blah, blah, blah.....

I was complaining bitterly about my chronic sleeplessness on my 60^th birthday this year. I talked of my worries to my older brothers over the Christmas table groaning with goodies. They both confessed to having poor sleep themselves and blamed it on being over 60. “It’s just one of those things”, one said, “that comes with age like a dodgy ankle, bigger stomach, poor eyesight, a stiff back or arthritic thumbs”.  I was shocked. A lifetime of being a sound sleeper was no preparation for these long dark nights of ceiling inspection. It was my brothers’ knowing resignation that frightened me most. I thought insomnia was either in your genes or not.

My father had suffered his entire life from insomnia so I had naïvely thought that either you were born a poor sleeper or are one of the lucky ones like me. To find after six decades you could turn vampire like into a non-sleeper was a total betrayal of who I thought I was.

So, I have complained long and hard through this new way of living to all who have the patience to listen. Some proffer herbal drinks or bedtime routines as possible cures. Late night walks, banishing the laptop or avoiding taxing conversations all have been suggested and eagerly embraced by this pathetic night fugitive.

It was the next day weariness that wore me down. I felt as if I was operating on a half a tank and found simple tasks required stupendous effort. Typical sleep deprived mistakes included writing an entire set of appointments and meetings on the wrong week of my diary. That was followed by a confusing number of missed calls from furious people and knocking on my door by students while I was out doing anything other than what I was supposed to be doing.  “Sorry, sorry” became my new mantra that week.

That was also the week I started talking to myself on public transport. People began to give me odd looks as I gave myself a good stern dressing down for missing another important meeting. It’s fortunate that nowadays, I can pretend I have a particularly modern, almost invisible, headset to my phone. I have become cunning and when I would notice the glances of perplexed onlookers, as I blabber, I place an index finger in my ear and pause as if hearing a response from someone, then nod knowledgeably.

Some dark days when I see others talking heatedly into their hands-free phones I wonder have they lost it too but are even better experts than me at hiding their mental state?

They use sleep deprivation as torture and I know why. After three weeks of continuous poor sleeping, I transmuted into a different entity. When people spoke to me all I heard was blah, blah, blah. But for some reason, I was able to read their minds with particular intensity. Their mouth would be going blah, blah but the tiny muscles around their mouth indicated their anger or sadness. Not hearing their actual words, their body language seemed to shout more clearly. A particular nose touch indicating a lie, a quick pursing of the lips, dislike. I remember standing in front of one chap at a party hearing his braying blah, blah but seeing his eyes furtively dart to a young woman seated on the sofa nearby. His evident longing for her was louder than his braying.

After the fourth week of continuous disturbed sleep, a new dangerous state emerged. Now, I no longer heard or saw people. Acquaintances would accost me in the supermarket and I would examine them as if they were trying to sell me something on the phone. My response invariably would be “no thanks, no thanks” before I shuffled off politely.

Sleep deprivation finally ends in madness I can tell! Another week and I would begin rampaging through the shop shopping centre overturning goods while trying to undress myself in public. One more month of this and I would be a drooling, twitching, incontinent.

Thankfully and I do mean thankfully last night I had a wondrous night’s sleep. As a result, I have leapfrogged back to almost normality. I can keep appointments, hear what others say and have conversations again. I’m still scolding myself in public but the tone has become much more sympathetic like a firm mentor giving constructive criticism and I can actually almost pass for normal once more.  Miracles do happen!

Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world

I have not written anything in weeks, perhaps months. Sometimes my lack of creativity is a result of anxiety, stress or upset. I usually find my mental state is in direct proportion to my creative output. But actually, this past period, Christmas and the New Year, has been a wonderful time with family and friends in Northern Ireland.

2018 was not a great year, I have to say. I lost far too many family and friends. I remember loved ones living or dead each morning and night. I write their initials down as they are recalled. The list is burnt into my memory with repetition but this year suddenly a host of new initials have been added.

I recall what my dad used to say in his 80s, “I have more loved ones in the next world than here, in this one”. It was a strange sensation, he said, to dream and be surrounded by those who have loved you and awake to find them gone. What is the mystery of this dream world where emotions run riot and our subconscious thoughts, past experiences and even future seem to flow together?

Because of such precious time over the festive period with loved ones I came back to Malta buoyed up with injections of energy and love. Wonderful conversations have worked their magic. Laughter quieted down the worries of this world. Instead of longing for all the things I don’t have there is a powerful sense of gratitude for all that I have been given.

Then, in the New Year this second week, news arrives of yet another loss. A dear friend who I visited only a week ago has died. When I called he had been in bed at home and was bone tired. When roused he lifted his head and opened his eyes seeming to recognise me. Then, he lay back into a deep restful slumber. Suddenly far, far away in a dream world and a better one. He was a Buddhist for much of his life and had meditated for an hour each day. It made him ever centred and calm.            

People brought him their problems because of that still centre. He was an excellent counsellor. Not one of the ‘new age’ bunch that prattle on “tell me more” without any valuable input of their own. Fear of litigation has created a new species of counsellor who say nothing for fear of doing harm. Given their lack of real experience and sometimes questionable motives it is perhaps not wrong for this to be their aspiration!

