True humility is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less.

 Humiliation is the cruellest of punishments because it destroys a person’s self-respect.

Ralph Ellison

I had travelled to England to meet my husband-to-be’s family for the first time and I was very shy. Meeting many new people is daunting at the best of times but the very first encounter with future relatives is definitely tricky. At a family celebration one of these relatives lent across and said “You’re from Ireland, please sing us a song”.

My father had been sent to elocution lessons, piano lessons etc and had a huge dent in the top of his head where a piano teacher had repeatedly whacked him with her large ringed finger if she felt he had forgotten to practice enough. The result of the lessons was my dad played the piano well and sported a permanent dent on the top of his head. The pain of these lessons ensured that he never sent any of us to any such torture sessions. As a result, even though we could ride bikes, climb trees and walk the tops of gates and swim etc none of us had acquired any musical ability whatsoever. 

My husband’s relative was sweet but persistent and would not stop asking, thinking that it was my shyness that prevented me from entertaining them. Finally, reluctantly, I launched into the Mountains of Mourne, a song from Northern Ireland. 

I got through the first verse when the same relative tapped me on the arm and said I could stop now. No one asked me to sing again and I began to suspect not having had any musical lessons was a dire omission indeed.

The next day was worse. A distant relative of my husband from the US decided that I needed my facial hair waxed. It was something she did regularly herself but a whole new world of pain for me. I was trying to be stoic but the procedure was torturous. When she’d finished I retreated to bed acutely aware of both my lack of singing skills and my abundance of facial hair.

The next morning my entire chin and neck looked like it had developed purple, red and white pimples. From the mouth down, I suddenly resembled the spottiest youth you can imagine. From a distance it looked as if I acquired a red beard of sorts. By now I had reached that place of resignation that only total humiliation can bring.

Looking back, I can laugh at my injured 25-year-old self. It was all no big deal. My skin recovered and I have become resigned to not being a singer. More importantly, all those relatives that I met are dear friends that enrich my life and have showered love on me for almost four decades.

The lesson learned is that we sometimes need to play the long game. To brace ourselves for the daily challenges that can seem horrific at the time, but in hindsight are no more than an amusing anecdote to life. We live and we learn many things mostly from others but also from our experiences. 

As a pensioner, I can now appreciate all those who have crossed my path. I am grateful for each and every conversation or interaction that taught me something. Even if the lesson learned was to be able to laugh at one’s self.

True humility is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less.

C. S. Lewis

Indiana Jones Stuff

James Prinsep was born into poverty in 1799 and yet through his own endeavours made some of the most exciting discoveries in deciphering ancient Indian script that echo an Indiana Jones tale. He spoke Persian, Sanskrit, Bengali, Hindi, Greek, Latin and was able to decipher Brahmi and had a working familiarity with Pali. 

He was curious about the stupa, rocks and pillars that were everywhere in India often with inscriptions that no one could understand. They were written in two Indian scripts which had both become extinct around the 5th century CE. 

His curiosity had been shared, over four hundred years earlier, by a 14th century Sultan who had, been obsessed with a specific golden pillar. Firoz Shah (1351 –1388) who was Sultan of Delhi, wrote a poem celebrating the column of gold, that he had removed from its ancient site at Topra and taken by a massive 42-wheeled carriage and boat to his own fort in Delhi a distance of almost 90 miles. It was around 50 feet in height. “No bird, neither eagle, nor crane, can fly up to its top”, he stated and wondered who and how it was built. He marvelled at how the people who made it were able to paint it all over with gold. He was particularly curious about the ancient inscriptions that no one understood on the pillar. The ancients had mastered a technique to treat the sandstone surface to burnish and protect it creating shiny patina metal-like finish. 

It did not protect all of these pillars from invaders or the acts of violence and destruction that was all too common. Timor the Lame (1320s -1405), a Turco-Mongol conqueror subsequently ransacked the country and set fire to an ancient pillar by ordering every horseman in his army to carry two loads of firewood to the pillar. The pillar still stands beside the mosque but its lower section is so badly fire damaged that nothing remains of the inscriptions. Having slaughtered over 100,000 prisoners, who were slowing his march, Timor proceeded to attack Delhi. 

One of the few buildings to survive the sacking was Firoz Shah Kotla. Strangely, instead of destroying the structure, Timor approached this building and gave thanks to God and left full of admiration for the column of gold declaring that in all the countries he had travelled he never seen a monument comparable to it. 

Destruction of many of these ancient pillars and stupas throughout India had gone on for millennium, sometimes though invasion, sometimes neglect, sometimes through using material for other buildings. Many of the Stupas would have had at their base a relic (ashes/belongings) of the Buddha or bones of his early followers, and many dug down to find these treasures. 

