Father’s Day and Love

I never seem able to celebrate Father’s Day in the same way as so many other people do each year. This is not because I never loved my father, it’s more because I didn’t like him or understand him for many years of our relationship. I have grown to love him more now that he is dead but that still does not give me permission to forget the negative things that lined our relationship. Before you get all up in arms about that statement let me tell you that I have forgiven him but I’ve not forgotten – there is a difference.

My dad was amazing. I know that even more now.

I have recently discovered his first post office savings bank account that he opened when he arrived in Britain. This small slim volume details more than how much and how regularly he saved his wages. It also tells a story of love and determination. My dad came from a humble country background in Jamaica where all he owned was a couple of goats and a donkey (as he would repeatedly tell us), but he was determined to make a difference for his family. He did.

My father never became a property tycoon, however he did buy his final house outright for cash twenty five years before he died. He came a long way in physical, social and economic terms from the time he swapped the beautiful, sunny island of Jamaica for the leafy, cool countryside of England.

I didn’t really understand him that much as I was growing up but through records of his past, that I’m finding now, and pieces of memory that I have stored – but never made any sense at the time – I am piecing together a more complete picture of a truly amazing man: my father – Michael Morgan.

I grieve, with love, for my loss and previous misunderstanding of him.

Nonsense!

In a world primarily focussed on binary opposites it is understood that the contradictory position of sense is nonsense.

Nonsense is meaningless gibberish (isn't it?) – whether communicated in words or signs. This leads to incoherence (doesn't it?). Just look at how Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland progress and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

There are times when all that once seemed sensible and logical no longer appears that way. It all becomes nonsense.

This is a great opportunity to use your imagination; to see things another way. It’s a risk, that’s true, but it’s one that is worth taking I think.

Imagination hold so many possibilities – ask any child at play, they’ll show you how. What at first seems like nonsense may highlight certain previously undiscovered ideas. I plan to embrace nonsense!

“I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, It's a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, And that enables you to laugh at life's realities.”

Theodore Seuss Geisel (Dr Seuss)

Sewer life

This could be my weekly ‘How dare you?!!’ piece.

Things people don’t understand they either destroy or hide from their view. By labelling someone or something as different and less than desirable it seems to make for the sanitised view of the world that they seek.

All fears are labelled grotesque and monstrous and war is declared with them. This could be outright murder and genocide or more subtle means of annihilation. You see, there are other means of destroying people, ideas and places as well. The ruling powers can either hide them away (metaphorically in the closet) or flush them away in a sewage-like system.

This is the way life is for many visible minorities that the ruling homogeneous groups want to achieve. You may be a Muslim in a predominantly Christian world, you may be homosexual in a mainly heterosexual world, you may be African in a mostly European world, whatever the difference that is abhorred the result will be the same: a systematic rite of ‘cleansing’.

If you take time to look at the sewage systems of most developed countries you will discover that it is the home for unwanted items of the everyday so-called civilised society. It is where things are dumped and remain ‘out of sight and out of mind’. Sewage systems are usually designed to function below the surface of the ‘usual’ everyday behaviour.  

When people want to condemn you and your ordinary life to the sewers I believe you have a right to stand up and shout, “How dare you?!!”

Futile love exercises

What is love?

Ahh! The age old question that no one can answer with certainty or proof. Love just ... is.

Who you love is not guaranteed. There is no certainty or any specific formula to follow and get guaranteed results. Love is a mystery.  It always has been and I think it always will be.

This is why I have decided that I have had enough of attending the class ‘Futile exercise in love 101’. 

These sessions were aimed at educating me in how to stop loving someone I already love and also to teach me to love someone I had no connection with. What was the point? You may well ask ...

I spent some time wondering what this ‘connection’ was and I could get no clear answer.

This is where my conundrum comes in: love is both a mystery and not a mystery.

It is a mystery when it first occurs.

Love is organic, natural and magical. It just happens ... or it doesn’t. There is no formula that can be reproduced; it is unique between two people.

Love is also a mystery when you are trying to love someone you don’t love – it doesn’t work. Try to make love happen and it’s a totally different matter. It’s like reversing the natural, yet still mysterious, process of growing love, it is nigh on impossible.

This emotion, feeling, experience of love is so wonderful when a single person experiences it but so much more life-enhancing and encompassing when two people have the same sense of connection to each other.

Mysterious and ... lovely.

But yet – no mystery when you are in it. Just a marvellous sense of beauty, well being and rightness.

