Sticks and Stones - Sister Bernadette learning to float

Sister Bernadette held her coffee cup between her cold hands and heard the young woman at the table beside her scolding her six or seven-year-old son. 

“Eat it, eat it! If you don't! I'm warning you! Eat it, eat!”

The child was playing with the free toy inside McDonald's child’s meal pack mesmerised by the colours and shapes of the toy still wrapped in plastic. She berates across the table.

“Next time you ask for anything you’ll get nothing. I'm warning you!”

He says nothing but fidgets in his chair. His mother's voice rises in anger.

“I told you not to order the chicken, you never eat chicken, but that's what you wanted. Well, I'm sick of you wasting things. I work hard for my money and you don't care, you just don't care. Eat! Eat!”

It seems as if the Saturday morning treat is going down hill rapidly. The boy idly picks up a chip and chews it.  This seems to enrage the mother, who shouts,

“Don't just eat the chips, you have to eat the chicken. It's a complete waste to have the whole meal and not eat the chicken. You've done this before. I'm not having it, eat eat!”

Sister Bernadette lowers her head and prays. For what, she's not sure, but a more peaceful environment for the mother and son would do. The boy has not spoken since they arrived at the table in the cafe. His excitement in opening the box had been tangible as he searched for the toy inside. But now Bernadette notices a nervous twitch around one of his eyes. Her middle-aged cousin Henry had the same twitch. It was no wonder, Henry’s life had been difficult, full of trauma. Watching the young boy’s nervous mannerism made her want to weep.  Despite her prayers there is tension building and sister Bernadette feels her futility in the face of it. Unable to stop the storm reaching a crescendo.  

“Okay, that’s it! If you're not eating the chicken, you're not having chips!” 

She picked up the McDonald's children's box and threw it in the bin. 

“I warned you, I told you before, didn’t I? Why can't you listen. Why do you ruin everything. Even this is spoiled! Are you happy now?”

She is tidying away the trays slamming them down while clearing their table. The boy is holding tight to this free toy held below the table, out of sight, as the mother grabs his other arm and hauls him to his feet.

“Come on, that's all finished let's go!”

Her anger has a justified, righteous ring to it. As if she is enjoying being angry and making a clear point to the silent twitching child. As they pass Bernadette’s table, she wants to reach out a hand and ask the mother. 

“Who are you really angry at?” In gentle curious tones. But that would be unforgivable. 

The mother and son have reached the front glass doors are exiting when the mother spots the toy still wrapped in its plastic wrapping unopened in his hand. She snatches it from him and throws it in the bin at the front door.  He howls his distress and tries to reach in the bin to retrieve the toy. She pulls him away from the bin and suddenly both are gone. This righteous angry young mother and her thin tiny nervous screaming son.

Bernadette's coffee has become tasteless and cold. The cafe feels contaminated by the toxic argument. When a novice Bernadette had hated the arguments in the convent. They had made her stomach churn and her constant indigestion that meant she seem to live anti-indigestion tablets for months. In those early frightening months it had been a red haired novice with a furious temper who seem to be at the root of all disputes. She seemed ready to explode over the slightest word, perceived slight, inconvenience, shortage of biscuits or even an accidental nudge on the way to the chapel. Bernadette remember going through a long mass with the red haired girl glaring angrily across the cold chapel. The unpleasantness lasted two days and nights Bernadette had practically overdosed on anti-acid tablets during the long weekend. Such was her dosage the elderly nun on nursing duty called her in to question her.

“Do you have problems with the food here?”

She had asked when looking through the dispensing records. She was in her 60s and was called Gerty. The face was wreathed in smile lines and she spoke with a heavy Yorkshire accent. Bernadette had admitted.

“I've always had a sensitive stomach, if I get upset about anything my stomach seems to suffer.”

Gerty smiled,

“We will have to find a solution to that, won’t we?

Bernadette had lifted her face at that benevolent tone and asked somewhat tearfully, 

“But how sister?”

“Well, I suggest we start with prayer, shall we?”

Gerty rose and beckoned Bernadette to follow her. They went down a long corridor to the empty chapel. In an alcove the two kneeled in silence. At first, Bernadette felt disappointed. She had begun to hope Gerty had sensed the reason for her distress, the red haired girl’s toxic presence. Or had a treatment apart from the constant diet of anti-acids that she consumed all her life. But no, here they knelt in the darkened chapel, back where Bernadette had started the morning with her adversary’s toxic glare.

But as she peeped at Gerty kneeling beside her, upright, habit folded neatly, hands covered, with her shoulders relaxed, she was shocked at the intense expression on the elderly nun’s face as she prayed. She was so obviously asking for divine help that Bernadette shut her own eyes and copied. It seemed the very least she could do, given all this effort on Gerty’s part. After a long silence Bernadette had another sidelong look at the elderly nun beside her. The expression had changed.  It was now a listening face. As if somewhere in the chapel a voice had begun to speak and Gerty was taking in everything said.

