Man's Search For Meaning

Celebrated Austrian psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl, was born on March 26, 1905 and remains best-known for his uplifting 1946 psychological memoir “Man’s Search for Meaning”— a meditation on what the gruesome experience of Auschwitz taught him about the primary purpose of life: the quest for meaning.  His wife died in the camp and he endured the unimaginable but managed somehow to convey magical moments in the midst of pain and loss that speak to the heart. 

Where can you run to?

With whom can you take refuge?

To whom will you look?

What country shall you live in?

In what direction shall you go?

At what hour shall you find rest?

What will become of you in the end?

To what will you be faithful?

If you find the truth will you be obedient to it?

“Woe to him who saw no more sense in his life, no aim, no purpose, and therefore no point in carrying on. He was soon lost. The typical reply with which such a man rejected all encouraging arguments was, “I have nothing to expect from life any more.” What sort of answer can one give to that?

What was really needed was a fundamental change in our attitude toward life. We had to learn ourselves and, furthermore, we had to teach the despairing men, that it did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us. We needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life — daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and meditation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual.”

Viktor Frankl

If the fire of the love of God is ignited in your heart

You would neither rest nor relax,

Nor be distracted or held back from divine nearness, sanctity and beauty.

Your longing soul would weep as one bereaved

Longing to determine the truth you would find no peace

Until, God lays bare the divine path before you.

“We were at work in a trench. The dawn was grey around us; grey was the sky above; grey the snow in the pale light of dawn; grey the rags in which my fellow prisoners were clad, and grey their faces. I was again conversing silently with my wife, or perhaps I was struggling to find the reason for my sufferings, my slow dying. In a last violent protest against the hopelessness of imminent death, I sensed my spirit piercing through the enveloping gloom. I felt it transcend that hopeless, meaningless world, and from somewhere I heard a victorious “Yes” in answer to my question of the existence of an ultimate purpose. At that moment a light was lit in a distant farmhouse, which stood on the horizon as if painted there, in the midst of the miserable grey of a dawning morning in Bavaria. 

“The light shineth in the darkness.”

For hours I stood hacking at the icy ground. The guard passed by, insulting me, and once again I communed with my beloved. More and more I felt that she was present, that she was with me; I had the feeling that I was able to touch her, able to stretch out my hand and grasp hers. The feeling was very strong: she was there. Then, at that very moment, a bird flew down silently and perched just in front of me, on the heap of soil which I had dug up from the ditch, and looked steadily at me.”

Viktor Frankl

PS Words in itallics are paraphrased from the Baha'i Writings

Heroes and Kittens

Was down town trying to keep up with my mother.  She sets a blistering pace with daily tasks to be achieved and an attitude to life that is productivity focussed.  Gardens, houses, clothes, bathrooms, cupboards, carpets, bills, financial papers read, letters to be written etc.  Boredom is not something she has ever experienced.  That is probably why she refuses to wait for anyone or anything.  Abundant with all sorts of virtues patience is not one of them.  Her name Emily means industrious and by name and nature she epitomises that word. 

So when I hear a small kitten crying I have to quickly draw her attention before she is miles ahead of me on the pavement.  Stopping, we both listen attentively – nothing but the normal traffic noises around us.  But when I make that wishwish sound, one does to cats, the kitten cries again loudly in response.  The sound is coming from under the bonnet of a red Fiesta parked with a disabled sticker on its window.  Tentatively approaching the vehicle we hear the piteous cry again.  It is definitely coming from under the bonnet of the empty car.  We peer under wheel arches, crouch down to look under the car but see nothing. 

A couple of ladies join us listening intently and, in response to the tiny fur balls squeals, agree that it “is a kitten stuck somewhere in the engine”.  Into this now growing crowd of well-wishers comes more people including the owner of the car.  She hands over her car keys, so one chap could pop the bonnet.  With that achieved most of us lean over the engine and peer into the innards of the car.  There deep down under spark plugs and hoses etc is a tiny fluffy kitten howling its distress and looking up hopefully at us.  First the man and then each of us tries to reach down past cables to pull the kitten us but to no avail. 

One stranger goes into a nearby supermarket and returns with a box of dried cat food to try and entice the kitten down to the ground from the engine frame.  This does not work and by now the crowd on the pavement and road has grown to a critical mass.  People are now flocking to the scene because there is a sufficient number of people to cause curious stares and interest.  All have their own ideas to share, “Shall I call the police?” “Whose is it?”, “There is a garage down the road!”, “How long has it been in there?”  Every newcomer is rapidly filled in by those in the know and all the while the piteous cry of the kitten urges action on us all. 