Mysterious and ... lovely.

Blogging and psychology

My once private thoughts are transferred by my fingertips to my blog. I work stuff out as I write it. My internal observations are transformed into words that somehow manage to convey the jumbled up bits and bytes that pulsated through my head some time ago.

After all this time I still do it. Why?

Well, blogging is airing my psychological laundry in public.

I get a buzz from seeing the metaphorical shirt-tails blowing to and fro on the waves of the web. Whether it is a stormy southwesterly or a cold northern breeze, it feels satisfying to put my thoughts on virtual paper.

Sometimes there is confusion raging in my head and when I talk about it, and sometimes write about it, it gains its own form of clarity and cleanness of being.

I blog because it’s my self-prescribed therapy ... and it’s still working!

Listen again

How can I discussion about women’s rights versus business survival get me incandescent with rage? When one of the speakers compares slavery to a good business model, that’s how.

So I decided to write about it. I decided to write to the speaker as well. I obtained her email address and set about constructing my argument. This is when I began to listen again.

I could not download the programme so I painstakingly listened to it all over again, transcribing it as I went. And this is the conclusion I have reached: I was wrong. I had a listening error.

You see, I have spent hours analysing and listening to this 9 minute 6 second segment and I now realise that my initial reaction was not based on facts. I responded to what I thought I heard, not what was actually said.

After transcribing the entire thing and going over it numerous times I now believe Dr Hobbs is saying that business growth, albeit valuable and important, cannot be achieved at any cost. Business has to contribute to a stronger society because there are psychological and moral costs of business growth as well. I’m glad I was wrong.

Her only error, I feel, was to attribute the blame of the August riots to unhappy families when she said “The cost of having unhappy families can also literally mean physical damage to business ... We all suffer the consequences of a society with broken families in it.”

Her last sentence, however, is still true.

I guess that sometimes it does pay to listen again.

Questioning friendship

It is unusual that I baulk when someone refers to me as a friend. There have only been rare occasions that this has happen and they were mainly a long time ago when my partner used to introduce me as a ‘friend’ and I would – for social and political reasons, do the same. It always left a taste of bitterness.

So, imagine my surprise when earlier this week someone introduced me to other people as her ‘friend’ I immediately felt very uncomfortable with the term. This is not about denying intimacy; this is about making a presumption of closeness that does not exist. It made me uneasy.

I love people and look forward to making new friends, but I think this categorisation was a bit premature.

To me, friendship is about some commonality of view, interests, and is usually the result of spending some quality time together. As far as I was concerned none of these ‘requirements’ had been met.

This woman, who I had met in a business environment some time last year, had no right to refer to me as a friend, at least that’s what I felt and what I still think. Like I say, I found it an unexpected and unusual introduction that gave a false impression of our relationship.

It’s a bit like the Google + circles, some people are friends, some are acquaintances, some are in other categories that you really don’t want to announce publicly. I am always friendly, but to be referred to as a friend or to call someone a friend is a major step for me, one that I had not taken yet in this relationship. That’s why it threw me somewhat.

Maybe that statement will be the start of a real friendship, who knows. But right now all I feel is unsettled by the reference. How strange is that?

Friendships and relationships

Is there anything that can be described as an ‘ordinary relationship’? Maybe so, but I have begun to think that most relationships are extra-ordinary in nature.

This is because you start off with some kind of attraction, that phase is swiftly followed by an obsession that is often rooted in infatuation. After this comes the realisation that the person has weaknesses and may also have committed unpardonable deeds. Yet there is still an ultimate acknowledgement that this person has penetrated your soul. This is what makes relationships extraordinary to me.

People I meet and get to know become extremely important to me. They matter beyond normal comprehension. I am not obsessed by them, yet I remain eternally interested and concerned about them.

This is especially the case when something in me that is beyond thought or feeling finds a match within the person I have met. The connection is deeper than reason because it is automatic and mirrored. This is the everyday miracle of friendship that I am happy to never understand, yet I accept it with the utmost joy.

I love them just like I love me.

"When anybody says or does something that echoes in your heart, you should listen." MHM

Beliefs

Have you ever tried to un-believe something that you know is true? Is there any point in this attempt?

I don’t think so.

The only point in looking at a belief is if there is any doubt, if you don't really know if it is true. 

My thought process went along the following lines: do I really know that this is true? Are there any other things that might be better for me than this? How will I find out if this is the truth I’m supposed to believe if I don’t look at other options?