Bernadette closed her eyes and tried to listen too. Not to ask, pray or demand but wait for the answer to come. The quietness stretched out and a stillness settled within her. She felt the hardwood under her knees, the smell of the candles in the corner, she fancied she could see their flickers through her closed eyelids. Then, the silence of the empty chapel seem to embrace her. With her hands wrapped in her habit the coldness of the chapel did not make her restless for the sunny cloisters. Instead a thought bubbled up.  

“A servant is drawn unto Me in prayer until I answer him; and when I have answered him, I become the ear wherewith he heareth….”. 

Bernadette breathed slow and deep, feeling her heart rate change. A memory of the stream near their home came to her. She could see the boulders, the grass verge, hear the bubbling sound of water swirl round the stones. The river racing down the slopes of the mountain, clear, cool and fresh. As a child she love to hold her head above its surface and observe the pebbles below the water. They were shiny and coloured and so beautiful. Sometimes she would reach down and stir at the bottom of the stream so that stones and mud mixed and the water would become brown and mysterious. Then she would lie and watch as gradually the constant trickling stream would clear away the debris until again crystal clear pebbles appeared magnified in all their beauty. Returned to an ethereal beauty that could not be destroyed by intent nor time. In the chapel Bernadette breathed in deeply and opened her eyes. This time it was sister Gerty who was watching her and smiling.

“You look much better! “She queried, “But are you?”

Bernadette felt as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. But not at all sure how.

“Thank you, sister, I do!”

As they left the small chapel Bernadette felt as if she'd learnt a lesson of value and for the first time found herself looking forward to all the other valuable lessons ahead. When she’d finished the novice training, she was given a new name, sister Bernadette. At first, she been in a state of disbelief at being given this of all names! She had admired the Saint of course. But it had to be a horrible coincidence that it was also the name of that angry red haired novice who had tormented her throughout her training. Then, she learnt to let that go too and could laugh at the coincidences that come along in life. Let it all go.  Her acidic stomach, hurt feelings, discomfort, breath deep and let it go. Sometimes you had to laugh at the journey we are all on and be patient until the water clears and translucency returns, which it will!

Grandmaster Villiers de L'Isle-Adam, Cardinal Wolsey and Henry VIII meet up

Crac des Chevaliers

In 1142 Crac des Chevaliers, a Crusader castle in Syria was built by the Knights Hospitaller.  The Order of St John was founded around 1023 to provide care for sick, poor or injured pilgrims coming to the Holy Land.  The recent war in Syria has brought the conflict very close to this ancient and unique UNESCO World Heritage Site.  The Knights of St John have left their mark through much of this area and examples of their fortresses are also found in Rhodes and Malta.  Their history is a rich and varied tale.

some of the bastions at Rhodes

On the 15th June in 1522 Knights of St John defended their bastion on the island of Rhodes.  The Tower of the Virgin is surrounded by a polygon bastion and Suleiman the Sultan must have almost given up hope of ever taking this strategically vital part of the walled city. 

When the Turkish invasion force of 400 ships arrived on Rhodes on 26 June 1522, they were commanded by Çoban Mustafa Pasha. Sultan Suleiman himself arrived with the army of 100,000 men on 28 July to take personal charge.  An early description of Suleiman, a few weeks following his accession, is provided by the Venetian envoy Bartolomeo Contarini: "He is twenty-six years of age, tall, but wiry, and of a delicate complexion. His neck is a little too long, his face thin, and his nose aquiline. He has a shade of a moustache and a small beard; nevertheless he has a pleasant mien, though his skin tends to be a light pallor.”  By the time he reached Rhodes and the siege began, Suleiman was still only 28 years old.

"The Turks blockaded the harbour and bombarded the town with field artillery from the land side, followed by almost daily infantry attacks. They also sought to undermine the fortifications through tunnels and mines. The artillery fire was slow in inflicting serious damage to the massive walls, but after five weeks, on 4 September, two large gunpowder mines exploded under the bastion of England, causing a 12 yards (11 m) portion of the wall to fall and to fill the moat. The attackers immediately assaulted this breach and soon gained control of it, but a counterattack by the English brothers under Fra' Nicholas Hussey and Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam succeeded in driving them back again. Twice more the Turks assaulted the breach that day, but each time the English brothers, aided by German brothers, held the gap. " It is important to note here that the Grandmaster Villiers de L’Isle-Adam was fifty eight years old during this battle.

