Bare feet and bare essentials

They seemed a breed apart. Disengaged from a normal life and embroiled in a fantasy existence that floated unanchored by mortgages, debts or jobs.  I had just taken up my first job, fresh from university, and was working as an assistant engineer for Plessey Radar in Cowes on the Isle of Wight.  Everything was new for me, coming from Northern Ireland. The freedom, the culture, the work, the people all seemed intensely interesting. At work I rubbed shoulders with ‘the normals’, as I call them, my colleagues at Plessey. Of all shapes, sizes and ages they lived normal existences where bills needed paid and work was a means to an end. Some I liked and some I didn’t, but they were predictable and reassuring. 

I shared a flat with Rosalind. A 6 foot fashion design model who commuted to Portsmouth by ferry daily. She and all her friends were a breed apart. Her boyfriend was a bare foot shipwright who owned three 30ft plus sailing yachts.  He told me he walked without shoes or socks because that way uninteresting people didn’t bother him. His name was Horace and he liked laughing at others. Rosalind was consistently unfaithful to him with various people and he would rage and sulk and then they would make up again. I wasn't sure I like either of them and I knew they laughed at my simplistic approach to life. I didn't drink or do drugs and found the fact that I believed in God riotously funny. Rosalind was a white witch, she told me, leaning back in the kitchen chair smoking a cigarette and blinking wide pale green eyes  that reminded me of a newborn calf. Wide clear eyes with lovely long lashes but absolutely nothing going on behind them. Except perhaps where the nearest meadow was and how to get there. Or in Rosalind's case where the nearest suitor was how to win them. Horace and Rosalind had a range of similar friends all into yachting and windsurfing. They talked in very posh accents and all had parents having either divorces or mental breakdowns. They were either wealthy or oddly poor with all the tappings of the rich. Take Rosalind for example. Her parents lived in a huge mansion outside Ryde but struggled to  pay their grocery bills. Every effort went into maintaining the appearance of wealth at all costs. The father was a tall thin man who could speak to spirits. He regularly broke off from the conversation to let you know that there was a spirit in the corner of the room. They all seemed like flotsam blowing willy-nilly and I found myself viewing them as if they were a completely different species. Whatever they said or did, I found myself examining it in an unreal way as if they lived in an alternative universe. This world of theirs was like a game of monopoly. They had so much money or properties that they were really rather bored by it all. So they broke things, relationships, themselves to generate something with which to engage. I listened to the conversations and they ebbed and flowed with cynicism, ridicule and mockery. Two Irish lads at Plessey had trouble starting the car one morning and decided to push start it. Unfortunately, the car had built up too much speed down the hill and the driver had been unable to jump in. The car crashed into iron railings at the bottom of the hill and was badly damaged. This was related was related with  endless zeal by my flatmates as an example of typical plebs, their term for the working classes. At least these particular ‘plebs’ caused damage only to themselves and their own property. 

Whereas Horace and his crew seem to have no morals regarding others belongings. Horace's favourite trick when purchasing uninhabited properties was to urinate in the corner to put off other house buyers. He sold a leaky yacht to a London weekend sailor and for six weeks sneaked down to the marina every three days to pump out the bilges. After this, he stopped and when the yacht sank at its moorings felt absolutely no guilt. As he pointed out it was no longer his responsibility! As if by pumping the bilges he had been performing an act of service rather than that of deception. He had no loyalty to his yachts either. He sold in ancient beautiful wooden sailing ship immaculately restored to a Londoner who intended to moor it on the Thames and live on it. The fact that the freshwater would eventually ruin the hull was a matter of no concern to him. When I remonstrated that he should at least tell the prospective buyer of the potential damage freshwater would do to this unique boat. He raised an eyebrow and laughed aloud at the very idea. 

Being in their company was like standing on shifting sands. With no conscience, no sense of responsibility their lives appeared to follow only the tides of daily whims. They were easily disengaged from practical considerations. If I struck up a conversation with Horace at the table when he had a plate of food in front of him, he would lower his knife and fork and proceed to hold forth allowing the food to go cold and untouched at times. I, a descendent of a poor pig farmer from Ireland, found this just as amazing as his lack of morals. To my way of thinking food was a precious commodity and not to be sacrificed for intellectual banter. 

