A North Coast Walk on the Wildside

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

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

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

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. 

My signature dish turned out worse than cat vomit

Something is going wrong with my cooking. It is not brilliant at the best of times but in the last few days it's reached a new low. I am visiting my mum in Northern Ireland and normally she is more than happy for me to take over the cooking duties. This visit, she's grown more wary of the dishes served up. Even meals that I normally produce regularly, mistake free, are failing in dramatic form. For example, I make a make a meat kebab that usually goes down a treat. Despite loads of onions, coriander, mince, egg, seasoning this kebab came out like small wooden brown logs/turds, so dried they made a ringing noise when hit against the plate. My vegetable soup, I mean how does one mess that up? lasted an embarrassingly long time and I could see my mother found the green tasteless mush  a mighty challenge. But it was my quinoa that outdid all of the above. I got the recipe from a friend in Malta and it has always been easy to make and much appreciated by guests and family. This visit I watched family members push the stuff around their plates with obvious reluctance. My brother refused to eat any of it and my brave mother tried to consume a few tiny spoonfuls. I was feeling overly sensitive, when my cousin arrived that evening for surprise visit, and I challenged her with “Del,  if you love me you eat it!” Not even a cousin’s love held up under her inspection of the dish. I ended up eating gallons of stuff myself and then upended the remaining quantity for the birds outside. A week later I spotted this on the path, exactly where I had thrown it. My brother pointed out that the birds will eat his cat’s vomit (he has five) but they will not tackle my quinoa!

Building muscle memory in your heart

Grief is a process as unique as each individual who loses someone. There will always be a need for patience. It takes time to assimilate death. The loss is too final, too immense. The emotions are like powerful waves that must be weathered.  Don't rely on outward appearances. People swallow down loss in a variety of ways. It can be those who feel that the most, show it less. Often those with the most regrets and guilt are the ones throwing themselves into the grave whereas the quietness of a long time carer can mask an ocean of heart stopping grief. Don't tell them stuff like “it's for the best”, “he had his day”, “You couldn't have done more”, “I am shocked by what happened”. We either turn to verbal diarrhoea at such times or find it impossible to say anything and avoid the bereaved like lepers from an alien zone.  Find a better and more moderate path.

When Mandela was in prison and received the shocking news that his son had been killed in a car accident, he lay on his back in his prison bunk felled by the news. His close friend came and sat beside the bed, saying nothing but holding his hand through the long dark hours. Knowing that nothing can be done to fix what has happened, one realises words will not suffice. Where there is love you must offer your presence and find ways to let that love show. In the most barren and stark conditions that seed of love must be sown and shown. Expect anger, pain and blame. Weather the storm. Those emotions are better out than in. Bare your share in respect to those who have lost so much and in honour of those who have passed on. Such tests assail the very soul. Find whatever nobility you can muster to hold the breech between what the bereaved cannot bear and what they must. Give yourself time to master such skills. Summoning the courage to step up when every part of you wants to run is vital. Whatever strength you find will build muscle memory in your own heart. Don't avoid it. Death comes to us all. Prepare yourself to be worthy of a good death. Both your own and those you lose along the way. 

PS I like this poem, below, by Maya Angelou on the topic.

When I Think Of Death

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.
I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.
I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.
Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.
I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'

Home Alone

The last child has flown the nest

The emptiness is sudden.

Music has left our home

But also his mess.

To be fair he is now a man 

no longer a child

but it seems that just when

Conversations become illuminating and inspiring

Offspring migrate.

Thank God for Skype, email and text

They allow precious connection to continue

vicariously through the virtual world.

How many times do my sons take me by surprise

With their views and insights?

So much more capable in this world, than I.

Better equipped to manage this disintegrating system.

Made of stronger stuff entirely.

I watch them and try to learn from them

much needed survival skills, very late.

I learn humility is appropriate in parenting.

They are not works of art

that I can strut before

explaining their character and meaning. 

No, these are independent entities

who have found their own path.

They are of me 

but forged in climes and culture 

far from my own.

They look at this world differently,

And I have learned to respect their view 

is broader and more complete.