During these assaults the Ottomans lost over 2000 men and Mustafa himself had to be rescued by his own men as they fled the bitter conflict. The siege of Rhodes involved 600 knights and 4500 soldiers who resisted the invasion force of the Ottoman’s immense force of 100,000 men for six months. When the island was eventually defeated the grandmaster and remaining knights were allowed to leave the island with their weapons and valuables. Guarantees were given that no church would be desecrated or turned into a mosque and any individuals who decided to remain on the island would be free of Ottoman taxation for five years. On the first of January 1523 Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam and his Knights marched out of Rhodes and took 50 ships with them.  During this siege half of the invasion force had been vanquished. The Sultan was quoted as saying as he watched the elderly Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam leave with his knights “It gives me no pleasure to force this fearless old man from his home”. 

Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam

Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam spent seven more years wondering from place to place facing political intrigue, plagues, division and infighting among his own knights and was heard to proclaim “I am miserable weary and breathless old man and after so many efforts spent in vain may prove to be the last grandmaster!” at this he broke down in tears and could not go on. The determination that the grandmaster showed in subsequent years demonstrated his clear vision to find a new centre for the Knights of St John. Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam had long called for support and supplies for Rhodes knowing invasion troops were on their way.  It was said that on the very day that Rhodes succumbed to attack, part of the architecture of the Pope's Chapel, in Rome, fell down and a piece of marble killed the guard walking just in front of the the Pope. It was taken by many as a sign of the wrath of God especially by the knights who defended Rhodes so valiantly and felt that support for them in their endeavour had been lacking from many in power throughout Europe. 

Many times Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam spoke to his Knights to try and unite them while they wandered from location to location after losing the island of Rhodes. On one memorable occasion the whole multitude had their eyes fixed “on the venerable old man whose constancy and resolution made him as illustrious under his misfortunes as his bravery in the defence of Rhodes had made him glorious”. In his talks he strove to knit together the divided and dispirited knights. In order to obtain permission to move the Knights of St John to Malta and Gozo the grandmaster had to win the support of many of the kings of Europe and indeed Pope Clement VII. In addition to dealing with royalty like Charles V and the king of France, who were at war with one another, he had to convince competing sides that his order deserved support. In these confusing times Pope Clement VII was actually held in prison for six months by Charles V. It was the dictates of those days that Popes had to be clean-shaven but during the six months of his imprisonment Pope Clement VII grew a long beard which he kept for the remainder of his life to signal his despair at his imprisonment and the destruction of Rome. Not only did he kept his beard until his death but the next 24 popes all grew a beards as well! 

Pope Clement VII

After meeting with royalty of Portugal, Spain, Frances and the pope  Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam set off to England to meet with Henry VIII and Cardinal Wolsey. By now the grandmaster was 66 years old and considered a venerable old man who had fought a glorious battle. His reputation was known to all throughout Europe. In 1529 he travelled to England and met with Henry VIII (38 years old). Henry VIII was proud and arrogant and at 6 foot 2 inches cut an impressive figure but despite his passion for competitions and hunting he was unused to real battles and hardship. 

Cardinal Wolsey (56 years old) dressed like a king, ate like a horse and drank like a fish. 

In his household Wolsey had 500 servants. He was known for his intelligence and avarice.  He had graduated from Oxford at the age of just fifteen. Within a year of this meeting with the Grandmaster Wolsey would be dead with all his great power seized from him by Henry VIII because of his inability to provide his King with the divorce he wanted from Catherine of Aragon. 

It was in this environment  of greed and power and riches that the Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam had to navigate.  Here was a Cardinal of the church Wolsey, with his immense riches and illegitimate children and on the other hand Henry VIII who would marry so many women and make a habit of beheading a few. As the elderly Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam  who had taken not only a vow of poverty,celibacy and obedience approached King Henry VII’s court they went out and greeted the old warrior with great pomp and ceremony. King Henry went out of his way to show favour to the elderly hero and the Grandmaster’s presence had a real impact on the court. He made a huge impression on those present, as he had on the pope and others and through his determination a centre for the knights would be created in Malta on 26 October 1530.  Within a few years the grandmaster died at a convent in Rabat on Malta on 21 August 1534 with his mission complete. The room in which he died has been preserved along with his belongings in a simple manner befitting the dignity and simplicity of this unusually fearless character.  

Grand Master Villiers de L'Isle-Adam's room, Rabat

"The two most powerful warriors are patience and time."

Leo Tolstoy

The Inner Critic just has to go!

I have a voice inside my head. A vicious critic who has only negative comments to contribute. In every situation it considers only the worst possible overcome. I used to tell myself this voice had a role. It prepared one for the unseen or unexpected. When or if a disaster happened at least I'd had a ‘heads up’ in advance. Then, this last trip to Northern Ireland I talked with a loved one and came to the conclusion this voice needs excised. Part of that process incorporates understanding where this voice came from. 