Plessey Cowes

The companionship of my fellow engineers at Plessey kept me sane. They had mortgages, bills, normally lives and their laughter seemed less cruel too. The crew back at the flat seemed unanchored, unhinged and unscrupulous. That period however did help me considerably. I saw that being the winner of the monopoly game can be a lonely sad existence where are you are incredibly bored. Only those still struggling to miss landing on hotels, and desperately collecting £200 as they pass Go, enjoy the adrenaline surges of the real world. Having too much money or things can be toxic for the soul, could be a kind of leprosy that contaminates you and others. It was a great relief to move out back into the real world and feel rocks beneath my feet again. I vowed never to be tempted by those shifting sands in the future.

Shouting preachers, spiritual paths

In my childhood it was common to walk down our village street being harangued about the fires of hell. These street preachers would unleash hateful tirades against the passerby. Warning of death, everlasting torment in flames and crow about their seat in heaven being dusted and ready for them. The best of them would give a personal statement of their faith. This would usually involve a tale of woe. How they’d been a lost soul who drank to excess or took drugs, stole, committed adultery, lied and generally lived a life far from common standards of decency. They would then recount their own “road to Damascus” experience (will that phrase ever feel the same after this year in Syria?) They would describe how they had been a sinner and lost before becoming saved and joining the righteous. This salvation meant they had already booked their place in heaven. Not by deeds but by faith, they would shout.

As a child walking beside my mother, I felt no end of grievances against these proud characters. Having not yet had a chance to break many of the 10 Commandments it felt wrong to be berated by someone who had. An inverse of “let those without sin throw the first stone”. I wanted to enter into discussion with these perpetrators along the lines of Socrates. Plato describes a typical Socrates discussion with two Athenian generals about courage. Under Socrate’s questioning the generals finally admitted they no longer even understood what bravery meant. 

Not that I would've been equipped at all for such a debate. However, the longing to respond was ever in my heart. Invariably, I was told to be quiet and to keep up with my mother. The civil thing to do, it seemed, in the face of  demonic threats in the street was to walk past and ignore it. To act as if none of this was your business. Just keep your head down and keep going. That felt so cowardly to me. Why do individuals like this get to reprimand others, condemn them to hell or judge between the saved and the lost? I never liked that their idea of religion seem to consist in an abundance of hate and a deep satisfaction that most of us were bound for hell.

It has left me wanting to be silent on anything spiritual.  I would hate to make anyone I spoke to, feel as I did growing up in Northern Ireland. The idea of berating or belittling someone on the basis of their Faith appals me. Yet, I'm so interested in discussions on faith. This life after all is a spiritual journey, at its essence. Even atheists would agree that gaining virtues, principles, insights and aspiring to leave this world slightly better as a result of your presence is worthwhile.  

Socrates said :”[Man] is always becoming a new being and undergoing a process of loss and reparation, which affects ... his soul as well. No man's character, habits, opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, and fears remain always the same; new ones come into existence and old ones disappear.”

Around us are thousands of individuals who have already learned so much on their journey. Wouldn’t it be beneficial to discuss such things. Listen to what life has wrought in them. Be humble enough not to impose but absorb the insights they have gained. Strangely such conversations are often fraught. People will happily discuss the best car to invest in, their favourite team, their politics, their recent holiday, the programs they watch, but when the conversation is turned to spiritual or moral topics a veil can descend. As a cousin of mine so venomously snarled, ‘Get your hands of my soul” to an enquiry from an evangelistic neighbour. Discussions about religion can easily descend into arguments and heated exchanges. Neither of these is conducive to spiritual growth.

Is it self satisfaction or pride that blinds us to learning from others. Is it a fear of change or a desire to blindly imitate what we are familiar with at all costs?

Yet, when I have managed to have a conversation on prayer with a Muslim, a Christian or a Buddhist it has always been illuminating.  Not that one agrees with all one hears but that sacred space being shared is usually a positive experience. A Hindu friend spoke of as a child celebrating holy days in their community in Leicester. It involved her Indian mother baking huge cakes for the old people’s homes in their neighbourhood. That desire to do something kindly for the community was so ingrained in her as a child that 30 years later she found herself following her mother's example. She spoke of bringing boxes of cakes from her car and remembering her mother's presence so powerfully. My friend said, “Perhaps I do it in her name? I'm not sure why, but it makes me feel closer to her”. Another Muslim friend talked about waking every day to the sound of his father’s prayers filling their home. He felt blessed to be wakened by this call to God. He explained, “The word of God has a potency that influences those around us and can generate transformation”. When I discussed meditation with a Buddhist friend they spoke of how prayer to them was a calling out to God whereas silent meditation allowed a space to listen. He pointed out for him “in that stillness I discover the state of my own heart”. The agnostics I have met have often walked a practical spiritual path that is breathtaking. Focusing on deeds of service rather than acquiring any spiritual station they have sometimes managed to combine humility with magnanimous action. This they do, not on the weekly basis for the Sunday service but daily and even hourly with relentless integrity. There is much to learn from them.

