severe cramp in her calf and had to stop and rub it while groaning in pain. I have real sympathy with this getting older. Along with more pain, it makes mistakes more likely. There really should be compassion for the elderly. Remembering to wear masks is tricky once you get past a certain age. You can easily forget. 

In Malta, masks are mandatory everywhere outdoors and I have managed to get a block from home before remembering to pull a mask from my bag. Why is it so tricky? It’s because it’s foreign. The younger generation can adapt to change but older people have their life long habits engraved in brains of cement.  When you periodically lose your train of thought, can’t find that word and miss place inanimate objects with depressing regularity then obeying brand new regulations is really tough. There is a video of a pensioner online, entering a supermarket and mistaking a drink dispenser for an alcoholic hand spray and pouring the brightly coloured sugar drink over both palms and then rubbing in the sticky stuff earnestly. One’s heart leaps in real sympathy. When they hand out fines for not wearing a mask I think old age should be a valid excuse! 

Travelling had already become harder, even before Covid hit and was becoming very tiring. The distance covered by travellers in the airport has become longer, time standing in queues in steep stairways adds to the torture. The steps on a Ryanair aircraft are rickety and narrow with steps that are smaller than normal-sized feet. You end up coming down the steps on your heels with most of your foot projecting out mid-air. The whole structure moves like a rickety ladder and there’s no room to carry a suitcase by your side. Instead, you have to hold it in front of you pulling you forward dangerously over your toes. The fact that these ladders fold into the plane has to be convenient for the airlines but it’s a real liability for the elderly/pregnant/parent with small children. 

Another couple in front of me is also courting across the aisle. I suspect young people are desperate to socialise. Planes are replacing nightclubs, pubs and other social venues. We older ones avoid such unnecessary exposure to germs.  The young are excited to have these hours to get to know someone new at last. I cannot blame them. After all, they are young and feel invincible. Their immune systems are humming along nicely. Fighting off infections like crack troops. Ours are a withered bunch who have been whittled away by chronic conditions. Our systems often already need medication to keep our troops in line and in order.  These elderly troops seem less vigilant and effective.  I can remember getting deep cuts in my knees, when younger, and they healed so quickly. Healed and left no scars. Now marks remain for years and can even grow to form deep creases. Opportunistic growths appear in unlikely places and these old bodies view these invaders as bedfellows that just have to be endured. Decisions are sometimes made to rip such opportunistic growths off a shoulder or back but need to be weighed with the scar that will be left. Deciding to go for the scar or just ignore this new tenant have to be thought through.  In fact, with time you are a bit embarrassed by your battlefield body.  Once a nurse was worried by a huge bleeding sore on my forearm when I had decided this particular growth had outgrown my tolerance for it.  On my next visit to a health clinic, a different nurse was horrified by the size of an unsightly growth on my wrist.  As I made my way home I was trying to work out which had caused more distress in medical staff.  To rip off or leave alone, difficult to decide?

The other change that age brings is that you are more sensitive to stress.  You’d think with experience you’d be able to weather difficulties better.  But the truth is with age you long for peace and quiet and toxic atmospheres corrode your wellbeing.  Unexpected stress freaks you out.  As do last-minute changes or having to rush because you are late.  Responsibilities weigh more heavily.  You sweat over grandchildren.  Worry about their safety, fear you will fail them through inattention or carelessness.  Knowing how tricky inanimate objects have become, like jar lids that won't open, you are freaked out by these active strong-willed characters.  Their minds are like quicksilver and you feel like a heavy-footed cart horse.  These bones don’t move so fast anymore and these old brains don’t process thoughts so well.  There are benefits. Strangely emotions grow stronger with age.  A beautiful landscape can move us to tears.  As can a child’s smile or a sweet memory of an old friend.

Sleep changes. When you are young you can do without sleep all night. Function pretty well all the next day before collapsing the next night. When you are old, sleep becomes something you keep track off like a bank balance. Every morning you will enquire of everyone you live with if they slept well. It is a subject of interest to you as sleeping has become a hit or miss affair. No more total collapse into a blissful full night’s sleep. Instead, bladder trips pepper the night and often sleep does not follow these outings. Then the night shift of bedroom roof inspection begins.  Tired of the horrible thoughts that bubble up in a sleep-deprived mind I generally get up and have breakfast at 3 am. With a full belly sometimes sleep comes as an unexpected desert. With such varied experiences at night no wonder the elderly have daily conversations about sleep. And that doesn’t even cover the dreams. In old age, you can find yourself back in stress-inducing situations that years ago you might have faced. But now, at this stage in life, the stress is hyper experienced and unbearable.  You wake up traumatised by an experience you manage to wade through with difficulty in your prime but is now played in your dream as an awful sequel. When an older person asks you with genuine concern ‘Did you sleep well?” Know in what context they ask.  They know what a bad night feels like, the emotions that rip open wounded hearts. So, out of love, they want to be reassured that your sleep was sound and blissful. It pleases them to know someone is getting a good night’s sleep.