At Prinsep’s request and expense, his colleague Cunningham erected a wooden ramp that gave him access to the top of the 143-foot-high structure called the Dharmik Stupa. In January 1835 he and his workmen sank a shaft down through the centre of the monument. Only when they dug down to a depth of 110 feet did the work become easier for here the stonework gave away to large flat bricks. The digging then went on until they reached the soil at the base of the structure without producing any result after 14 months of labour and substantial costs. 

Fortunately, while the dig had been happening, Cunningham became friendly with an old man who had been involved in previous digging of sites in the area. Cunningham learned that a second stupa as large as the one they’ve been working on had been completely destroyed in this earlier dig at Benares. However, it was rumoured that there was an underground chamber full of ancient stone statues that had been hastily covered over for fear of upsetting evil spirits. The old man was able to lead Cunningham to the exact spot and his workmen unearthed a catch of about 60 statues and base relieves all in an upright position all packed closely together in a small space of less than 10 ft square. Cunningham had time to arrange for 20 of these statues bearing their inscriptions to be transported down to Calcutta safely before finding himself posted as an aide-de-camp for the Governor general. 

When Cunningham was eventually able to return to the site, from his posting, he was horrified to discover the city magistrate Mr Davidson had ordered the remaining 40 statues and all 50 cartloads of carved stonework to be thrown into the river Barna to make a breakwater. This act of vandalism made a deep impression on Cunningham who became fixated in his calls for the protection of such ancient sites. 

James Prinsep had begun by researching ancient Indian scripts (especially Brāhmī and Kharoṣṭhī) on pillars, statues and other stonework in the early 1830s and he combined this with his extensive study of ancient coins in order to compare symbols. His major breakthrough took seven years of concentrated effort and in 1837, he successfully deciphered Brāhmī by comparing repeated symbols on Aśokan edicts and bilingual Indo-Greek coins. Prinsep was able at last to translate these mysterious writings, whose meaning had been lost for almost two millennia. 

Unfortunately, by 1840 James Prinsep was dead despite being only 41 years old. But in 1917 others following his lead even discovered the source of these ancient writings. They were aided by the discovery of 16 accounts of Alexander the Great’s soldiers as they travelled through India in the years 327 BC to 325 BC and by Chinese Buddhist pilgrims like Faxian, Xuanzang, and Yijing who journeyed to India (5th-12th centuries) to collect authentic scriptures and brought them back to China writing copious dairies of their experiences. 

Since there was a lot of burning of old scrolls and writings in India these outsiders, Greek solders and Chinese pilgrims, allowed valuable information to be preserved that would have otherwise been lost. This revealed that many inscriptions were proclamations of Emperor Aśoka (3rd century BCE), and shed light on the teachings of Buddha (6th or 5th century BCE). Ashoka (c. 304–232 BCE) was the third ruler of the Mauryan Empire in India, and is now remembered as one of the most significant emperors in South Asian, and indeed world history. He was a grandson of Chandragupta Maurya, the empire’s founder but had to kill around 99 relatives in order to inherit the throne. This, mass slaughtering of relatives, was a depressingly common technique in those days when power was transferred from one ruler to the next. 

Around 261 BCE Ashoka invaded Kalinga (in present-day Odisha, a state located in Eastern India). The Kalinga War was an extremely brutal and one of the largest and deadliest battles in Indian history. Nearly a quarter of million lives were lost and despite winning Ashoka was deeply affected by the loss of so many lives. Shortly after, he adopted Buddhist ethical principles and published ethical policies in rock and pillar inscriptions across his empire. 

He promoted public works that included hospitals, wells, shade trees and rest houses. He supported Buddhist communities and encouraged the spread of ‘righteous conduct’ beyond India (including missions to Sri Lanka). Emperor Ashoka built a massive number of stupas (84,000) to house Buddha's relics, alongside numerous pillars and rocks inscribed with these edicts in order to raise the standard of behaviour of the populace. 

So what did these writings, that had been so widely spread throughout Ashoka’s kingdom and so painstakingly translated by James Prinsep, say? Ashoka’s pillars and rock inscriptions were not attempting to display His wealth or power. They were made to convey a clear consistent message to all who saw them. 

They can be summarised as: 

Compassion for all living beings 

Non-violence — particularly restraint in animal slaughter 

Moral self-examination —subjects should reflect on their own conduct regularly 

Good governance — officials should report truthfully, dutifully 

Religious tolerance — each sect should honour the other 

Welfare — medical aid, trees and wells planted on roads 

There is something horrific that such noble words would have been erased, burnt, buried and destroyed so ruthlessly down through the many centuries by so many different races and religions. But also, something mystical that determined researchers dug deep within themselves and in ancient manuscripts far and wide to find the answers to who, why, when and what those inscriptions meant. Sometimes by looking back at history we discover essential truths that humanity has had to relearn over the millennium again and again. Perhaps there is some comfort in that?

