‘Love’? What’s that then?

Well, to start with it’s a strange word. It’s like ‘God’ – in the sense that it’s used an awful lot, abused an awful lot and misunderstood just as often. When I  was a kid it simply confused me. Very occasionally I’d be taken to the cinema, either just by my mother or occasionally with my step-father as well. And in most of the films we went to see, at some point, a man and a woman, close together on the screen, would look into each other’s eyes, kiss each other on the lips in a rather wooden, self-conscious way – this is a long time ago, remember – and one of them would then say, rather breathily to the other, “I love you,” and the other would respond with, “I love you too.” They would then very likely hug each other. The whole exchange seemed to do them good – it always made the pair of them just a little more at ease and smiley.

“I love you” – but what do the words actually mean? It wasn’t much use asking either of my parents – my mother would have spluttered, cleared her throat and told me not to bother with such things because, “You’re not old enough.” And my step-father, always happy to re-assert his macho male credentials when attempting to cover his embarrassment, was more likely to have come back with some harmless but slightly off-colour joke he’d heard when he was in the Navy than with a serious attempt to enlighten me. So I had to try and work it out for myself.

You see, there were things that I too loved – like my dog, Rex, my best friend in the whole world. And I loved those infrequent occasions when Aunt Daisy would pick us up in her car and take us for the weekend to her real Romany-type caravan in the country. Then there were those exquisite sticky, brown toffees you used to be able to buy, each individually wrapped – I loved them to pieces. But how could  the words spoken on the screen, as the man and woman gaze into each other’s eyes relate in any way to things which were the objects of my love? 

A few years later, when I was about ten, I would go occasionally to stay on a farm run by friends of my mother. They had a daughter – Joan – a couple of years older than me. One evening, she and I were sitting on the sofa in her room – they had money and a big house  – watching TV. Quite suddenly, I felt her shuffle right up beside me. I turned to her. She looked me straight in the eyes and said, stumbling and tentative, but in an appropriately husky tone, “I love you.” I panicked. Being older than me, she knew things I didn’t. What did she mean? What did she want? It wasn’t a toffee. 

Even as an adult, those words continued to puzzle and bother me. I had a fair number of girl friends. But however close we became, I could never find it in myself to look any of them in the eyes and say to them, “I love you.” I still hadn’t worked out what the words really meant – and to say to another human being in such intimate circumstances something that you either don’t understand or don’t mean – or both – felt wrong in some fundamental way.  

‘Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds’ – wrote Shakespeare – surely one of the western world’s greatest philosophers. I’d read those words many times at school and at university, and although I could sense their touch on something deep within me, their full import eluded me. It wasn’t until I came across them again some years later that the light, quite suddenly, came on –  ‘An ever fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken.’ In other words, love – real love – is a thing beyond affection and beyond need. And further, some intuition was telling me that it was also beyond the personal.

When you see, on TV news, children crying with often dreadful wounds inflicted in yet another of the world’s pointless military conflicts, tears spring to the eyes along with a terrible sense of helplessness; and I remember reading that when passengers jumped, at a height of around 100 metres, from the German airship ‘Hindenburg’  when it caught fire on arrival in the US in 1937, people on the ground, quite unable to help them in any way, just watched, crying. 

As a spectator of such horrors, you have no familiarity with the actual person, the individuality of any of the victims. But something deep inside you responds to that same something deep inside each of them; you experience their horror and cry on their behalf; for you and they share the binding connection every one of us shares with every other one, regardless of race, colour or creed – a kinship, a Oneness. We are like beads, all of us strung on the very same necklace. When one hurts, we all hurt; hurt another, you hurt yourself. And that Oneness is not, nor can it be, an object of knowledge, for it is beyond both mind and intellect. It’s ‘love’. It’s not individually personal nor has it any needs. But it’s there, deep inside every one of us, linking us all together. ‘Love alters not with time’s brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

And as the old song says –

"Be sure it's true when you say I love you,
It's a sin to tell a lie.
Millions of hearts have been broken
Just because these words were spoken."