But real counsellors like him listened intently and then spoke to the issues raised. He never claimed the guru status or assumed he knew all the answers. The views he expressed were not channelled from a mystic source. Instead, they came from years of experience in healthcare, management and life. They were often insightful, at times unexpected, but always useful. The fact that his words never came from a desire for power or control but instead from a deep understanding and humility made them all the more welcome.

Utterance has the power to destroy or rejuvenate but real understanding can bring progress and healing. His honesty and humility allowed real consultation to take place and important truths to emerge.

For all those we have lost I find myself mourning their absence but also celebrating their loving presence in my memory banks and heart.  Today, when another dear friend’s funeral takes place in N. Ireland I am reminded of these heart-wrenching lines by a Pulitzer poetry prize winner.

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”

Edna St. Vincent Millay

An unexpected cure for all ills

Michael Abateo had been trying to open the door of the old Palazzo in Valetta. In the summer the central section of the door expanded with heat and jammed like a silent, sullen adolescent. Despite Michael’s pushing and shoving over the ornate gate, the ancient door showed no response. Not until Michael had hurt his shoulder and begun to curse at the wretched door did it suddenly open.  On a later visit, Michael felt that it was his cursing more than his shoulder charging that brought the ‘Open Sesame’ results.  So, Michael had taken to berating the door, before even trying to physically open it. So loud and foul had been his salutations early one morning that a middle-aged Maltese woman from three stories up lent out of her window and shouted, “Taghzaq fl-ilma” (literal translation - you’re ploughing water!). 

Michael had felt like an old fool. A foul-mouthed old fool. Eventually, his sanding of the wooden door had made opening the hugely heavy front door a childlike task. Now Michael gloated at how easy his life had become. He was reminded of a story his grandfather had once told him about an old Maltese priest in one of the villages. 

A husband had complained to the priest bitterly of his nagging wife and the wily priest had said,

“I could solve your problem but since you’d never obey my instructions the situation is hopeless.”

 A few more weeks of misery past and in desperation the husband returned cap in hand begging for help. The priest said,

“No, I know you will never take my advice, so there really is no hope!”

Another miserable week of the husband’s life passed and then he begged the priest,

“I will, I’ll do anything you say if it solves this problem with my wife”.

The old priest looked thoughtful and asked,

“Do you promise you’ll take my advice and do exactly what I say for as long as I say?”

For a moment, the husband hesitated thinking about what dire instructions could lie head but his misery and desperation drove him on.

“I will, I’ll do exactly as you say for as long as you say if it solves the problem of this awful woman.”

The priest’s instructions were shocking and concise. The husband blinked incredulously. He could not believe it and began to splutter in rage. But the priest merely held up his hand in a gesture of dismissal and said

“You promised! Surely you are a man of your word. I never said it would be easy.”

Reluctantly the husband agreed and followed the bizarre instructions the priest had given him. For one week he was to move a goat into his house. Then, he should return to see the priest. The husband duly obeyed and at the end of the week returned, dishevelled bristling with anger to the priest’s house.

“Everything is worse than you can possibly imagine.” He cried,

“My wife is crazy with rage at having this goat in our home. The whole place stinks and it eats everything it can find. Even my neighbours are not speaking to me. None of us has slept all week. I never thought my life could get worse but your advice has made my home a living hell!”

The old priest smiled contentedly,

“I never said it would be easy, I just said it would solve your problem.”

The husband held his head in his hands in despair and then shouted,

“What on earth do you mean my life has got worse, not better, you’ve solved nothing!"

The priest answered ominously,

“You haven’t completed my instructions”.

By now the husband was both furious and fearful. What other disastrous action would this old fool of a priest subject his family to now? He totally regretted ever coming to the charlatan but he also knew he’d given his word to obey, so he asked with real dread,

“What do I have to do now?”

The priest replied that the goat should be removed from the house immediately and in a week’s time, the husband was to return once more to the priest. Relieved beyond measure that no more animals or other bizarre practices were insisted upon the husband raced home to evict his unwelcome guest. A week later the husband returned to the priest looking clean and well rested. He had a rosy glow to his cheeks and his face was beaming.

“Ah father, the house is clean again, my wife and I have been able to sleep and enjoy our food. My neighbours have been round to see the new furnishings in the house. The blasted goat ate even the edges of the sofa and the curtains. As for the carpets we had to replace them all. There is no getting goat shit out of carpet, father!  The house smells fine at last and my wife has worked her fingers to the bone to transform the place. She’s begun singing again and she is no longer mad at me but she thinks you are quite crazy!”

The priest smiled and replied,

“Oh indeed? But sure, isn’t your problem solved as I said it would be”.

The husband blustered and complained a little and then had to admit that, for now, his home was indeed a happy place. The old priest hastened to reassure him,

“Now don’t you worry about your little problem ever again. Sure, now we know the solution I can always take the remedy to your door myself if it's needed.”

As Michael turned the key in the door and it opened easily he laughed at the fundamental truths of the old tale. A test, a challenge, a problem removed brought strange joy to the heart and a deep sense of gratitude. That old priest had known a thing or two about life.