Perhaps if we could have gathered round that shouting preacher we would've discussed spiritual pride and its disastrous consequences. Or the need not to judge another soul. Or even the fact that each of us is on a peculiar path that is unique.  That, the landscape we have emerged from, at that moment of meeting, is totally different and has shaped a human being we will never encounter the like of again. That, if we have the humility to learn at the feet of others we we may benefit from the windflowers of wisdom they have managed to pluck from their lives.

The bonds that build society not break it

It's been my pleasure meeting Libyan women on Malta. They’re, so far, universally nice, highly intelligent and focused. The young girls are most anxious to please their parents especially their fathers. Their thoughts are on education and progress rather than finding a boyfriend. All the ones studying at university, here in Malta, have unusual fathers. I discovered that all of this group have fathers who believe in the empowerment of women. Not only encouraging daughters to go on with their education but also to learn to drive and be independent supporting them with with financial and emotional support.

I began to think it was the self-selecting phenomenon. After all, if any of their fathers had disapproved and withdrawn their support either materially or emotionally none of them would've ended up lecturing at university in science and other subjects. But it speaks strongly of the role men can play in promoting the advancement of women. It is not something women alone can hope to achieve. I have become increasingly convinced that it is only when women come forward in every aspect of life and own the principle of equality that real progress can be made in our societies. Why is this so important? Well, because in many nations and cultures being born female constricts and constrains you. In China, where unknown numbers of girls were aborted, published statistics of the ratio between male/female births across huge geographical regions scream the deadly injustice of discrimination. This death toll is illuminated only in the macro analysis of populations and so flies under our emotional radar. It is the immediacy of suffering, the force of the single toddler lying face down and still on the beach dead that grips our hearts. Not the hundreds of thousands who suffer and die around the world. It is as if we are designed to care for those we confront on a one-to-one basis rather than larger numbers at a distance.

Perhaps this is an emotional survival tactic. In the tribe or family you need to be concerned about the health and well-being of those around you. Other tribes compete for resources and caring for them could jeopardise your own future. As nations formed, loyalties began to extend wider. The notion that the young and the old were our responsibility grew. Resources were set aside in these civilisations to cope with such needs. In time, such initiatives were not just aspects of a civilised nation they became almost what defined one. If the nation neglected the well-being of the vulnerable in their society it became critically and morally flawed. 

But the taking over of social care by institutions funded by governments had unexpected side-effects. It robbed families and communities of the one-to-one connection and sense of responsibility. If I pay my taxes that is enough. “I've done my bit” became the new moral maxim. Not everyone but many felt that community care was all that was needed. The vision of a well funded care system became the sought after goal. Every responsible nation’s aspirations was to provide such care efficiently and effectively. However modern isolation served to distance individuals everywhere. That subtle change in society blurred the line between being engaged in the well-being of others and a vague desire to meet their basic needs. A new Paradigm had emerged that satisfied consciences but not the heart. Governments urged the need for care in the community but what they actually meant was providing professional care to those still outside institutions. The tangible bonds between hearts that nurture and protect has gradually been eroded.

Economic necessity has meant workers must follow the jobs. Their movement fragments families. Long-distance relationships have become the order of the day not by choice but by necessity. But this is just a tip of the iceberg. The huge investment in entertainment but not education has meant we have allowed ourselves to become helpless bystanders in families, neighbourhoods and communities across the developed world. Distracted and removed from personal ties we have lost sight of  our responsibility to be of service to those around us.  In doing so we have also denied ourselves the nurturing of human spirit that service to others brings. Instead we have become followers in societies where the new God is consumption. Materialism believes that if our consumption can grow our economies and nations will thrive. Greed and competition have become the driving forces. With such a mindset there are many losers. Our environment, the living creatures with whom we share this planet, the ability to value the lives of ‘others’ all suffer. If selfish obsession is held up as the nation’s goal, what are we saying to our youth? In these fragmented communities, beset with forces unleashed upon them, wolves have indeed entered the pens. Drugs, sex, alcohol, gambling, gaming, food, fashion, fixation, fanaticism generate wealth from a growing captive customer base. The disenchantment of our youth is very real. Many fail to see anything of value in the society surrounding them.  It breeds hopelessness. 