Posted in Growing up without a father, has life a point?, Holidays, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Nature, Poetry, self-help books, spirituality, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

In the Face of the Unknowable

The highest that man can attain is Wonder…. (Goethe)

Wonder at the evening’s slow declining sun.
Wonder at the pounding of storm-tossed seas.
Wonder at the start your heart makes on seeing yourself in another.
Wonder at the lives of the creatures with whom you share this planet.

Then wonder – that the wonder of these things is a mirror to the innermost you.

Posted in Birds/birdsong, boys without fathers, has life a point?, human intellect, Human intolerance, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Nature, spirituality, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

Truth – the Universal Nuisance. (Part II)

I crossed the landing. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. What on earth was she doing? What sort of a state was she in? What was I about to see? And more than anything – why? why? why?

But before I go any further, I should say something about my mother. She was a fearful soul. Whether or not she had always been so I don’t know, but I suspect she had. Her early years and upbringing in a poor family in a very poor part of Sheffield in the 1920’s had been pretty tough. She was the youngest of six. And if the fact that facially and by temperament she resembled none of the other five was anything to go by, then their father was almost certainly not her father. But then, her mother – the  grandmother downstairs who ate her cake while looking the other way – was known to have been, in her day, a touch on what you might call the promiscuous side – her marriage notwithstanding. So my mother, like me her only son was, by birth, almost certainly illegitimate.

I’m sure that sort of thing was no more – or no less – common in those days than it is today. But there has been, since then, a quantum shift in the manner in which it is regarded. In those days, publicly, it was just not acknowledged, and if spoken about at all was done so in whispers behind closed doors. The truth was just too shocking. And I think that sort of attitude in society, an attitude which extended beyond matters sexual, was perhaps one of the prime sources of my mother’s deeply entrenched fear – in common with many, many others of her generation – of uncomfortable truth. 

So I approached the bedroom door. And very gently pushed it open. But I couldn’t see her – where was she?? Then there was her face – white and taut – just visible above the covers of the bed which she’d drawn right up to her chin. Her eyes stared wide at me. I sat down slowly, uncertainly, on the edge of the bed. She looked at me. I was, to say the least, a bit lost. “Why,” I managed eventually to ask her, “did you not tell me all that? Why?”

Her barely audible answer was, “I didn’t think you’d want me any more.”

There are so many levels of sadness in those words that it’s painful even now to relate them. I can only wonder at the psychological pain which she had for so long silently and voluntarily endured, as it lay in wait for that moment to come – a moment that would not be in her gift – when she would be, as she saw it, called to account. But that  moment had arrived; it was Now, in this room. And contrary to confirming and inflicting the pain she had, for all those years, anticipated, it had almost instantly dissolved it; the truth had set her free. 


I said my mother had endured her seventeen years of pain – ‘voluntarily’ – but it was hardly so. She was just another child victim of and struggler beneath a yoke I believe far too many people still have to cope with – that of ‘respectability’. 

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Truth – the Universal Nuisance. (Part I)

I was an only child, born into an ordinary working class family and brought up in my early years in the Midlands of the UK. The year I entered my teens we moved to a council house in a small town just to the west of London. My mother was what was called in those days a ‘housewife’, my step father worked in a local factory as a ‘time and motion study’ man. My grandmother, in her early eighties – my mother’s mother – lived with us. I attended a local grammar school.

Every weekday evening at six o’clock, more or less on the dot, the four of us would assemble round the table in the kitchen for ‘tea’ – bread and jam, home-made cake, cups of tea – and tinned peaches if you were lucky.

One of those evenings, when I was about seventeen, only a few minutes after we’d all sat down, my mother looked up from her food – a very strange expression on her face – and announced that she suddenly felt very tired and would go to bed. So saying, she pushed her chair back, stood up and left the room.

What?? What was that about? I looked across the table at my step-father. He looked back at me. I turned to my grandmother who was concentrating on her cake and looking the other way. The knife my step father had been using to spread butter on his bread, he lay slowly down on his plate.

What on earth?

He looked up at me. His face was taut. He cleared his throat. “We have,” he said, “something to tell you.”