A tiny thin girl appears from the supermarket in her blue uniform with tattoos down each arm.  She leans forward and her matchstick arm does the impossible, she reaches down through the tiny convoluted spaces and pulls out the frightened kitten.  We are all relieved that a rescue has been engineered.  I look around at all the well-meaning faces and know that these people are those who could not walk past without expressing concern and taking action to help.  So many good souls on a pavement ridiculously pleased that with all the pain and loss in this world, a tiny furry kitten has been saved at least.  I suddenly wanted to celebrate the inherent unspoken goodness of all these strangers and savour this moment but my Mum is off.  No time to stand and stare, there are things to do, no wasting time she is off, an unstoppable force and I race to keep up.

End of Days Scenario

I remember having an “End of Days” conversation with my brother.  I studied physics and he Biology.  Naturally, I reckoned that it would be due to nuclear detonation leading to catastrophic loss of life as we know it.  

He was of the opinion that some pandemic, biological in nature, was by far the more deadly and more likely culprit for wiping out huge sections of the population.  

You may be dismissive but Chernobyl had just happened and I felt pretty secure in my argument.  In addition, The New Scientist of 6^th July 2013 provided worrisome evidence that the earth itself has made its own nuclear reactors 2 billion years ago.  While mining in the Oklo area of Gabon (West Africa) for uranium the French alternative Energies and Atomic Energy Commission discovered evidence of 16 natural fossil reactors between 1.5 and 10 metres across. These, it is thought, ran on and off for a few hundred thousand years until they exhausted their supply of uranium. Strangely disturbing that the earth could create its own nuclear reactors isn't it?

Meanwhile, my brother could counter with the 1918 flu pandemic (January 1918 – December 1920), which was an unusually deadly influenza pandemic, involving the H1N1 influenza virus.  Sounds worryingly familiar today doesn't it?  It infected 500 million people across the world and killed 50 to 100 million of them—3 to 5 percent of the world's population at the time. 

Because it involved the immune system response, this pandemic targeted not those with weak immune systems, like the very young and very old, but instead the fittest and most vital of the world’s population.  In my Grandmother’s home they lost two young men of the twelve in that family within a week of each other.  I can remember my father saying that he was told they had to carry the coffin of one son through the bedroom of the dying second son.  These horrors do lodge in the mind, they happened once already and who is to say they may not happen again? 

My third brother who is a professor of  psychology was silent during our “End of Days” debate.  It is rather perturbing then to discover that  about one million people die annually from suicide according to the World Health Organisation.  In fact rates of suicide have increased by 60% in the last 45 years.   It would be terrible indeed if the “End of Days” was neither due to biology or physics but took the form of a growing cull taking place silently in our midst each year.  Now, that is scary!

In the fog of change, you kind of lose stuff

When did it become so tricky to be a parent?

Somewhere after they hit adolescence

But before they gain independence

There’s a rough, rough patch

When they do all the wrong things

When you react in all the wrong ways

In the fog of change, you kind of lose stuff

Lose sight of how much they mean to you

Because you are so scared of all that’s out there

You question your parenting performance big time

Almost as much as your offspring do, but not quite

Bewildered at the pace of change you see in them

Blinded by a life time of holding this responsibility

Reluctant to let go of this precious trust

Shaken by their demands for freedom

But knowing that you have no choice to hold on

When does it become tricky to be a parent?

When they no longer need you to be around

But want you to see, they are transforming

And to embrace with joy what they have become.

The beauty of this world depends on your flourishing

Am really loving being in Balymoney with my Mum.  One enters a bubble universe in which the garden is the centre of everything.  Garden centres become havens of flowers and soil, which are then replanted in bigger pots, or shady spots perfect for their growth.  My mother is frustrated at how pot bound plants from the garden centre are, roots entangled and repeatedly shows me a victim, tangled roots almost bare of soil as if demonstrating a torture victim for crimes against humanity. 

She takes these cramped life forms and frees them, water, fresh soil are lavished and then she monitors their progress.  Such kindness is only for a certain time. If, after all due care has been shown, a plant does not thrive she makes a call and they get short thrift.  The plants seem to sense they live on the line and put incredible effort into growth and petals. 

I myself have no interest in plant life and routinely kill everything that comes into my sphere.  Not deliberately but by total neglect – even watering.  But living in my Mum’s universe I begin to see the nurturing that is going on every day in a spiritual vein.  All is done to create growth to encourage progress and much effort expended to this end.  Combined with a rigorous monitoring and checking of leaves, soil for new shoots.  Infestations are fought tooth and nail, and minor discolouration of leaves is a major cause of concern.   Even tiny progress is celebrated and the previous wilting specimen that perks up is congratulated and smugly appreciated. 