Perversely, this very ability of young people to read their own reality is the hope for our future. The young have energy and are capable of transforming themselves in a short period of time. They can with their enthusiasm and attitude of learning leapfrog over our present day fumbling. But it has to begin with reconnecting at the neighbourhood level. It won't be easy, it will require a consistent effort to reach out when we have traditionally held back. It means opening up to bonds with neighbours, meaningful conversations, starting to visit each other and being comfortable in each other's presence once more. Focusing on building not breaking bonds at local levels. Creating safety nets for us all, the young, the old, the ill and the lonely. 

Once we accept we are one human race, on one planet not intellectually but with heart and soul, it necessitates caring for all those around us not just in words but deeds. It implies careful stewardship of this incredible planet. Our understanding of what it means to be truly united will reshape not just our inner reality but everything around us. Emboldening all with hope for a future world we cannot see just now. Inhabited by individuals, nobler than us. They will recognise the privilege to serve alongside others, to love and learn from each person they meet. The insurmountable problems facing this planet will melt away in the urgency of their united endeavours.

Pillar of Saint Bombed

Church of Saint Simeon Stylites

Sometimes it's only when we know the detailed history of a place that the priceless nature of its presence becomes apparent.  Between 385 to 390 AD there was born in Sis, in northern Syria, an unusual man called Simeon Stylites.  At 16 he entered the monastery at Antioch and years later he moved 19 miles north-west of Aleppo and became one of the most famous ascetics in the east.  After living three years on top of the summit of a mountain in a small hut Simeon felt called upon to take even more drastic action.

“After some time, Simeon mounted the first of three increasingly higher pillars on which he took his stance of continual prayer. The final pillar sixty feet in height had a platform on top about 6 ft square. There exposed to the elements, Simeon stood and prostrated, healed and harmed until his death in 459 when he was over 70 years old. “

He was known to spend the whole night in prayer and also the day until 3 PM. After that he he delivered teachings settled quarrels and disputes and healed the suffering. At sunset he began his conversations with God again and continued for the rest of the night.  He kept up this practice for thirty seven years. It must have been an unusual sight, the lonely mountain with pillars and a wild looking old man dressed in skins perched aloft, beseeching God for guidance. People came from all over Ishmaelites (descendants of Ishmael, the eldest son of Abraham), Persians, Armenians, Iberians( from the countries of Spain and Portugal), Homerites (a kingdom in ancient Yemen), Britons and Gauls ( Gaul was a region of Western Europe during the Iron Age that was inhabited by Celtic tribes and covered France, Luxembourg, Belgium, most of Switzerland, Northern Italy, as well as the parts of the Netherlands, Central Italy and Germany on the west bank of the Rhine).  His pillars are found north-west of Aleppo in Syria. Some remnants of documents from the same Saint have been found in the British Museum and there has been academic papers published concerning his letters describing the religious debates going on. In particular, his comments on the First Council of Nicaea of AD 325,The First Council of Constantinople in AD 381, The Council of Ephesus in AD 431 and The Council of Chalcedon AD 451 have proven interesting.  These councils were called to bring to an end divisions of religious thought and interpretations that had developed in the early church. It is worth noting that there was heated and violent debate on such issues. For example, at the behest of those at the third council a mob entered and killed one of the archbishops involved who was subsequently canonised as a martyr at the fourth council!  No wonder Simeon wrote in one of his letters,

“wherefore be stout and courageous in the cause of true piety..”

Once Simeon got an infection in his leg and those below begged him to come down to get treated.  He refused and continued in his devotions.  The last thirty years of his life were spent at a height of 60ft and such was his veneration that on his death his body was fought over by several cities who wanted the honour of having him buried there.  He was eventually buried at Antioch and there are accounts of religious visitors removing his teeth as relics to take home!  The pillars of this Christian saint later became the site of the oldest surviving Byzantine church known as the Church of Saint Simeon Stylites and in June 2011 this church and its surrounding villages were designated a World Heritage site.