What – in God’s name, was happening? With my grandmother avoiding my eyes, my step father looking like war had broken out and my mother now upstairs in her bed at tea-time – it felt like I’d drifted into a Ionesco play.

He started off. “As you know,” he said, “for you to be able to go to France in the summer, you have to have a passport. And to get one of those, we had to submit your full birth certificate. We didn’t have one, so we had to apply for one. It arrived in the post this morning.”

I waited.

“A full birth certificate,” he went on, “shows all the details not just of you, but of both your parents as well.”

I knew my parents had been divorced when I was very young. I could remember my father only vaguely. But what else was to come?

“Your mother was not married to your father. You were born – ” – and he looked across the table like he was about to pass me a hand-grenade – “ – out of wedlock. As they call it.”

I considered that. And although I had the feeling information like that should be having some profound effect on me, it wasn’t. It really didn’t concern me. “So that means then,” I said, “that I’m illegitimate.”

My step father swallowed the shock of the actual word, then nodded gravely.

I failed to see the problem. I remember saying to him, quite matter-of-factly, “I’m still me though, and I’m still here.”

But he hadn’t finished. “However – even though she wasn’t married to your father – she was married to someone else.”

Ah. That hit home. Who the hell?

“And on top of that,” he went on, “your surname is not ‘Grant’. It’s ‘Slater’. It says on this birth certificate simply that you are – ‘Jeffrey Slater, commonly known as ‘Grant’.”

That set me back a bit. Being told that my surname – mine since birth and part-indicator of who I was – wasn’t mine at all because my real surname was that of some unknown man to whom my mother had once been married, was rather like discovering some invader with me inside my own skin.

My step father’s face took on a serious, older-man expression.  ‘Life’s tough, son. I’ve been around the block.’

Once I’d gathered my wits back together however, despite the initial shock, I still felt as I’d felt before. And I said again, “Despite all that, I’m still here. I’m still ‘me’. And I think ‘Slater’s’  a pretty dull name compared with ‘Grant’.”

I fear I’d punctured my step father’s balloon. He’d been fairly sure, I think, that the atmosphere of portent he’d set up would somehow have impressed me with his own man-of-the-worldliness. But as in most things, sadly, he and I were in different hemispheres and that had had little effect. Nor had the revelations about my illegitimacy or even my surname in the end, because if I were ‘commonly known as Grant’ – then that was still, for all practical purposes, my surname. In fact, the only thing that affected me to any degree was the slightly uneasy sense I got that my very early life sounded like it may have been spent in some rather troubled circumstances. But I couldn’t see that even that changed anything about me or how I thought of myself as I sat there at that table that evening.

My step father was stumped and had nothing more to say. So he did the next best thing and just pointed a finger in the general direction of ‘upstairs’ and said, “I think you’d better go and see your mother.”

My mother, it turns out, had made for herself, seventeen years earlier, a horrible bed of nails on which she’d had no option but to lay ever since. ‘Why, why,’ I intended asking her as I went up the stairs, ‘didn’t you tell me those things a long time ago?’

To be continued…..

Posted in boys without fathers, Growing up without a father, human conflict, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Uncategorized | 13 Comments

Thread of Life

A short walk from where I live, there is an attractive area of green, dotted with low trees, that lies between a road and a row of quite smart modernish houses. I was crossing that green the other day when I saw a woman standing some distance from me outside one of the houses. She was quite short, grey haired and a little frail, perhaps in her 60’s. She caught sight of me and looked at me with that expression on her face like she wanted to say something but wasn’t quite sure if, for whatever reason, she should. Clasped between both her hands, were what looked like two large, unlabelled plastic bottles of clear water. As I drew closer to her, she plucked up her courage. “‘Scuse me,” she called out, “I wonder if you could do something for me.”

There was about her, something to which I immediately responded. “Sure,” I replied. “I’ll try.” It was an instant connection – one of those connections that lights up the moment, and is due not so much to anything about the two of you as individuals as to that sudden, felt awareness in both of a common thread; the thread that runs through and unites each and every one of us, heedless of age, gender, nationality, religion or no religion, culture, race, colour – whatever.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, and with some difficulty, held up the two bottles of water. “Could you please unscrew the caps on these for me – they’re so tight I can’t manage it.” And she smiled. “If I can’t get them off – I can’t do my ironing.”