I enter a world that is totally foreign to me but sense that these rules apply to all aspects of our own life on this planet.  Would that we daily examined ourselves for growth, new shoots, infection etc and were more aware of our soil  and the effect of environment  on the end product, us.  Learned from the day before what leads to the betterment of our soul or to its degradation.  Worked to make an environment for us all that calls out for achievement and excellence.  Consulting honesty on progress made or deterioration in our lives. Because nothing stays still in the garden of our hearts.  We grow and we die, that we cannot change.  But everything in between is up to us.  May this find you not pot bound, free of infestations and filled with the water of life.  The beauty of this world depends on your flourishing, I have no doubt of this.

A salve to their hurts

It was a drawing class and you were excited by your first nude.  The art college had arranged for a sitter and the entire class of art students were ready for this new challenge.  I remember being amused by your description of the reality of that first session.  Into the art room walked a large rumpled middle-aged woman whose flesh folded in creases, varicose veins in abundance, cellulite tricky to catch on paper, puckered like her upper lip.  What a shock you all had from the much-expected smooth pink stained cheek with velvet youthfulness on display.  A real lesson in drawing and in life that day, two hours of detailed depressing preview on aging for those just beginning their youth.

I have happy memories of you sitting on the carpet, leaning against your Dad’s knee as laughter ran out in the home in St Austell.  Family should be like this, I thought all the faces filled with smiles and huge gales of laughter.  More tales shared, music ever present and food, abundant tasty food.  Your Mum weaving everyone together with her smile, letters, visits and love.  Do you remember how she screamed in delight when a son or daughter appeared on the path outside the house.  Arms held wide open as if to greet and thank the universe at this magical spectacle. 

You moved to London and had two jobs.  Even this did not dampen your enthusiasm or serve to exhaust you.  Youthful energy drove you on and when you moved to Northern Ireland with a bunch of friends we delighted in your company.  Having you close by was a treat we took for granted.  Your generosity was constant and how many lovely meals did we have from your hand.  You bought my sons, toddlers, tiny cute judo outfits and they delighted in wrestling you to the ground.  Your home a designer’s dream of grey and chrome and the air full of fresh ideas, business ventures, painting and friends. 

Then your own kids arrived in abundance four bundles of love who gravitated to your side and I remember you lying on the floor covered in small toddlers and babies clinging joyously.  Jostling for the best position.  I watch as you have continued to draw people to you, kindness is such a rare commodity in this world.  So not surprising to find you, even now, years later with a large extended family of friends, neighbours and associates. Your home is fortunately large enough to accommodate all these people. 

I sense the load has grown as of late and the glow of kindness is still there but a price has been paid.  Is it ever so that gentle kindly souls are burdened beyond endurance?  I reckon all of us, on rare good days can cloak ourselves in the array of kindliness and goodwill.  Smiling benevolently at this world, wishing all in it well.  However, certain rare individuals seem to have kindness imprinted to their core, like a stick of rock.  Even when worn down, weary to the core they continue to impart love and service to those around them.  It is such a privilege to know such souls and they remind me of that high standard we should all aspire to.

“Should other peoples and nations be unfaithful to you, show fidelity unto them; should they be unjust towards you, show justice towards them; should they hold aloof from you, attract them to yourselves; should they disclose enmity, be friendly to them; should they poison your lives, sweeten their souls; should they inflict a wound upon you, be a salve to their hurts.”                                     

Baha'i Writings 

Raised Eyebrows and Demented in Dubai

Was in Dubai airport on route for South Africa this summer and, apart from finding Emirates Airways great for providing a plentiful supply of food in the plane,  I discovered that if you have a long lay over (mine was nine hours)  the airline also provides food vouchers.   I took advantage of the vouchers to eat my way through the long night hours at the airport.

 

After looking at all the expensive crap for sale at the airport I gradually grew tired of all this commercial excess. I discovered that in Dubai airport there are free showers in the ladies. Immediately, I hastened to a supermarket to buy toiletries and then spent probably two hours in the shower. Travelling makes you feel so grubby and this was the perfect way to renew body and spirit.

 

Refreshed, I then noticed a weird thing about women's eyebrows in the airport. It may have been tiredness, fatigue can make you see things in an odd way. After all, there is a reason they use sleep deprivation to torture and break people!  Women seemed to have done crazy stuff with their eyebrows here.  They look as if they have been shaven off and then drawn on again in ludicrous positions on their face.  It can be forgiven in the elderly, after all mistakes can happen but this seemed too common and widespread to be explained in terms of creeping senility.  No, this appears to be deliberate.  The eyebrows are square and horizontal as if underlying their brows or shaped like demented brackets over the eyes.

Perhaps this is thought of as an artful way to draw attention to a perceived asset?  The more I encountered the more it felt like every female in the airport had contrived to frighten a tired and sleep deprived Colette.  This was surely the way madness begins.

  

I can remember wandering the corridors of Dubai airport in the early hours finding each weird eyebrow feeling like a physical assault from zombie creatures.  I began to want to scream, “What the Hell is going on!”  Now, well rested and at home I can look back with vague amusement that it disturbed me so much.