My romantic neighbours behind me are on their second meal of this flight. They consume vast quantities of drink that we older travellers would never challenge our bladders with. These young people after hours of flight look remarkably fresh. It reminds me of two friends of mine who went into the local maternity ward at the same time and gave birth on the same day. Amused by the synchronicity of this event, photos were taken of the two friends with their new babies on the ward. The young mother in her 20’s looked like a model in her nightgown with a freshly flushed complexion glowing with happiness. My 43-year-old older friend held her baby like an anchor that was too heavy to hold and looked like she had been through 20 rounds of a vicious heavyweight boxing match.  Even her hair seemed freaked out. The contrast between the two mothers in the photograph had us all roaring in laughter and sympathy. As I look around this plane I can see a similar phenomenon.  The young look exactly as they did when they entered this plane. We oldies look like we’ve been dragged through bushes backwards for several nights. Eyelids are closing independently of their owners and mouths seem to be pulled by gravity into grimaces that speak of back pain that has reached intolerable proportions. Old bones shift uncomfortably and long to be flat on orthopaedic mattresses. Cramps come and go in unlikely places and vague indigestion has begun to brew. Gasses gather inside you as if your own personal air balloon is being inflated.  The noisy happy flirtatious chat of excited young people has become like dentist drills in our heads. We admire their energy and commitment but long for our own oblivion in a deep sleep. Our bank balances are running extremely low and being polite to others takes incredible effort. Excited chitchat from youngsters is like fingernails on the blackboard. 

But we must endure.  That’s what age teaches you. Patience with yourself and others, the flaws, the worries and the pains. It’s a hard-won quality and it makes you wish for all onboard this plane a safe journey and a good night sleep at the end of it. Because isn’t that what we all long for at the end of these lives of ours.

In the darkness, we must learn to find the light

It is a lovely day for late November. Still a warm sun and blue skies. Malta is a good place to chill these days. You do have to wear a mask when outdoors so I’m finding walks less enjoyable. There is a strange suffocating feeling that despite three weeks of practice has yet to shift. But if you sit at an outdoor café with a drink you can take your mask off and breathe in the sun and the sea. This particular café is right on the shore overlooking the sea. Quiet and well away from the busy road. The staff are what they call in Northern Ireland dour but okay. There is zero customer service apart from the wiping of tables between visitors to attempt to make the zone Covid-free. For that I am grateful! But my request for a decaf cappuccino at the counter, no waiter service here, is met with a shoulder shrug that is faintly dismissive. My uncle once described his accommodation on the island as baa – sick (basic) and somehow the pronunciation in a thick Northern Irish accent makes it sound even more rudimentary than just the word on its own. Sometimes changing the order of words can be even more effective than an accent in accentuating the power of a well-used phrase. When I was at school my friend Caroline never used the label ‘litterbug’ to describe those who dropped any litter in her presence. Instead, she would scream at the offender “bugger litter!” This was much more effective and generated a bigger response from the target of her venom.  

Mind you I’ve been conscious of how venomous so many exchanges seem to be these days when insulting language has become routine.  Watching online content even from news outlets has become unexpectedly abrasive. It seems the world has embraced extremes and whether it is politics, religious or social etiquette there’s been a coarsening that irritates. 

Even the mainstream news has invective targeting world leaders, insults traded between opposing political sides, details of sordid sins of the powerful or the perverted or those who manage to be both with equal relish. Major events worthy of a headline are relegated even if that happens to be genocide or famine. 

It is as if the media, in general, has become a grotesque Punch and Judy puppet show with sticks being brandished and insults shouted in piercing tones “Oh, no he didn’t! Oh, yes he did!” All the while in the background human suffering around the globe goes unnoticed. Centre stage are these characters that neither inspire nor uplift but leave you feeling vaguely unable to look away and strangely satisfied that you have not sunk to their low-level. When, the show stops, and the puppets are all packed away we are forced to contemplate our own endeavours and feelings. Exactly what value have we accomplished in this day? What are the relationships we have with those around us? Have we, like the puppets, become all show and tell? Fixated on the superficial and befuddled as to priorities? 