I don’t know what I’d expected, but it wasn’t that. I was nonplussed – what had ironing to do with – ? – ah, a distant memory flicked through my mind of something called ‘distilled water’. I remember using it back in the days before steam irons, with which I used to dampen shirts etc. before ironing them. Maybe she still irons like that or even puts it in her steam iron. Either way – I assumed that’s what was in the bottles and took them from her. They were quite big and heavy – and the caps were not easy to get off, though I managed it and handed the bottles back to her. “You’d think, wouldn’t you,” I said, “that whoever provides these would make sure they were at least relatively easy to remove?”

“I know,” she replied, “you would, wouldn’t you? But they’re often like that.” Then with laughter in her eyes, she said, “And then I have to try and find a nice man to unscrew them for me!” She inclined her head just a little and gave me an affectionately coquettish look. “So you’ve helped a damsel in distress! Thank you so much.” With which she smiled again, turned away and walked back towards her house, happily clutching her now openable bottles of ironing water.

I continued on towards the road. It had been one of those brief, wonderful, out of the blue, spontaneous exchanges which, whenever they’ve happened to me, have made my day. If there is ever any doubt that all of us are one, that doubt is, in those moments, laid to rest.

Posted in boys without fathers, has life a point?, Life, love and living, London, Nature, Uncategorized | 9 Comments

A Walk in the Park. Not.

The last time I posted on this blog was about four months ago, in early June – a little piece about life being rather like a ball of string. I left it a bit open-ended, with the intention of continuing it in a week or two’s time – early July probably.

But it wasn’t to be. Something got in the way -I think it might have been life.

W and I decided – it was a Friday afternoon – to go for an amble, face masks suitably fitted, around the little park. She, due to her Parkinson’s, would be on her mobility scooter, and I would walk by her side. The weather was intermittently sunny, blustery and with every now and then a really sharp, squally shower. So we dressed for that and off we went.

It was very nice, bracing. Not many people in the park. It was not everybody’s idea of walking weather – or for playing with small children in the playground. W however was very wary of the few people there were, especially those not wearing masks. And one of those latter – a man – was coming up behind us along the path. In order to let him pass on the right, I told W of his approach and then dropped back behind the scooter. I noticed its rear wheels moving to the left as she steered that way in order to give him plenty of room. But as they kept drifting further to the left it became clear she was giving him more room than he needed. Till the wheels actually started to leave the path and go up onto the grass – not a good place to take that sort of scooter. I remember thinking, ‘I wish she wouldn’t do that.’

The man passed me on the right. I glanced at him, and as I did so I heard behind me a crash, then a heart-sinking thump. I spun round to see the scooter over on its side, its heavy battery a metre or so away, and W flat on her back, where she’d been thrown, her face contorted with pain and shock.

The following fifteen minutes or so are a bit of a blur. Wondering if this really was happening, I phoned for an ambulance. Then between us, W and I managed, despite her  pain, to sit her upright. I then sat on the ground, with my  back to hers to support her. A squall chose that very moment to blow up, with tearing wind and lashing rain – along with an icy drop in temperature.

Almost every one of the few people that were out walking that day stopped in the rain and asked us if they could help. They were wonderful. At times like that, kindness, which resides somewhere in the soul of every one of us, is inspirational. One woman gave us an umbrella each! Another went to her home around the corner and hurried back with blankets and a bottle of water. Another went home and brought more blankets including a thermal one.

The rest is probably rather obvious. The ambulance turned up and parked by the nearest gate. The paramedics – a woman and two men, were brilliant. W had landed right on her hip and either the femur had ‘popped’ as I heard the woman paramedic muse to one of the men, or it was broken. W was given gas and air. Then wheeled away to the ambulance where she was given morphine, made as comfortable as possible and driven off to hospital. It was coronavirus time so I couldn’t go with her. I heaved the battery back onto its connector on the scooter, climbed aboard and drove it back to the flat.