I think I've tracked it back to childhood. The moment I arrived in the in the isolated Sperrin mountains of Northern Ireland fresh from Sydney, Australia. It didn't help having a distinctly Australian accent. Nor did being introduced to a fifth year primary class who had been together since kindergarten. Cliques had already formed and alliances and friendships were cemented. There was I, as odd as you please. By the end of my first day at school blood had been drawn. I felt different in almost every way from the children around me and the voice articulated clearly that I was an outsider. Every time I failed to make a friend, join a game in the playground or sat alone at lunchtime, I heard it's rancid observations. “You'll never fit in”. “They don't like you.” “Don't you get it?” “They don't want you here!” ”Stupid, stupid why did you think you could fit in?” Even when things went okay the voice prepared me. “Okay, sure, it's fine this morning, just you wait until break time then things are going to really kick off.” 

Was it really how I thought about myself? Or some defensive reaction to cope with the new challenging environment? I'm not sure but even now in my 50s when someone compliments me in any shape or form I look at them to see if they are joking. Searching for the truth not this false missive. It is as if believing something nice about yourself would be the biggest flaw. Why do I need to excise this longtime companion in my thoughts? 

When we let such a negative voices  dominate we damage not only ourselves but those closest to us. They learn our habits and it's a fact of life the very worst characteristics to cope with are your own unique flaws. We can stand all kind of idiosyncrasies in others but not our own. Secondly, the negative backdrop to life drains energy. When we are happy our strengths come to the fore. Negativity does the opposite. Hard things become harder. And even simple tasks become draining. I've reached that age where I can no longer afford this brutal observer. They have to go! Ageing makes even mundane tasks trickier  so I certainly have no need of this disabling critic. Thirdly, I'm tired of the struggle. There is an growing awareness that other positive forces will come into play if I can only disentangle this intruder of mine. I know when it made an appearance. Understand why it felt protective in some ways but now I recognise its toxic influence and want change. How does one change the habit of a lifetime? Like how you change any other habit. One day at a time, with determination and the knowledge that one has been stuck in this harmful mode too long. When I re-read my writing so much of it is riddled with my inner critic. So I'm not sure if when excised totally, I will even be able to put pen to paper! In any event I shall need to find a new voice. One hopefully that is a good deal kinder and more gentle.  Watch this space!

Perhaps our negative voices act as really dark sunglasses changing the actual landscape around us. Instead of vibrant colours we see a poor shadowy image. This ultimately affects our brain which quickly and efficiently recalibrates the world into darker tones. We even forget that it could be different. We gradually own this darkened world and navigate within its limited hues.  Missing out on the kaleidoscope of colours we are bemused by those who see things differently. Their descriptions bewilder us and cause us to question their grasp on reality. When a pessimist listens to an optimist they can feel annoyance at the naïveté displayed. Their mindset repels at this alternative slant on reality. I'm beginning to suspect having a negative voice inside your head, like the sunglasses changes our view of everything within this world. The resulting impact on the brain restricts the actual wavelengths that should be picked up but aren't. Seeing is believing after a certain time. For example, if we wear glasses that invert our vision after a number of days the brain will recalibrate what we see and make the appropriate correction. In other words it turns everything the right way up again. 

Just as our eyesight deteriorates with age so does our ability to hear. In a study on Malta, one of my students science projects involved playing beats of increasing frequency. I was most perturbed when all the 17-year-old went on nodding that they could hear beats when all I heard was silence. We lose so many frequencies every year of our lives. Perhaps this parallels a spiritual truth. The young see and hear better. They have the capacity like young plants to adapt the environment quickly when older branches need the fire of test to alter them. If, as we age we become increasingly incapable of seeing and likewise restricted in our hearing then no wonder changing patterns of ingrained behaviour becomes much harder! But with focus and reflection we can make changes.  It is comforting to know this effect has a name, Perceptual adaptation.

Here’s an exercise to show how powerful it is. Click on the link. First you will see lilac circles moving but then focus on the cross in the middle you should be able to then see the green shape!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perceptual_adaptation#/media/File:Lilac-Chaser.gif

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” 

― Rumi

All happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of the object to which we are attached

I envy the young their sociability. Here in the shopping mall, they roam in herds chattering, pushing and laughing. At ease with their peers around them. Adults tend to be loan wolves or couples. Like the pair sitting beside me at the table with their Marks & Spencer's cups of coffee in front of them. 

Although sitting opposite he has his chair carefully positioned away from his wife. Occasionally, he points out someone passing and with a snigger nods at his wife. She is ripping a napkin into tiny minuscule pieces of confetti. Not in a random angry way but with slow methodical tidy strips equally broad and then dissecting these into smaller and smaller pieces. Folding carefully then tearing in half then folding again until her side of the table is covered in this patient display of inner turmoil while the husband carefully ignores her paperwork. 