Saint Simeon's pillar

Unfortunately this area was held by Islamic extremist groups for some years and they are renown for their determination to demolish such heritage sites deeming them as being against God or heretical for reasons both nonsensical and fanatical in equal measure.  Perhaps their lack of respect towards human life is mirrored perfectly in their disregard for heritage sites?  Whatever the reasons, when on the 28th May 2015 Kurdish groups managed to capture the church all were delighted to find that the church and pillars had emerged amazingly virtually unscathed.  One could still reach and touch the pillar only six foot high after centuries of visitors taking souvenirs pieces and imagine Saint Simeon deep in his devotions day and night.  Then, on the 12th of May 2016 came the horrific news that an air strike had heavily damaged the heritage site.  

When one thinks of Syria, the suffering and loss of life, the fanaticism, the rise of the world’s first cities and the loss of priceless heritage sites through ignorance and prejudice how does one respond?

“If with a pure mind a person speaks or acts, happiness follows them like a never-departing shadow.”

Buddhist scriptures, Dhammapada 

“Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness”. 

The Bible, James 3:18

The reward of goodness is nothing but goodness. 

The Quran Chapter: 55, Verse: 61

“Religion should unite all hearts and cause wars and disputes to vanish from the face of the earth; it should give birth to spirituality, and bring light and life to every soul.”

Bahá’í Writings

References

Doran, R., & Harvey, S. A. (1971). The Lives of Simeon Stylites. Journal of Roman Studies, 61, 87.

Torrey, C. C., & Simeon, S. (1899). The Letters of Simeon the Stylite. Journal of the American Oriental Society, 20, 253-276.

Chicago

Seaside of the Soul

The ebb and flow of the waves

Speaks to the spirit

Just as our blood flows

From the beat of our faint hearts 

so too this tide 

is driven by a celestial body 

whose effect, despite its distance 

shapes our coastlines. 

The sound of breaking waves

An echo of the blood surging

In our veins

A rhythm, ancient and powerful.

The first music to sooth our souls.

Earlier than the drum

Beating its unending rhythm.

The rocks are worn

Broken in parts.

Shaped by these waves.

Driven by the moon above.

We too are worked on

By this earth,

And yet orchestrated

From above.

What will this symphony produce?

Who will we become?

That is shaped by our nature

Granite or limestone.

By our condition

porous, sludge or crystalline.

By with whom we find ourselves

Shoulder to shoulder.

Or left alone to be polished or ground

Into shiny pebbles or gems.

But most of all

By our actions and deeds.

Gravity drives the tides

And this force requires

Our volition our movement.

Not until we take our first steps

Will confirmations shape us

and blessings flow

To grace our lives

and those around us.

We are the architects

of our own spiritual coastline.

Despite all these diverse powers

We alone will determine the result.

Diogenes, his barrel and his brutal challenges from over two milleniums ago

The sun, too, shines into cesspools and is not polluted.

quote of Diogenes

Growing up in a small rural village high in the Sperrin mountains of Northern Ireland, Diogenes was a Greek philosopher my father mentioned repeatedly during my childhood.  Much we know about his life is unsubstantiated by historical data but this colourful character is so different and unique somehow you never doubt his existence. 

Diogenes of Sinope was a Greek philosopher and one of the founders of Cynic philosophy. He was born in Sinope (modern-day Sinop, Turkey), an Ionian colony on the Black Sea, in 412 or 404 BC and died at Corinth in 323 BC.

He has the most who is most content with the least. 

quote of Diogenes

He considered his avoidance of earthly pleasures a contrast to and commentary on the contemporary behaviours all around him. This attitude was grounded in a disdain for what he regarded as the folly, pretence, vanity, self-deception, and artificiality of human conduct. He hardened himself to the elements by by living in a large wine cask, owned nothing, and seems to have lived off the charity of others. He destroyed the single wooden bowl he possessed on seeing a peasant boy drink from the hollow of his hands. He then exclaimed: "Fool that I am, to have been carrying superfluous baggage all this time!”  He used to stroll about in full daylight with a lamp; when asked what he was doing, he would answer, "I am just looking for an honest man.”

According to a story, Diogenes was captured by pirates while on voyage to Aegina and sold as a slave in Crete. Being asked his trade, he replied that he knew no trade but that of governing men, and that he wished to be sold to a man who needed a master. Fortunately, a Corinthian man called Xeniades liked his spirit and hired Diogenes to tutor his children. 