The head of the femur was broken. W had to have a half-hip replacement which was performed two days later. She was in hospital for two and a half weeks. She was decanted from the returning ambulance in a wheelchair. We then entered the era of care worker and physio visits – four per day at first which, I must record, turned out to be first class – along with pain-killers, medical appliances in bedroom, bathroom and sitting room – a  world neither of us had ever before inhabited. Not what you expect or want on top of lockdown.

But you cope. It’s surprising what you can adapt to once you’ve accepted that this is the way it is. We pretty soon established a routine and began to settle down into a different way of living for however long it was going to take. W started to take part in various  Zoom sessions on the internet – singing in choirs, Quaker Meetings, even yoga! – or a very modified version of it, and then only some weeks after the accident. I eventually got  back to my daily three hours on my now three quarters completed second novel. But the days were long, full to overflowing, and for a few weeks, in addition to writing, I was more or less a carer. I couldn’t squeeze in a blog. Till now.

W has done brilliantly with all the exercises she was given to do and is now walking again, albeit only around this small flat and mostly very slowly. And she’s also able to take on one or two smaller household chores. So this morning, shortly after I awoke, the word ‘blog’ came swimming up at me out of the mists of night.

OK. So – this ball of string then……….

Posted in has life a point?, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Nature, spirituality, surgery, Uncategorized | 15 Comments

Life is a Ball of String

One of the oddest things about us human beings is that we are a puzzle to our own selves.

We don’t know who we are. We’ve split the atom; we’ve been to the moon; one of us wrote Beethoven’s Fifth; another wrote Hamlet; another painted the Mona Lisa. We are capable of creating the most extraordinary beauty; we are capable of selfless compassion and of the most appalling brutality. We can create things of exquisite beauty and design weapons with mindless destructive power.  Even so, we don’t know who we are. Or where we come from. Or where we go. We don’t know what the point is. Or even if there is a point. Who on earth are we?

The only life I, or any of us, can ever really know anything about – like, absolutely know it – is my own. And that’s because I’m the only one who lives it – nobody else does. Other lives I see only from the outside – I hear about them, see a film about them, read about them or observe them as they take place. But the only first hand life there is for me – and it’s the same for every single individual – is this one – the one each one of us is living, right now at this moment. And we don’t just ‘live’ it – we are it; this life is who we are; this, for each of us – is ‘life’.

Which is why it seems a bit odd to me that so often, in order to try and find out a little more about this thing we call ‘life’, we look in places where it is not – places outside our own selves; as though the real essence, the seed, the crock of gold lies ‘out there’ somewhere. That’s not to say there aren’t things out there – books, TED Talks, churches, gurus, support groups – that can help in pointing us in the right direction. But something that helps you find what you’re seeking, cannot be, at the same time, that which you seek. So where, I wonder, did we get so pervasive an idea?

If we were tying up a parcel, and the ball of string we were using fell to the floor, rolled under the sideboard and ravelled itself up into a great tangle, in order to untangle it and finish wrapping our parcel, we wouldn’t go out and buy a book on balls of string or look them up on Google……

  ……we’d take time to investigate the tangle. 



Posted in has life a point?, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Nature, self-help books, spirituality, Uncategorized | 6 Comments

But what can I do?

There is at this time – not surprisingly – in the blogosphere, in the newspapers, the TV and radio news, a whole lot of talk about fear on the one hand, and on the other – hope.


The hope is that out of this pandemic there may spring, among us – the peoples of the world and our leaders – a new spirit of genuine international understanding and cooperation. It can hardly be a matter of opinion that such a thing is badly needed. We – i.e. humankind –  seem still to be in an almost infantile phase of our development where the few things that separate us are seen as more important than the myriads that unite us. Out of which thinking – or lack of it – spring wars and all kinds of conflict.

A passing intergalactic being, intelligent and sensitive, looking down at us from above, would assume that the loss through wars in the last century alone of well over 50,000,000 – that’s fifty million people – men, women and children – must have brought us finally to our senses. But they’d be wrong. The levels of deprivation and inequality, the depths of sheer physical and emotional barbarity that we are now seeing, on a day to day basis, is as awful as it’s ever been throughout our history.