If something is true, especially if you know it to be true, then trying to make it otherwise is a perfect waste of time. Take, for example, a spiritual belief or the fact of love – to me they’re both the same type of belief.

You can look at it from any angle and pull it to bits by analysing it intensely and the result will still be the same, you just can’t get away from the fact that it is a fact for you. Well, that’s how it is for me anyway.

I’ve asked myself why I believe certain things, why I love certain people and the conclusion is the same: there is no other option for me. And, believe me, I have looked long and hard at various options.

It’s not like I’m trying to escape my spirituality or to get away from the love I know, it’s just that sometimes I do wonder if there is another way for me, another choice. So I had a look.

I have had long looks at different options and I’m pleased to say that I still believe ... in love (spiritual and emotional). And, it’s all good.

Have you ever tested the truth and the foundations of the things that you believe in?

Should you ever question love? I did. I had to, because I didn’t understand why I retained such deep affection for people and ideas when my logic was directing me to look at different options.

I believe in love and spirituality even more now than I did when I started questioning my beliefs. It really is ... all good. What I believe is all a part of who I am. That’s what I believe anyway ...

The Body Speaks

Have you ever notice how you react to different situations? Do you think about the literal reality of your response? There is a whole library full of expertise on body language, and it’s there for a good reason, to help us to remember the things we once knew innately.  

As babies we learn to read the expressions on our parents’ faces. We know if they are happy or sad, we know from the touch we receive if we are loved or not. Their bodies speak to our bodies and we learn.

My body has been relearning this beautiful language and it is amazing to know that you can instinctively tell if something is true even when you don’t understand it. This is because your body is affected by the truth.

The action becomes real in you.

It’s a bit like music.

Some people just don’t get jazz. They listen to it, but they don’t feel it. They say that they don’t ‘get’ it.

When you ‘get’ a sense of music it is more than audible, to me it is physical. I can remember hearing particular pieces of music and just feeling that they are parts of my existence. They are real to me; they become part of who I am because they express my reality.

Some psychologists say that in order to encounter music at different dimension of your personality (other than just hearing it), you have to have an openness to experience; it is then that the occurrence of hearing music becomes real to you. You also know it as real.

I am pleased to remain creative, curious and to let my imagination continue to be active as I listen as any body speaks. Then I will get it. I’ll know it’s real.

Turn the tables

Try this for size: (it can be either emotional or physical) If someone behaved towards me the way I do to them, how would it feel?

Would I feel happy or sad, attraction or repulsion?

Just try it for an hour, a day, a week: turn the tables.

Robert Sanderson's XII sermons, 1634:

"Whosoever thou art that dost another wrong, do but turn the tables: imagine thy neighbour were now playing thy game, and thou his."

Beliefs are fixed

Well that’s a contentious statement if ever there was one. If beliefs are fixed then as soon as we accept one set of beliefs we might as well close ourselves off from the rest of the world – I mean, from all those people who hold separate and different beliefs.

It is easy for me to scoff at the initial statement but I was wondering the other day about how I handle my beliefs in reality. I acquired a set of beliefs from my parents. Then I obtained some more from the school system and friends. After that I continued to layer beliefs into my life as I went through work and further educational environments. Alongside all these beliefs I was constantly having my initial beliefs reinforced by my family.

Then I realised that if I never questioned any set of beliefs I was not going to improve my understanding of the world, of my world and especially my place in the world.

So I questioned my beliefs. It is a healthy thing to do, trust me: that’s what I believe anyway ... but it’s up to you to question it and see for yourself.

Disguised blessing?

I am pretty much self-sufficient in most household tasks. I have a tool box and I know how to use it! The same can be said for most minor jobs on my car, like oil, water, tyre pressures and even changing a wheel – I can do them all when I really have to, so I do.

At home I have even taken to washing my windows myself. I know! Radical move. Well, it is a bit as for over a decade the window cleaner would rock up once a month and squirt, squeeze and shine the glass at the front of the house. Then, in keeping with the age old tradition, I would cross his palm with several gold coins.

A few years ago I decided to do them myself and it’s all worked out well. I still have clean windows and more gold in my pockets – all around success I think. Then, this week, I looked out of the window and saw Ian (my regular window cleaning professional) with a new fangled machine and high pressure nozzles and the like.

I watched him doing a neighbours window and suddenly I was overcome with the impulse to treat myself (my windows) with this “new, improved service”. Dashing out of the house I interrupted his work across the road. He was more than pleased to take business from me again and we quickly slipped back into that familiar routine of transferring gold coins between us, sharing a nervous smile and (me) retreating into the house while he earned his daily bread.