Some say there is nothing like a pandemic to focus the mind on the real priorities in life. But history tells us that just is not the case. Most major pandemics and plagues were accompanied by tidal waves of ignorant prejudice that meant minorities were targeted as scapegoats. This sickness of “othering” allows anger and despair an easy way to vent. Like the husband angry with his wife who goes outside to kick his dog in frustration. Such inappropriate responses can feel like a maelstrom that carries societies into dangerous waters.

Fortunately, there have always been heroes who held their footing in dangerous tides. They sensed the undisciplined dictates of a frenzied mass and choose a different path. 

Some paid for it with their lives like the woman mathematician Hypatia born in the 4th Century AD who was a philosopher, astronomer, and mathematician, living in Alexandria, Egypt, a part of the Eastern Roman Empire.  She was a great teacher and a wise counsellor much loved by pagans and Christians alike in the city.  Hypatia taught students from all over the Mediterranean at the Alexandrian school which was famous at the time for its philosophy and she lectured on the writings of Plato and Aristotle.  Two of the greatest philosophers of the age. Aristotle was Plato’s student and colleague for 20 years at the Academy in Athens.  The words of these wise stoics echo down through the centuries and still inspire respect today.  What a privilege and illumination it must have been to be educated by someone as brilliant and erudite as Hypatia on their writings.

“It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.”

Aristotle

“We can easily forgive a child who is afraid of the dark; the real tragedy of life is when men are afraid of the light.” 

Plato

She excelled in mathematics and was also an extraordinarily talented astronomer. Early writers recorded that Hypatia was "exceedingly beautiful and fair of form".  Unfortunately, in those dark days, there were many who were afraid of the light that Hypatia brought. A mob of religious fanatics attacked Hypatia's carriage as she was travelling home and dragged her into a church where they stripped her naked and murdered her using roof tiles, cutting out her eyeballs before dismembering her.  What an incredible loss to society at a time when her abundant skills both intellectual and compassionate were so needed. Fortunately, it is Hypatia who is remembered and appreciated by history, not the mindless zealots that took her life.

People like Hypatia remind us that behind the Punch and Judy show, with which we are all mesmerised, lie many such examples of nobility that resonate within us. They tell of human fortitude and steadfastness in difficulties. I find myself hugging the memory of such people close. They feel a safer lifeline to hold to in dark days. Most of all, because they awaken in us, our desire to accomplish something today and to reach out to those around us with more compassion and awareness. We are all here for a reason not for show. So, before we like the puppets, are put away in a box at the end of the show let’s do and say something worth remembering. In the darkness, we must learn to find the light.

“step out of the darkness into the light and onto this far-extended Path of Truth.

The Báb

 b   

I was the non-speaking, unseen third tree in our village play

I was the third tree, a nonspeaking part, in the village play. As a child, you’re trying to find your place in the greater scheme of things and when Eva Carson got the role of the first tree and had two whole lines of speech to perform, it felt very unfair to me.  The main actors, who had to memorise quite long dialogues, had already been picked. Obviously, the best looking, most articulate of the children in our village were in these roles. 

There was a pecking order with the stage manager and director along with costume designer and stagehands to change backgrounds between acts.  Lower down still, were the people in the background a waiter, bystanders or crowds.  They didn’t get to speak but they got to move around and mutter, cheer or shout on occasion.  Then, there were the two ushers who showed people to their seats and were much envied as they both had torches and seemed to relish their power over members of the audience arriving in the darkness.  At the very bottom of the pecking order were the three trees. The first tree had a few lines to say. Nothing epic but at least her tree contributed to the story of the play. The second tree was Tim Dicks and he didn’t have to speak but had a card with some words that he held up at the end of the play to close the whole show. Finally, right at the very bottom of the entire social hierarchy was me, the third tree, a non-speaking role with not even a card to hold aloft.  