He points out an obese woman waddling past and speaks a quick photo of her with his iPhone before nodding to his wife “Got her”, “I’ll add that to the collection”! She dips her head in acknowledgement of his smartness and then rips with violence the tender tissue between her fingers. She looks placid and contained. All her agitation focused in one monumental craft pursuit. He swings his coffee down and stares around. There is less to see. The shopping centre has emptied. His wife has completed her task. The array of equally sized tiny squares cover her side of the table. She takes them and one by one pushes them through the slit in her empty plastic coffee cup lid. Sometimes she needs to use the stick stirrer to push reluctant one through, but her fingers are fine and nimble. This is obviously a much practised art. It's harder for him to ignore her actions. There is less to take his attention. 

He glances down at her pile of little papers and says, “For shit’s sake, Beth”! In those muttered few words there is so much hatred and loathing. She sits back in her chair as if struck and drops the tiny squares, hands by her side she sits awkwardly before the table scanning all the confetti. Unable to put away her work. Yet captive before it, arms yearning to place them all into the calling slot. She fidgets restless and discontent, fingers scratching at her nail beds on opposite hands pulling, pushing digging. He spots the frantic activity and raises an inquisitive eyebrow mouth turned down in tight disapproval. She grips the arm rest of the plastic chair and with obvious effort is still at last. The concentration required has created a tense expectancy that radiates from her. I cannot take the atmosphere and beat a hasty retreat. Spinoza knew a thing or two when he said...

“All happiness or unhappiness solely depends upon the quality of the object to which we are attached by love. “                                                  

Baruch Spinoza

Aged 13 and Writing to the Archbishop for answers

me around 13 looking annoyed in pigtails

When I was young, around 13, I wrote a letter to the Archbishop of the Church of Ireland. It was a heartfelt piece about how angry I felt about the people of violence in our community who regularly bombed and shot others. My question was how as Christians could we turn the other cheek to such individuals? How could we love those who hate us and do us harm? Living in an area of Northern Ireland prone to bombs and violence I really wanted answers. One of my playmates on our street later would be sent to prison for planting a bomb that killed others. She was released after many years for health reasons. Seeing the devastation killing created it seemed forgiveness was an inadequate response for the community. Wolves when allowed free reign will kill the whole flock. Acquiescing and forgiveness in those circumstances will not avail. Surely communities have a right to defend themselves from such abuse. But where do Christians  stand given scriptural demands of a higher moral standard?

I was surprised to receive a reply from the archbishop. It was unexpected and appreciated. He wrote of our duty of forgiveness not just in words but in hearts also. He recognised how hard this task was and how many in Northern Ireland struggled with the enormity of this call. It seems strange then that decades later the man of violence on both sides are not just released from prison but invited to play their role in government. In fact those not involved in violence in the past are seen as rather ‘weak watery’ types who have little role to play in this new peace. Centre stage are the redeemed bad guys whose pronouncements on political and social affairs receives much prominence. What is this strange new vista where not only are we to forgive those of violence but handover to them the reins of power. Not just devout Christians but atheists, agnostics and those of all Faiths are expected to turn the other cheek and pretend all the bloodletting never happened. 

The same scenario was repeated in Rwanda where almost 3/4 of a million were slaughtered in a matter of months. The new peace requires victims to swallow an unpalatable reality. Violence achieves results. Those who are terrorists today will be tomorrow’s government. Until someone more violent trumps the existing cards and takes his place at the peace table. So we perpetuate a system of injustice devoid of reward and punishment. Almost the opposite where violence is a new currency of political debate and is rewarded with depressing regularity. The only beneficiaries apart from those of violent tendencies are huge armament industries whose bank balances bulge with blood money. 

It almost feels as if countries are being used as military advertisements of just what weapons of war can achieve. Instead of staid military hardware conventions the new sales arena for this industry is unfolding on our screens in the nightly news. Look! Look! How powerful our strikes are, how many we can kill or maim, how quickly can we lay waste a whole urban city. As millions flee the violence should we demand they turn the other cheek? Actually we ask much much more. We demand they turn around and head back to the hell they have fled. We are annoyed they fling themselves and their offspring at our European borders and drown in our seas. That's the perverse thing about injustice. We no longer see the reality that exists but some coloured perspective of our own construction. Everyone is the hero of their own movie. We look on all events as to what effect it has on me and mine. It is a tendency that is rampant in people, in industry, in nations and even in how hard facts are portrayed. To defend our dignity our nation’s flags are hauled around our naked flanks. Bare of principle or integrity but proudly indignant of the precious soil beneath our feet. 