One of the reasons, I’m sure, for that – perhaps the main one – is that so many of us make the assumption that it’s up to others. “What,” we ask ourselves, “can I – fearful little me – what could I possibly do to bring about change of that magnitude?” It would surely need an army of Joan of Arcs, Nelson Mandelas, Jesus Christs, Mahatma Ghandis, et al. So – as we know that’s never going to happen – we may as well have another drink and turn on the telly. Maybe write a letter to The Guardian in the morning.

But the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. There is no world outside  you; the world you perceive and inhabit is a projection of the inner you. That world will change only when you change. For change can happen only from the centre outwards – not the other way about. Every one of history’s ‘revolution to end all revolutions’ sowed the seeds of the next.


Changing our own individual selves is no joy ride. If you really are going to delve down inside your innermost self in order to adjust the things you find there that are out of adjustment – you’re going to come across a lot of stuff you’d perhaps prefer not to have to confront. And it’ll probably take you the rest of your life.

That’s our problem. It’s not easy. Nowhere near as easy as bemoaning the situation. And we’ve all done that; we all do it. But until each of us can find the courage and the commitment to attend to the root problem, the only change that is sure to come about is the one from bad to worse. 


Posted in Governments, has life a point?, human conflict, human intellect, Human intolerance, Life, love and living, mindfulness, Nature, spirituality, Uncategorized | 15 Comments

A seed of hope?

Some months ago, for a blog which I never published, I wrote the following –

“We’re in a mess, aren’t we? An even bigger mess than the one we were in a year or two ago. And we don’t seem to have any effective mechanism for dealing with it. Australia burns, the Middle East is exploding again; minute particles of plastic are in the stomachs of ocean fishes and in the lungs of our children; big cities, worldwide, are dangerously, murderously polluted – and as the problems multiply, our leaders (‘leaders’ ??) have the odd, high-level conference at which they tinker and sign a piece of paper. Little changes. It doesn’t take a soothsayer to predict that one day, and perhaps quite soon, our appointment with reality will arrive.”

That was three months ago – when we were in the waiting room; but now we’re in the consulting room looking reality in the eye. And what we see is giving us trouble. It’s not helped by the twin facts – a) that directly or indirectly, we have only ourselves to blame and b) that its approach was predicted by people whose advice was studiously ignored over many years by a number of our elected administrations. Let’s hope we and they can manage a more thoughtful, responsible approach to climate change – because lockdown’s not going to get us out of that one.


But now we’re into this situation, how do we cope – what are we going to do about it? Well – the first thing we’ve got to do is – live with it; live with something we don’t want to be living with; and live in ways in which we’d much prefer not to be living. It’s not what we’ve been brought up to expect in this neck of the globe. But that’s all we can do – live with it. And the sad fact is that for a lot of people, that’s grim – perhaps horribly so. It strains relationships with partners, with children, with all those around; it puts to the test our ability to handle our own selves – our  frustration, our anger – our fear, even. Fear of what? What is there to be afraid of? Plenty – read the newspapers, listen to the updates and rumours on TV and radio – there is only one story in town. And we, along with everybody else, have no idea when things are going to change – when life’s going to go back to the comfortable world we once knew – which actually wasn’t so comfortable a lot of the time really – in fact it was often bloody hard going, frustrating and worrying. But it was familiar. We knew our way around in it. For Chrissake, it was normal! But this!  Will things ever go back to how they were? There are rumours they might not. And while we wait to find out, all we can do – is – live with it.

Live with what though? What actually is it that we have to live with? Well – this may sound ridiculously obvious but at the same time, harsh – we have to live with what is – like it or not. There’s no point trying to make out we can live with what isn’t – in other words, with what we would prefer. In fact, even in that ‘normal’ world that now seems like in another lifetime – it was precisely the same. We may have deceived ourselves from time to time into thinking and behaving as though things were not really as they were – but they were, and any attempt to avoid the fact puts you on borrowed time till the account comes in to be rendered – often in embarrassment, tears, anger, let-down, disappointment – whatever.