The Snot Factory

I have been ill for four or five days, but the long nights of retching coughs that burn the muscles in my chest make it feel much longer. The snot factory has gone into overdrive. My body fights a perennial battle between the need for sleep and the overarching necessity for breath. When I rise, coughing and spluttering, it is because my lungs are drowning in this excessive production of mucus.

For the first time in my life, I have lost all appetite. This is worrisome. I never stop eating. Miserable, happy, distraught, or beyond grief — my appetite has always been faithful. But not this time. I cannot face coffee or tea and force myself to sip water like medicine. Our vital organs, after all, require at least some liquid.

I felt the faint flicker of recovery yesterday and managed breakfast: tea and toast. However, last night brought a full return to snot production, and I, like a long-distance swimmer, lifted my head for coughs and then for air.

It is a strange business, this being unwell. I never understood the expression weary unto death, but I think I do now. I’ve learned a great deal these past five days and nights, and for those who wrestle with pain and discomfort year after year — what can I say? I drop to one knee in homage to your resilience and strength. None of us knows the loads carried by others, the dangerous paths they are forced to tread. 

To judge is, indeed, a flawed act. Even this bloody snot factory has taught me something.

Leaves finding the Light

Each branch jostles for position eager to raise arms in adoration. 

Holding leaves like fingers up to the sun’s rays. 

Beseeching the radiant light to nurture and sustain them. 

This daily adoration fuels the very tree’s existence and helps the growth of roots that sustain the entire edifice. 

So too, we raise our suppliant hands begging for divine nourishment. 

Confident in the bounties of God 

and praying for this sustenance 

that fuels our inner spirit 

for the day that lies ahead.

"The state of prayer is the best of conditions, for man is then associating with God. Prayer verily bestoweth life ..."

‘Abdu’l‑Bahá

The Big Green Border

My parents retired to a small bungalow in Portstewart. It was meant to be their peaceful, long-term retreat, but it soon felt too small, too cramped — more like an endgame than a sanctuary. My father quickly decided that the little house in its quiet cul-de-sac was more of a prison than a place to rest. So, my parents looked further afield and discovered The Big Green Border.

It was in Portrush, overlooking the sea — a grand, four-level house with countless rooms. When you stepped inside, a sweeping staircase greeted you, crowned by a chandelier made of crystal glass pieces that caught the light and glittered like starlight. Every room seemed to soar upward, with high ceilings and bright bay windows that filled the house with sunshine and sea views.

In the kitchen, an old panel of servant bells still hung on the wall. If you pressed a button in any room, a bell would ring below, summoning help — a relic of another age. As a family, we found it all wonderfully exciting. Gone was the tiny, cluttered bungalow; here was space, light, and possibility.

But even better than the house was the view. From the front windows, you could see miles of golden beach and endless blue sea — a sight that quite literally took your breath away. Just below was a little enclosed cove known as the ladies’ bathing area, perfect for a swim. I can still picture my sons wading out, chest-deep, trying to reach their grandfather perched on a sun-warmed rock.

Visits to the grandparents became seaside adventures: long walks by the shore, trips to the amusement arcade, and endless treats. We all loved that big green border. Of course, it was too much work. My mother spent hours polishing every brass fitting and vacuuming every carpet, from the gleaming front letterbox to the top floor. Still, the house radiated a sense of abundance and freedom.

My father, meanwhile, loved to sit by the window overlooking the sea and street below, fascinated by the passing scene. By day it was peaceful; by night, not so much. Drunken revellers would stagger past, sometimes stopping to wage inexplicable war on the small tree outside the front door. We never understood why — perhaps because it was person-sized, or simply too defiant-looking.

What amused my father most was that the tree always seemed to win. Its leaves were sharp-edged and could cut the hands of anyone foolish enough to wrestle it. No matter how aggressive the drunk, the tree stood its ground, emerging unscathed while its attackers limped away. It was a cheeky, resilient little thing — its spiky, Mohican-like leaves giving it an air of mischief. We were oddly proud of it, and I always thought it deserved a name.

Years later, when The Big Green Border became too much for my parents, they sold it. We were all saddened to discover that the new owner’s first act was to remove that brave little tree. It seemed so unfair, after all it had endured and the rough street justice it had meted out. Perhaps its wild, untidy shape didn’t suit the new, manicured garden.

Decades passed. We would drive by from time to time, watching as the house changed — new paint colours (some ghastly, according to my mother), a replaced front door, the loss of that gleaming brass letterbox. It was his house now, of course, but the absence of that bold little tree always stung.