One human life is worth more than any of this. When you take another life you have lost the game. Everything shifts and you have to see things in a light that justifies your actions. To do otherwise would be unbearable. That shift is subtle but cataclysmic in consequences. You must go forward claiming justification for your actions or spend a lifetime regretting those actions and attempting to find some redemption. Perpetrators choose the easy path and we have chosen to look the other way. It is easier for us to think that when men of violence achieve their objectives we will have peace. But even in our worst dreams we cannot think our way into their heads. 

Violence warps the fabric of our very humanity it makes us walk among others like humans but devoid of humanity. We no longer seek forgiveness. We are full of self justified anger. We have no mercy and are hungry for more blood. We have developed a taste for such things. I would it were not so. If I was writing to my 13 year old self I would hesitate to put pen to paper. I would not unfold the terrible path that lay ahead. It would not be fair. The young need hope to weather such storms. It would be unfair to take that away. Perhaps, with hope in their hearts,  they will find a more just path than we have.

Wonderful Science Mistakes

Science makes mistakes, big ones. This doesn't tie in with how it is conveyed in the media nor taught in schools and universities throughout the world. Instead, it is presented as fundamental truths that should be absorbed much as religious dogma is. Not only does this do our educational establishment a disservice but it also acts to the detriment of science itself. Scientists perversely know quite well that the field progresses on the basis of crisis and victory. It is inbuilt in the scientific method and to deny the possibility of errors also impedes progress. We make mistakes, we are human that does not tarnish science it makes it more dynamic and strangely more engaging.

Being taught physics at University I found the most interesting part was the discovery that science did not know it all. Einstein for all his great genius failed to solve the Unified Field Theory. He like others wanted an explanation for all the forces (electromagnetic, gravitational, weak and strong forces) that would simply cut to the fundamental truth that they were actually the same force. Hints in that view abounded. Take the electrostatic force between two charges Q1 and Q2 the formula  looks like this. 

Where F is the electrostatic force and Q1 and Q2 are the charges and k is a constant, and r is the distance between the charges. Then compare it to gravity’s force between two masses.  

Here M1 and M2 represent two masses, G is the gravitational constant while r is the distance between the two masses. These two forces just look similar don't they? You almost feel there has to be some equation relating mass and charge which would explain both of these in a single formula. Einstein got a heck of a lot further than most and found the relationship between energy and mass ( and c the speed of light) with his famous  

. 

This was an important milestone and recent discoveries in the world of physics seem to back up yet another of Einstein's beautiful predictions. The fact that 100 years later experimental physics is eventually coming up to speed with his theoretical and elegant equations is indeed breathtaking.

But we have been stunned before at the underlying beauty in science. When Einstein’s relativity is applied to the Maxwell’s equations as if by miracle you are able to describe electricity, magnetism, and light in one uniform system. Lorentz transformations of Maxwell’s equations is startling in its beauty. You feel not only as a scientist its elegance emergence of truth but also as an artist surprised science and mathematics could manage such a masterpiece. It feels right, complete truth discovered. Illuminating and fascinating. Perhaps not everyone has the mathematical tools to appreciate this but they can still sense they are in the presence of a work of genius.

Having discovering a link between the forces between electrostatic charges and currents it seemed a similar link should exist between the four forces of physics. You sense that it is there. The fact that Einstein died trying to solve this puzzle just adds to its appeal. Sitting in the lecture theatre, having spent years day digesting the basic physics and tools, I felt the excitement of the hunt call to me, as something unfinished needing attention. This search for excellence felt like an awakening of sorts. The the excitement was tangible. Here was something we didn't yet know and the realisation too that here is what real science is all about.

Getting to that stage of inventiveness we have to go through a process of coming up to speed with important tools and knowledge. But education has prioritised such fundamentals at the cost to its real purpose and character. Ask any student studying physics and somewhere along the way usually the mundane wipes the floor of any desire of investigation. The closest they get is repeating scientific experiments done for generations. They don't have time to investigate further they must memorise and repeat and then carefully vomit up properly at exam time their digested fodder. Somewhere along the process the system cultivates not elegant beauty but bulimic effectiveness. Truths become secondary to results, grades, and publications. Our universities which should be centres of excellence have largely become devoid of the art of science but effective commercial science incubators. Those who churn out publications are admired and courted. Personal agendas dominate senates, meetings, departments, agendas and even fields to be studied. Stultifying real research they have become clones of the dairy herd. Effective in milk production but deformed until even walking normally is no longer viable. Look closely in departments throughout the country and you will see the same deformities afflict other fields. The beauty goes, the search becomes joyless. We have settled for soulless science when it was always so much much more.