All three trees were wrapped up in brown painted cardboard with our faces peeking out painted brown like the trunk of a tree. Finally, attached to our heads were green leaves to create the impression of foliage. We were not an impressive sight as we shuffled onto the stage, behind the curtain, for the opening night performance. I’m ashamed to admit I was envious of both Eva and Tim. How dare they get bigger parts than me? I knew enough of my position in the grand scheme of things not to aspire to be a bystander or an usher but I really felt I could’ve managed to be a tree with a few lines. Too late, I felt the deep embarrassment of my lowly position as the curtains were about to be opened and the whole set revealed. A packed audience was watching, as always. Nothing guarantees more bums on seats at a village performance than doting parents wanting to watch their offspring stagger on and off stages in their moment of glory. 

The director, an English lady with a very posh accent, had eloquently introduced the play which bored the entire audience. They didn’t care who wrote the play, what it portrayed, the hidden meaning or the eloquence of the plot. They wanted to see their children perform. So, when the director finally left the stage and the curtains actually opened there was riotous applause and even some stamping of feet in excitement. The show was on!

Unfortunately, the stage curtain had not been pulled completely open the whole way.  So, although tree one and tree two could be clearly seen stage right, I could not.  I stood a bit bewildered, looking straight into a black curtain while the play started on the stage with actors speaking their lines loudly. As a child, you just accept such disasters. First, the humiliation of being a nonspeaking tree then you become an unseen, unspeaking tree. Questions popped into my mind almost metaphysical in nature. If you are a tree, who can’t speak and can’t be seen do you really exist in the play at all?  Perhaps, I had been overly aspirational in trying to be a third nonspeaking tree and the universe was letting me know “No, you don’t even deserve this miserable role!”

Then, there was a flurry of loud footsteps and the curtains were suddenly roughly drawn open by my father who had marched all the way to the front from his seat further back in the auditorium. He beamed at me as he carefully positioned the curtain so that I could be seen by all, before noisily stamping his way back into the darkness. Now, my questions were suddenly answered. Was there anything worse than being a non-speaking, non-seen third tree?  The answer to that question was, yes! Much worse was standing in front of a whole audience with tears running down my face in total humiliation. I’m not sure what the audience thought. If there was any justice there would’ve been a favourable review in the local paper reading something like,

“This production was mesmerising and the show-stealer was the third tree whose deep continuous sobs and distress epitomised the pain, loss and suffering that inflict us all. Her constant tears remind us of our helplessness and total acquiescence in life’s mighty drama!”

But no such report was written and instead yet another deep and abiding humiliation was carved into my adolescent heart. To summarise simply, the first tree had words, the second tree had a card and the third tree was lacerated in public view.

For the information of those of you who inhabit the Internet, such entertainment as these performances used to fill our days in the village. Amateur shows were regular events in between beetle drives (you will have to google that one).  There was a particularly favourite party piece that was used regularly on stage. Two characters, usually old farmers, would appear and the dialogue would be as follows,

First farmer: “My son has joined the RAF”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all he has to go up very high in a big plane.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because those planes have two engines.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because both engines stopped working.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because he had a parachute.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because when he jumped out the parachute wouldn’t open.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because there was a big haystack down beneath him”.

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because as he fell he could see the haystack had a pitchfork in it.”

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s bad, that’s bad, that’s bad!”

First farmer: “It’s not so bad at all because he missed the pitchfork”.

Second farmer: “Oh, that’s good, that’s good, that’s good!”

First farmer: “It’s not so good at all because he missed the haystack too!”

For some reason, this was greeted with hilarity each and every time it was related. Its very familiarity made this performance more popular.  Years later, I discovered it’s a genre found the world over and its actual message is quite deep.  Here is one example from the east.

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbours came to visit. "Such bad luck," they said sympathetically. 

"Maybe," the farmer replied.

The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. "How wonderful," the neighbours exclaimed. 

"Maybe," replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbours again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. 

"Maybe," answered the farmer.

The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son's leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbours congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. 

"Maybe," said the farmer.

I have learnt a lot from these tales and consider them valuable lessons in life. Sometimes you feel being the third tree on a stage is a humiliation too much to bear. Then, years pass and you face both worse and better experiences that force you to recalibrate. Eventually, you begin to realise that, whatever life brings, the only thing that really matters is how you deal with it.

Malta - reconstruction, recollections and reflections

 

St Julian’s in Malta is a picturesque spot.  Walking to the love statue along the coast from Sliema is a therapy for mind and body.  The scene of the colourful boats lying at anchor add to the colour and drama of the occasion.   

But if you could have only seen it a couple of centuries ago perhaps you would have been more impressed still.   Before the onslaught of modern hotels, businesses and contemporary apartment blocks there was a beauty that was unique.  However, when you think of the hammering Malta received during the war it is amazing how much still remains to be admired.  The extent of this bombing is difficult to get your head around but some old photos do speak volumes.