I was bred in a tiny village

High in the Sperrin mountains in Northern Ireland.

The road was impossible in winter. 

We had one grocery shop 

in our one street but over twenty pubs.

There were two communities, Catholic and Protestant.

I examined them both,

like an amateur anthropologist.

Alternatively, amused and angered at their antics.

An outsider whose only connection

With my communities was a deep conviction

That life had to be more than this.

Mean more than this.

I’m grateful for the regular discussions at home

On life, science, religion and the solar system

That swept around our family table.

My mother hated the heated debates

And tried to herd us to more quiet pastures.

But the arguments, the marshalled defences

the cut and thrust, blew like a healthy wind 

through our minds.

Making this table of discussion

Not village-sized but of the universe.

Shouting aloud, truth is the only community.

Being alive to everything in this world,

The only antidote to ignorance. 

Not knowing is when you’ve

chosen not to see with your own eyes. 

This changes what we are.

What we can be.

Everything we will become

Is there in that choice.

To remain like granite what we are now

Or to embrace the person we could be.

The difference between the two 

is simply light years apart.

Stopping time and gaining speed and direction

I've broken my new watch. It lasted two weeks. Of all the useless powers to have, destroying watchers has got to be top of anyone's list. After zapping numerous watches, too many to list, I discovered a cheap one (the one before my last) that lasted more than a month. My father had the same skill, so I am thinking it is inherited.  I had actually began to relax, then, I had a stressful work-related week in Brussels.  My worst day of the week, Thursday, obviously was too much for the watch and it stopped. Given that it chose that particular day to die perhaps, I generate electromagnetic waves when in distress? Perhaps sufficiently intense to stop watch mechanisms? This business of messing with mechanical systems via distance seems nonsensical at first. But we all emit huge quantities of infrared radiation every moment of our lives. Sit in a packed conference room for a whole day soon you will become aware just how much heat energy is being constantly radiated from humans around you. Plants have an electromagnetic field around them that can be picked up. So is it too much to speculate there is a field of sorts around us? It's time I understood this thing.  Or is it purely imaginary? Can these magnetic fields do stuff?

Well, some aquatic animals, such as sharks and rays, have acute bioelectric sensors providing a sense known as electroreception (they can sense your body’s electricity in the water- darn them!), while migratory birds navigate in part by orienteering with respect to the Earth's magnetic field. In an extreme application of electromagnetism the electric eel is able to generate a large electric field outside its body used for hunting and self-defense through a dedicated electric organ.  So living things already use interaction with magnetic and electric fields to detect prey, navigate long distances and even to attack others. In addition, electromagnetic radiation at a certain frequency range has found a place in modern medical practice for the treatment of bone healing and for nerve stimulation and regeneration.  So electric and magnetic fields do quite a lot of stuff.

We all exist in the earth’s magnetic field which depending on your geographical location can be anywhere from (30 - 70) x 10^-6 Tesla.  Doesn’t sound a lot does it?  If you stand under high direct current transmission lines there can be an additional magnetic flux of around 20x 10^-6 Tesla produced.  Fast passenger trains based on magnetic levitation produce high magnetic flux densities close to the motor.  But inside the cabin the fields are relatively low, below 100 x 10^-6 Tesla.  Mind you a thousand times stronger localised fields can result from inductors beneath the floor of passenger coaches.  MRI machines use magnetic flux densities of 0.15-3 Tesla (usually limited to exposure of less than an hour).  However medical staff can be exposed for longer periods of time and in researching brain functions fields of up to 10 Tesla can be used.  There are many ways static magnetic fields interact with living matter.  Magnetic induction, magnetic mechanical and electronic interaction.  Static fields exert Lorentz forces over moving electrolytes and give rise to induced electric fields and currents.  So for example our flowing blood can be affected.  It is thought that the sinoartial node of the heart that controls cardiac pacing is perhaps the most sensitive to magnetic fields but that as long as we stay beneath 8Tesla things should be fine.  8Tesla applied to rats reduced blood flow, which is worrying, admittedly.  In fact, in magnetic fields above 4Tesla rats show aversion and avoidance characteristics.  It is suspected that the fields at this strength may interact with the vestibular apparatus - the parts of the ear responsible for balance.  Time varying magnetic fields as low as 2-3 Tesla can cause vertigo and nausea if patients/workers move within the field.  These magnetic fields induce currents in living tissues and in accordance with Faraday's law of induction these effects are substantial, especially if we move around within them.  That is the weird thing about electric and magnetic fields, they are quite different in how they operate.