Some decades ago a body was discovered in Düsseldorf Germany and was thought to be a French army officer who died during Napoleon’s campaign. It took years for him to be discovered as a Neanderthal.  Mind you we have made mistakes like this before. In 1908 the remains of a Neanderthal was found inside western France. This was a nearly complete skeleton of a man who would've been elderly by Neanderthal standards. The bones were analysed and a description created of what Neanderthals look like which remains in common usage today. They were pronounced dull witted, brutish, ape-like creatures who walked hunched over with a shuffling gate. This was accepted for decades by paleoanthrologists. It also became the reason why we had so many popular images of stupid looking cavemen in cartoons and movies. The truth was this was a 40-year-old Neanderthal, an elderly man of those times, he was hunched over in posture because of severe arthritis in his spine. The bowing of his legs was probably from Ricketts disease in his childhood and he had lost most of his teeth and part of his jaw. In fact, Neanderthal man looked much more like us in appearance and intelligence than anyone suspected and probably exceeded us in physical strength. In fact some modern scientists begin to suspect a healthy Neanderthal could lift an average North American football player over his head and throw him through the goalposts!

In another well known mistake in carbon dating techniques, one expert had dated prehistoric human remains as 21,300 years old. Subsequently the “Bischof-Speyer” skelton was found to be a mere youth at 3,300 years old.  Another error involved an allegedly prehistoric skull discovered near Paderhorn in 1976 and thought to be the oldest human remains ever found in the region. The skull was dated 27,400 years old. Recent research however indicates it belongs to an elderly man who died around 1750.  Germany’s Herne Anthropology Museum which owned the Paderborn skull was so upset by the findings that it did its own tests. “We had the skull cut open and it still smelt,” the museum’s director Barbara Rushoff-Thale ,said last week “We are naturally very disappointed.” Such disappointment is not restricted to this field of research.

The earth receives radiation from the sun on its surface and a certain proportion is reflected back. We have very effective formula to try and describe this exchange. Strangely the earth is emitting too much energy for the story to be true. Some have speculated we may have a huge nuclear fission reactor deep inside the earth to explain the discrepancy. “According to high school science books at the centre of the earth there should be a liquid iron alloy core and a smaller solid inner core at the centre. For ten years, geophysicist J. Marvin Herndon has presented increasingly persuasive evidence that at the very centre of the Earth, within the inner core, there exists a five mile in diameter sphere of uranium which acts as a natural nuclear reactor.” The truth is we can suspect but as yet we simply don’t know.  But doesn’t it make you want to find out?

We think of scientists as all knowing and incredibly smart.  We can also be slightly intimidated by their cleverness. They are however humans like us and they make mistakes. The Mars climate orbiter was a satellite designed to collect data. It was launched in December 1998 and was due to arrive at the red planet later in the next year. On September 23, 1999 NASA announced the orbiter was lost. Investigation showed the disaster was due to a confusion in mathematical units. One team working on the spacecraft had used standard US measurements (like feet), while the other had used the metric system. That's why they lost the spacecraft. It's horrific that something so simple could could cost us $125 million dollars.  Don’t you feel suddenly less stupid?

Hubble telescope’s main mirror  was ground down too much (only by roughly 1/50 of the thickness of a human hair). Nevertheless this tiny error resulted in blurry images. The cost of repairing it entailed a trip to space and and a bill of $1.5 billion dollars.

The Ariane 5 rocket was designed by the European Space Agency to push Europe to the head of the space exploration industry. It's guidance system was running on the same computer code as it's slower predecessor Ariane 4. 36.7 seconds into the launch the guidance computer attempted to convert the sideways velocity of the rocket from a 64-bit ‘floating point’ format to 16-bit ‘signed integer’ format. However, with Ariane 5’s faster rocket the velocity generated a number too big to be represented by the 16-bit ‘signed integer’. As a result the nozzles of the two solid boosters swung out of position nearly detaching the boosters from the body of the rocket and triggering a self destruct mechanism. The rocket disintegrated 39 seconds into its maiden flight destroying several extremely expensive satellites in the process.  This time the the bill came to $370- $500 million dollars.

For reasons I don't yet understand such facts make us more not less excited and interested in science. I expect it is because were all inherently curious and want to find out stuff. It appeals to that stage in childhood when we ask “why”, so often of our parents, about every single thing around us. That healthy curiosity get damped by education rather than enhanced. Somewhere along the way we stop asking because being told a lot of stuff is not as exciting. If you were told everything in a room there is a part of you that no longer is interested in going in there. We filled the room with staff, employed experts about tables, history and types of wood. Created courses in each nuance and failed to notice that our students have lost interest in this inventory. Even those involved in its conveyance have lost their joy and purpose. Because we focused on just how much we know and not on what we don’t, we managed to spoil the mystery of science. That's why we must celebrate the search and the questions, until students start asking “why” again. Until our education system produces people who get to do what they love our science will languish in the hands of the scientific illiterates who cannot appreciate the beauty to be found just out of our reach.