The vine bears three kinds of grapes: the first of pleasure, the second of intoxication, the third of disgust. 

quote of Diogenes

It was in Corinth that a meeting between Alexander the Great and Diogenes is supposed to have taken place. While Diogenes was relaxing in the morning sunlight, Alexander, thrilled to meet the famous philosopher, asked if there was any favour he might do for him. 

Dioggenes responded, “I  have nothing to ask but that you would remove to the other side, that you may not, by intercepting the sunshine, take from me what you cannot give.”

Alexander then declared, "If I were not Alexander, then I should wish to be Diogenes.”

In his typical direct manner Diogenes retorted, 
"If I were not Diogenes, I would also wish to be Diogenes!" 

He was known for brutal honesty in conversation, paid no attention to any kind of etiquette regarding social class or behaviour and when criticised, pointed out that most of these activities were normal and that everyone engaged in them privately. Indeed, Diogenes challenged codes of behaviour in ways that would startle us still even today!  I give just one example but there are much much worse. 
Someone took Diogenes into a magnificent house and warned him not to spit, whereupon, having cleared his throat, he spat into the man's face, being unable, he said, to find a meaner receptacle.

Diogenes could provoke both individuals and society and did so all his life under all circumstances.  As he approached old age he did not change his ways.

Of what use is a philosopher who doesn't hurt anybody's feelings? 

quote of Diogenes

Scolded as an old man who ought to rest, he replied, "What, if I were running in the stadium, ought I to slacken my pace when approaching the goal?" To someone who declared life to be an evil, he corrected him, "Not life itself, but living ill." When asked from where he came, Diogenes said, "I am a citizen of the world".

As he reached the end of his life, he was asked about how he wished to be buried. He left instructions to be thrown outside the city wall so that wild animals could feast on his body. When asked if he minded this, he said, "Not at all, as long as you provide me with a stick to chase the creatures away!" When asked how he could use the stick since he would lack awareness, he replied "If I lack awareness, then why should I care what happens to me when I am dead?”

We are all, Diogenes claimed, trapped in this make-believe world which we believe is reality and, because of this, people are living in a kind of dream state. Although, he was thought by some to be mad, it must be said Diogenes was not the first philosopher to make this claim; Heraclitus, Xenophanes, and, most famously, Socrates all pointed out the need for human beings to wake from their dream state to full awareness of themselves and the world.

He once begged alms of a statue, and, when asked why he did so, replied, "To get practice in being refused.

quote of Diogenes

Nose picking, B.O. and lessons to be learned

Dennis was dead by his own hand and even as I digested the news, the thought bubbled unwanted into my mind that I had never liked him. We met in primary school in the playground and his favourite trick was to run as hard as he could into unexpected victims. Pushing or pulling he seemed not to mind if you cut a knee as you fell over, or bashed the back of your head on the curb. His main satisfaction was in felling others. It was something he just could not stop despite repeated beatings from our headmaster. He was refused to be weaned from his favourite pastime.

In my first day at school, Dennis wet himself. The Headmaster’s wife, Mrs Harris, raged and locked Dennis in the cupboard off her class where the sewing baskets were kept. There Dennis howled for the full two hours until break time while Mrs Harris lectured us all on bladder control. I'm not sure what the rest of the class learnt or Dennis but those two hours taught me that people with grey hair in buns wearing respectable expensive clothes could be vicious beasts deep in their hearts. Every cry of Dennis that soared over her demands, that we sit straight, remain silent and colour in our drawings, left me with a lifeline horror of colouring in. I knew with every crayon stroke that all of our souls were being coloured by the cruelty of that situation in ways that would linger for decades.

Perhaps the soft play dough of young children hearts makes every such event traumatic? Not that Dennis endeared himself to anyone. His spontaneous acts of violence continued unabated in the playground and even grew with each passing year. I complained to my father about his behaviour and he pointed out that Dennis was from a dysfunctional home. I had no idea what that meant but learned that Dennis was being brought up by his grandmother, an eccentric woman whose hair was as wild as her language. 

My father claimed our dog Monty could identify people with unusual tendencies. In their presence Monty would change from a placid ever good-natured Labrador into a barking aggressive hound. He wouldn't bite but barked as if a bear had entered the garden. Dennis's grandmother got by far the worst reaction from Monty and so I reckon dysfunctional was something dogs sensed that we humans had to guess at. It didn't make me dislike Dennis any less.