If we are charged and within an electric field we experience immediately a force dependent on our charge and the strength of the electric field.  Magnetic fields however are related to the strength of the magnetic field, our charge and our velocity.  So we could be in a strong field and not know until we start moving. It is that velocity that will induce the full force.  

This always makes a fundamental statement to me about life.  On this magnetic planet we are governed by her rules and perhaps there are spiritual metaphors to be learned.  i.e. if you want change in your life, move!  Only when you move will the forces available to you come into play.  Being stationary will not avail.  Makes you feel that getting going is so important, just so that you can experience the dynamic powers that could be there.  Sailors know that unless a sailing yacht is moving steering does not work.  It is the movement of the boat that makes being able to steer possible.  It doesn’t matter if you have to tack in odd directions to catch the wind, you will achieve more by gaining some velocity.  Then work out where you want to go.

PS I have decided to give up on watches.  Don’t know why or how I break them but the evidence is clear, I do.  Time to accept that as a fact and move on.  It’s all quite new and I keep looking at my wrist for the time and of course there is nothing there.  The sad part is I am still surprised by its absence and it has been three weeks!  This getting old is tricky dicky.

Into the Arms of Strangers

In the documentary film entitled ‘Into the Arms of Strangers: Stories of the Kindertransport (2000), there is a scene where an elderly woman is questioned about her experiences as a Jewish child sent abroad before the start of the Second World War to the UK for safety. The British government accepted 10,000 such children. There were strict conditions about age and background and parents were excluded. So these youngsters were transported across Europe from Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia and Poland to the UK. Thanks to the actions of the UK Government some of these children would be the sole survivors of entire Jewish families by the close of the war. 

This sweet old lady spoke in gentle whispers about her experience. Of her fear on the train on being separated from her family. How her father ran alongside the train at the station waving goodbye and she a young child, not understanding the horrendous situation, sulked and refused to hug or speak. To her she was being forced abroad and she was angry, confused and very frightened. They were allowed only one small case and at the border German guards entered the train of the scared children and searched them and their small cases terrifying them. When they crossed the border at the very next stop complete strangers handed in through the windows chocolate and sweets to welcome them. She could remember both the cruelty of the German guards and the shocking unexpected kindness at this first station outside Germany. The taste of the chocolate was sweet and unforgettable. A taste of freedom and she remembered the children cheering. 

Later, she arrived in a hall in England where she awaited a family to give her a home. People came and chose a child at lunchtimes in the village hall where they were all eating. She remembered not been chosen week after week. Watching others being picked on all sides. After a month a couple eventually chose her and she was so excited and so grateful she could barely speak. Aged eight she arrived at a strange home and was shown her bed in the small room upstairs. Grateful for this family choosing her at last, she tried to show her feelings by giving them a hug before going to bed. She had memories of her parent’s good night routine. In a gentle heartbreaking voice almost a whisper, but still wounded, she described how the woman told her “None of that soppy stuff here!” and pushed her away. It did nothing to reduce her gratitude to the couple but as the weeks and months passed she realised they had wanted a servant. Her role was to clean and work not receive kindness and love. 

Her disappointment, even now, fills her voice, her eyes, the room, the screen and all eye watching. Unbearable in its longing for something more. You want to reach in and hug that eight-year-old, ease the pain of her rejection. Why are such simple memories so vivid and so raw? Why do they reach across the decades and make us long that things were different? Her gentle acceptance, her resigned tone, awakens you to the sweet child still confused by the world’s unkindness. Your heart feels whittled and besieged by the unfairness. These days when refugees again stream across Europe may we all fare better than this mean spirited example. But remember, although devoid of love or tenderness, that couple did save a young life. Perhaps, they claim a far higher moral ground than us today? Now, that thought chills the very heart.