Hug the important stuff to you and cut out the rest

I am just back home in Malta from a three week visit to Northern Ireland. Apart from the luxury of soaking up my mum's company and seeing friends and family including my two grandchildren there was much to appreciate. Usually, I would dwell on the disasters of the trip, of which there were a few, but I will close the veil over those and speak only of positives.

I visited an elderly friend of my mother's, Jean. She has just been given the diagnosis of terminal cancer so it was with some trepidation we approached the neat bungalow in Portrush. When we were ushered into the bedroom we were startled to find a smiling radiant Jean sitting up in her bed on oxygen and weak but full of joy. She greeted us both with outstretched arms and hugged us  close. After asking about our family she explained how she come to terms with death. She had done everything, lived a full life and was happy to end the show. Talking about her funeral she explained she didn't want some clergyman wittering on about how she was a good wife, mother or grandmother. So she was getting the music ready and picking poetry she liked and was hoping her grandchildren would be willing to read on the day. Laughter was quick to bubble to the surface and Jean beamed her goodwill around the room. At one point, she pulled down the bed covers and showed us her swollen pregnant looking stomach. “I'm calling him Elijah”,  she laughed pointing at the growing belly. We left her bedside blown away by her courage, radiance and her ability to shower love even at this time. Such people raise the bar of what it is to be human and I wish all of us knew more about these gems rather than the doubtful specimens that stride down corridors of power in this country. Nobility is so far from what we have grown to expect.

My mother, in her eighties, was full of gusto and energy as usual despite two broken toes. Keeping her home and garden immaculate. Weeding out with unforgiving remorselessness dirt, untidiness creases, dust and disorder. When she turns that glance upon me she notices the haircut I administered to myself with a large pair of kitchen scissors. Also, the fact that I had resown my size 16 pair of trousers to accommodate a recent loss of weight. Not being a dressmaker I had simply taken the same kitchen scissors (aforementioned) and sliced off a corridor of material from the inside legs all the way around. Then, on resewing by hand (in large and irregular stitches) I somehow created an unsightly bunch of material at the crotch. It was not a good look, for any woman, as it appeared as if I'd suddenly grown testicles but no penis in my mid 50s.   My mother notices too much and set about bullying me into improvement. Later, with a proper haircut, her size 12 trousers and a comfortable pair of shoes from her wardrobe I am transformed like her house and the garden. Then, each night we played sudoko with an intensity of competition seasoned athletes could not match. The winner gloats with satisfaction and the loser complains about distractions like visitors /TV or a phone call. 

My Mum and Northern Ireland people in general are always concerned what others think of them. They're convinced the populace is taking notes on all their misdemeanours. Neighbours may well have a telescopic lens trained on your front windows. This phenomenon of course is not limited to Northern Ireland. In the north of Greece my friend lived in a remote village where the neighbours took note of how often you washed your bed sheets. The lack of crisp clean sheets regularly blowing in the wind would be discussed with forensic intensity by the women of the village. I take after my father not my mother in such things and have fond memories of my dad, who cared little for the public’s opinion, opening the front door of the bungalow completely nude (just out of the shower) apart from a small hand towel strategically placed. 

I returned to Malta after midnight a couple of days ago and fell eventually into a fitful sleep. The flat is very noisy and creaks and I require darkness to sleep properly. However, I'm unused to the emptiness and so kept my bedside light on. As my grandson Charlie so eloquently declared when put to bed,  “Charlie doesn't like the dark.”  I love the way he always talks of himself in the third person.  Not having slept well I rose to a flat devoid of food. Accustomed to breakfast in bed, a dreadful habit, I decided to go shopping in my pyjamas in the neighbouring supermarket. I just put extra layers on top and bought all the food I needed. Then, got back into bed and resumed my normal breakfast routine. Now, I'm sure there were people who noticed my state of dress, bed hair disarray and panda eyes but fortunately I did not notice them! 

Something however I did notice this visit to NI was how old I have become. I cannot tell you how shocked I was by my mother’s magnifying mirror on her bathroom window ledge in Northern Ireland. There, for the first time in four years, in blistering sunlight I could see my wrinkles and hair growing everywhere it shouldn't particularly in places were really there seems no actual need for it. I mean nose hair serves a useful purpose but why should it proceed to grow excessively outside the nostrils like an overgrown hedge? In addition, because I've lost weight my face looks like a half deflated balloon and as if to take pride in its sprouting set of nostrils my nose has taken up immense proportions dominating my face in a fashion I neither recognise nor appreciate. But I'm being too negative. I’m mobile, I have loved ones and I am loved. There are times in your life you just hug the important stuff to your chest and take the kitchen scissors to the rest.

PS I have just realised that my interpretation of concentrating on the positive seems to consist of death, dying and the disintegration of old age with hair and wrinkles thrown in…sigh...

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while a great wind carries me across the sky."  Native American Saying