The headmaster Mr Harris would regularly throw Dennis over his shoulder and carry him out of the class after slapping him hard across the face and knocking him out of the school seat. Beating Dennis seem to be the main educational response to any misdemeanours.

He seemed to search for ways of annoying others. Not just by pushing but by laughing at other’s discomfort. A Kindergarten child was crying in the playground for her mother. She was tiny and vulnerable in this new world absent of parents. I overheard Dennis telling her she’d never see her mother again! That was what school meant. She was so distraught at this news she cried hysterically until she wet herself. At which point, Denis ran to tell Mrs Harris of the incident. Horrified we watched as this tiny girl was frogmarched into Mrs Harris’s dreaded cupboard as punishment. Her cries were far more tragic than Dennis’s as fear rather than humiliation fuelled their volume. I remember I broke four crayons that day pushing the nibs deep into my paper, digging into the white sheets in huge red stripes until they snapped. Why on earth do people think childhood was the happiest days of their lives? Was their childhood so good or what followed so awful in comparison?

In my last few years of primary school Mr and Mrs Harris retired and there were speeches of gratitude to these two monsters. Even the local MP came to sing their praises, mentioning their love of children and dedication to others. When Mr Harris died I remember the same MP weeping real tears copiously while reading a piece from the Bible during the service. I sat in church watching the whole pantomime, thinking what must God think of all this? None of it made any sense to me.  Not the cruelty, nor the adoration of abusers nor the incessant nose picking of Dennis who sat beside me during the service, stinking of BO. The horror of it all was mixed with the smell of pee, the memory of warm crayons between my fingers and bitter injustice burning in my belly.

Towards the end of primary school the girls all grew into giants while the boys remained the same height. At least, that's how it seemed to me. With only brothers at home I knew how to fight and dealt out  instant justice to those I felt due. Any time Dennis played his cruel games with kindergarten kids I’d hammer him. When he pushed others over I punched him hard. It never stopped him behaving badly but it made me feel good. As if at last I could play a role in fixing things. He became my pet project for world betterment. I couldn't control Mr and Mrs Harris but I would try with Dennis.  To his credit he never held any grudges against me. I think he was beaten so badly by adults all round him he viewed our exchanges as just rough child's play. At times, on some strange level, we were close. I watched out for him in the playground and rather than resenting my interference he felt a bond that I was ashamed was one-sided.   

In the secondary school, he attended, my mother taught him Maths.  She used to bring a complete clean uniform, shirt, tie, blazer trousers, socks and pants to school for him each day.  Whenever, he had an accident she would bring him the clean set, from her room, to change into.  Two years into secondary school the wetting stopped but she continued to supply him with new clean clothes when his own were unclean. 

We went our separate ways then, Dennis and I. His grandmother was still a visitor to our home occasionally and treated with good humour. On a family outing, with her in the car, I can remember my father parking outside a huge palace of a house with elegant rhododendrons on either side of the drive. He managed to convince her that his relatives lived inside this massive mansion. She was impressed beyond words and later when he told her he’d only been joking she roared with laughter that was too loud and too long.

Years later, Dennis joined the police. My mother was stopped by the police one night in the Glenshane pass. The officer that peered through the window was Dennis. She said he looked smart and proud in his neat new uniform. He had thanked her that night for her maths lessons in secondary school and told her she'd been his favourite teacher. Dennis we learned even had a girlfriend. Then, out of the blue she dumped him for someone else. 

On a rainy night in his new car, high in the mountains, near our village, he put his police revolver to his head and blasted his life away.  When I heard the news I felt a physical ache within. His ex-girlfriend went on to marry three other men in the years ahead, breaking more hearts no doubt in the process. I wished he had been able to know she wasn't worth it. Not worth one second of the life that should've been his. Too many young men seem to take their own lives in despair and betrayal. Alone in the dark their anger turns inwards with no other bond to hold them in this world.

Dennis had really tried. He'd come through so much in his short life. None of us had ever really understood him. I still hear his cry from the cupboard and can only pledge to be more kind to the souls around me. Some journeys are so tough you can't imagine or know how bereft of love and kindness such lives can be.  If we did, I hope we’d all be different to each other.