So I suspect we should be grateful for the beauty that remains. But some of the slightly older photos of St Julian's show us another side to this familiar spot that deserves remembering.

This aerial view of the approach to St Julian's from Balluta bay is still recognisable despite the age of the photograph.  But other photographs of St Julian's suddenly begin to show the changes that have occurred.

In particular, the lovely old buildings on the other side of the bay look stunning and I suddenly see what this area has lost with time.  There is a simplicity and loveliness in this shot that surprises and the two boys with their bicycle seem from another more innocent age.

Going back a few more years this close up of Spinola Palace shows that it is missing the crown on its facade that had been removed in 1798 during Napoleon's visit to signify the Knights Hospitaller of St John's expulsion from Malta. The palace itself was originally built in 1688 by a certain Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola, Grand Prior of Lombardy, on a piece of land he obtained from his brother Frangisku Nupuljan Spinola de Roccaforte, Marquise of the Holy Roman Empire.  

Fra Paolo Rafel Spinola's nephew was appointed Ambassador of the Order to the Court of King Philip V of Spain, to the King of Sicily and to the Court of Pope Innocent XII. In 1733 the Palace was passed on to him and he enlarged and embellished it. This later construction was designed by Romano Carapecchia, and is considered a masterpiece. We can see his original plans for its construction below.

This building also had at the time of its construction a number of ancillary buildings including two boathouses, a church, a belvedere and a building serving as stables. They still survive today belonging to different private owners, with the palace belonging to the Maltese government. Originally the building had also large extensive gardens, including baroque gardens and vineyards.  Over time these were reduced to an enclosed back garden and a small front public garden. Today the palace is barely visible from the bay, being obscured by apartments and other modern buildings.  Which is a shame as it is still an impressive building.

The original church, across the road, is also still there but has a new facade.

The stables are now inhabited by Pizza hut and have undergone considerable reconstruction.  However, the original belvedere still exists.  I had no clue as to what this was, but have since looked up its definition  "an architectural structure sited to take advantage of a fine or scenic view".  It looks a little neglected but still an impressive building.

Spinola palace's original wine cellar now houses the L-Għonnella Restaurant while the two boathouses, whose structures largely remain, host two other restaurants as well.  The original boathouses can be seen more clearly in the photograph below.

The Palace has had a colourful history passing to the church and then in the 1830s, it was used as a residence by the artist Charles Allingham (c.1778-1850).  The British military rented it for £20 a year as a hospital and during the 1860's it became known as Forrest Hospital.

It was after named Dr John Forrest who was the Inspector for Hospitals of the period and it served soldiers and was divided into nine wards on different floors. Following the cholera epidemic of 1865, when three patients there died, a sanitary report pointed out that the building was not suitable as a hospital as the building had serious issues related to a bad drainage system and poor ventilation. The following photograph shows the building with its extensive gardens still in existence.

In the 1940s, the Palace was used as a shelter for people whose homes had been destroyed by aerial bombardment in World War II.  Following its restoration between 1984 and 1986, it was used to host the Museum of Modern Art rather unsuccessfully and then by the Ministry for Tourism for a period. Spinola Palace was restored once again between 2006 and 2007 and this time the crown on the clock, which had been missing since 1798, and the expulsion of the Order was reconstructed in 2012.  The following photograph is not a very old one but shows the Palace still clearly visible in St Julians before it became largely hidden by new buildings.  The two boathouses can also be clearly seen here at the waterside along with the traditional buses in the foreground.

I find it a little sad that Spinola Palace is not really visible from this perspective today and it is perhaps reflective of much that has been knocked down, built on and obscured in the rush to commercialise. When Malta's heritage was demolished by bombs during World War 2 there was a need to rebuild and reclaim in a tangible way what had been lost.  But in modern Malta, the pace of change seems so very fast that there is almost no time to appreciate what we have before it is cemented over and lost.  The beauty and bravery of Malta and the Maltese deserves to be remembered and respected.  Sometimes it is by looking back we find the things we value and also the parts of ourselves that need preserving in order to create the future we truly deserve.  In these odd, unpredictable days of a pandemic perhaps we all need to dig deep and reflect on the individuals, communities and institutions that Malta needs now.

"Therefore strive that your actions day by day may be beautiful prayers."

Bahá’í Writings