And then, this week, more than twenty years later, I walked past and stopped in disbelief. There, just by the front door, a tiny sapling was pushing up through the earth. Somehow, impossibly, it was back. Deep underground, a fragment must have survived — stubborn, unbroken, and full of life.

It will take another decade to grow to its former size, but I felt ridiculously happy to see it there. Against all odds, that heroic little tree had returned — as cheeky, determined, and full of spirit as ever.

Poor Tita

It was my first time living away from the student residence at university. The six months I had spent there had been horrid and frightening. The constant noise, the drunken parties that raged through the night—I could barely sleep enough to function during the day. Faces changed continually, and it felt like living in a busy railway station filled with rowdy football fans caught in a perpetual frenzy.

Realising that sleep was vital, I asked to leave the residence and find quieter lodgings. My request was denied unless I forfeited the entire accommodation fee for the year. Others, with more desperate complaints than mine, were also turned down. I began to wonder—was I living in a madhouse, or was the place itself driving me mad?

Then tragedy struck. The quiet girl in the room opposite mine took her own life. I never knew what burdens she carried beyond the chaos of that residence, but surely the sleepless nights and constant turmoil did not help. In the wake of her death, the university finally allowed those of us on that wing to leave without financial penalty. I accepted immediately, though I could not shake the thought that perhaps she, too, had begged to leave.

I found a small flat in Portstewart near the sea, sharing it with a girl from Limavady whom I knew from school. Our flat was the upstairs floor of a house owned by an elderly lady named Tita. She must have been suffering from forgetfulness, for there were little sticky notes everywhere—reminders to “buy milk,” “turn off light,” “close this.”

White-haired and impeccably dressed, Tita was tiny but indomitable. Every meal, even tea and biscuits, was arranged neatly on a tray with an embroidered napkin in a silver ring, and beside it, a tiny vase holding a single flower. She never used mugs—only delicate, floral cups and saucers. She lived alone, except for a small talking bird that endlessly repeated, “Poor Tita, poor Tita.” It wasn’t surprising; she herself murmured those same words throughout the day.

We learned that Tita had grown up in that very house with her parents and siblings. During the Spanish flu outbreak after the First World War, they had all died, leaving her entirely alone. The local newspaper had once carried the tragic story. Grief had enclosed her life within the same walls, as though she, too, were a bird in a cage.

My flatmate and I were young and inexperienced, and our housekeeping skills must have appalled her. Yet I luxuriated in the quietness of that home and the soothing rhythm of the sea. Walking on the beach brought solace and peace—I could finally breathe, and sleep returned to me.

Then strange things began to happen. Once, we threw out a damp, clumped-up packet of Rice Krispies. To our astonishment, we later found it back in the cupboard. Tita, it turned out, had retrieved the cereal, carefully dried it in her oven, and replaced it in the box. It unnerved us—we began to doubt everything in our cupboards. Other odd happenings followed, and only later did I realise those sticky notes had been signs that her mind was failing. But at the time, in our youthful ignorance, we didn’t understand.

When we finally moved out, we thanked her sincerely for her kindness. I visited her over the following years. Her bird had died, and someone had replaced it—but this new bird did not say, “Poor Tita.” She was heartbroken and could not understand why. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. It felt too cruel to deepen her sorrow.

Life can deal such harsh hands. To that gentle student who died in the residence, and to this lonely, grieving landlady—I often think of them both.

If we truly knew the burdens carried by those around us—our neighbours, our friends, even the strangers we pass in the street—we would be kinder in every way, and look upon them with the compassion they so deeply need.

Nature abhors a vacuum - Aristotle

When Aristotle observed that “nature abhors a vacuum,” he was describing the physical world: how air and water rush in to fill an empty space. Modern science confirms that a true void is nearly impossible, for matter and energy always move to restore balance.

But the phrase also carries a deeper meaning. As one writer put it, “The human soul will not be content with emptiness. If we do not fill it with what is good, it will soon be filled with what is not.” Just as nature resists emptiness, so too do our minds and hearts. A space within us will not remain empty for long — it invites something to enter, whether uplifting or harmful.

When a void opens in life — through loss, change, or transition — something will inevitably move in to fill it. If we leave it unattended, it may be taken over by unhealthy habits, toxic influences, regret, or despair. But we are not powerless: we can choose what takes root. Nothing is permanent, but the act of choosing gives us ownership of what fills our lives.

The Bahá’í Writings offer a profound suggestion: “Love is the secret that fills all voids, that heals all wounds, that gives meaning to all existence.”

And so the lesson is clear: if you do not choose, life will choose for you. To recognise this truth is to take part in nature’s wisdom — to fill the empty spaces of our lives not with noise or distraction, but with what uplifts, sustains, and brings peace.