So the situation we’re in at the moment is no different in its essence from all the situations we’ve been in every other moment of our lives – we are where we are, and what is – just is. It’s pointless comparing now with ‘back then’, or with what we might like ‘now’ to be. What we can’t change we have either to find some accommodation with, or give ourselves and everyone around us a hard time. William Shakespeare, who was surely one of the most perceptive and profound of all philosophers, wrote, “There is neither good nor bad but thinking makes it so.” In other words, all events and all occurrences are, without exception, neutral – it’s only the individual perspective we bring to them that accords them a moral context. The runner who has just won the marathon for which he or she has been training for months, is over the moon; the runner who came second and who had just as much hanging on winning and coming first is, at the same time, in despair. Even the appalling attack on the Twin Towers in 2001 had its jubilant admirers.

There’s an old, old story I’m sure virtually everybody has heard. I quote here Wikipedia’s very nicely expressed version. “When an Eastern sage was desired by his sultan to inscribe on a ring the sentiment which, amidst the perpetual change of human affairs, was most descriptive of their real tendency, he engraved on it the words : — ‘And this, too, shall pass.’”


And if, in the meantime, we can find it in ourselves to fully accept the present as part of our lives now – then we may also find within both it and ourselves the peace and the clarity to see that this situation – like every other in life – has a reverse side. Turn it over and we may just discover there the seeds of hope – for change and renewal. And God knows, if we’ve ever needed them, we need them now.





Posted in Governments, has life a point?, human conflict, Human intolerance, Life, love and living, mindfulness, spirituality, Uncategorized | 4 Comments

The Final Reckoning?

In the middle of the fourteenth century, the continent of Europe was ravaged by the Black Death – bubonic plague. It decimated a terrified population, killing perhaps one third of them, maybe more. Where it had come from, what was causing it and how to deal with it were not things fourteenth century man had any means of figuring out. As is common in such situations, scapegoats were found, two of the most widespread and despicable being the alleged poisoning of wells – i.e. water supplies – by lepers and by Jews. But perhaps the most common supposition was that God himself had sent it as a punishment for the sins of mankind. Even his agents in the world of men, the clergy, were not immune.


And today, there are many people regarding the relentless advance of the coronavirus as punishment from God or some other ‘higher power’. Maybe they’re onto something – when you think about the present state of our world, it’s not difficult to start believing that plumbing the depths of mendacity, uncaring, and savagery that we currently are, there may come a divine reckoning – and could this be it?

But I think that’s too easy – it’s shifting the blame. The world we live in is within us – not the other way about; this world is a world of our own making. If it’s a punishment, it’s one we’ve brought on ourselves. We, as a species, have, for millennia, behaved so often in a self-centred, uncaring, cavalier, brutal way towards not only the earth we inhabit and to many native peoples, but even towards our own selves. So that we are now in a situation where we breathe poisoned air; we eat fish contaminated with plastic and fished from overheating, poisoned oceans; we eat and give to our children food sprayed with pesticides and laced with chemical additives; we are slowly but surely pushing to extinction a great number of wildlife and plant species, maybe even rendering the whole planet ultimately uninhabitable. We have stood by and watched grow up around us a society in which stress, anxiety, self-harm, drug use, depression, suicides, addictions of all sorts, along with other debilitating and even fatal conditions are on an ever upward curve. And to try and cure/ameliorate those things, we ingest medication – more chemicals – by the truckload. Who knows what heinous cocktails we are brewing and may already have brewed? If truth be known – no-one.

Technologically we’re very clever. But clever is not wise – and pursuing our present level of cleverness without commensurate wisdom is a recipe for disaster. As the old saying has it – splitting the atom was very clever; making a bomb from it was at best profoundly reckless, and at worst profoundly immoral. While patting ourselves on the back for being so technologically astute, we fiddle and play with a universe that we make little attempt to understand, love, cherish or work with rather than against, more often treating it as an exploitable resource. We have either to learn humility or have humility thrust upon us.


We are an integral part of this extraordinary universe and this extraordinary universe is an integral part of who we are. We and it are one. In poisoning it, we poison ourselves; we are in danger of becoming a virus against our own people.


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