When Ian eventually got to my house I skulked in the furthest part of room, away from the windows, while I watched his magical high pressured hose do its job. Water on, soap on, water off. This routine was repeated through every pane of glass and I smiled as the rivulets formed at the top of the glass and then rushed like a downhill skier towards the ground.

The sun seemd to appear brighter behind the professionally cleaned glass. “Money well spent,” I thought as I moved closer to the now sparkling windows he had left behind.

Beautiful scene. But then ... (cue dramatic music) I noticed water inside the closed windows. And it wasn’t just condensation; this was a pool of dirty brown water. And it was dripping down the inside of the glass and forming a pool on my recently painted white windowsills. “This is not good,” I thought as I rushed forwards.

As I cleared it up I was tempted to go outside and ask Ian why he was using dirty recycled water to clean my windows but I didn’t. Instead I decided to focus on the situation in front of me. The water had come through closed windows. Ergo there was a gap that normal washing had not discovered.

I stood with a puzzled look on my face then I moved closer to the windows and examined the seal around them. Ah ha! It was broken.

That extra high pressured nozzle had forced the water through the gaps in the seal. I don’t think I would have noticed the breach otherwise. After cleaning up the water and drying the inside of the windows I called a friend to ask for help.

You see, I a pretty self-sufficient but my skills don’t extend to resealing double glazing window units (not yet, anyway).

When I approached Ian as a means of saving myself some effort that day, little did I realise that his actions and the consequences would prove to be a blessing in disguise. Although we are supposedly in the middle of our summer season we have been frequently subjected to rainstorms and I now know that it is better for me to have discovered this breach in the window now than in the midst of winter. So, with that in mind I express my gratitude.

I think that I, like most people, would prefer a blessing to appear as a blessing and nothing else. Alas, that is not always the way it works. Nevertheless however it comes, I think I’ll take it! Even if it is initially disguised as a problem.

Do you understand it?

I was trying to explain some concept to M and he was, in my opinion, just refusing to accept the logic that I was putting forwards. To me it seemed simple and I was trying to get him to grasp what I was talking about.

The conversation went much like a tennis match.

He said “Blah, blah ...”

I said “Blah di blah ...”

He said “Blah, blah ...”

I said “Blah di blah ...” and so forth.

Then after his last volley when it appeared we had started to discuss another matter entirely I retorted “That doesn’t make sense!”

His response? “Neither does love.”

Match point.

Silence.

Convincers

Scene 1:

The small voice whispered in her ear, “Are you convinced now?” The evidence was laid bare in front of her, there was no doubt. But still, as she looked away and caught her image in the mirror, she could see that there in her eyes were threads of the dream she had held on to for too long.

“But...” she haltingly tried to put her thoughts together, “but, what if ...?” She knew that it was no use. She was convinced but still did not accept the truth.

Suddenly she felt as if her feet were leaving the ground. She began to float. Trying to grasp on to concrete reality she had a last thought before she soared into oblivion, “Is this madness or hope?”

Scene 2:

The pain is terrible. The patient wakes up as the anaesthetic wears off. The bandages are covering her body. She winces as she tries to turn but cannot move. So she settles back and grimaces through the pain. It does not go away. She drifts back into a disturbed sleep.

(Flash forwards) It is one summer’s day a few years later that she looks at that day of awakening with a different point of view. The scars have all but disappeared. She remembers it all but does not feel the pain any more. It is only when she remembers the sickness she inhabited that can she say, “I had to go through that to get to this.” She smiles with understanding and contentment.

Ms Angry?

I have no desire to shout at people, but apparently I have done this twice in the past few weeks. This may not sound at all strange to you but for me it is ‘out of character’. It appears I may have to be recast as ‘Ms Angry’ if this disturbing trend (do two instances make a trend?) continues.

The first time was when I politely asked a man to stop putting leaflets through my door, on my car and all the cars in my street – he smiled, then ignored me and carried on regardless. I repeated my request, this was also ignored. Then I called the number on one of the leaflets and registered my concern at this behaviour and this is when I was told that I raised my voice for the first time. Both people I talked to seemed to think that I had not right to object to their intrusion into my personal space. They were wrong in my opinion, and I told them so.

The next occurrence was when I attempted to return a faulty item to Curry’s electrical store and the customer service representative was just plain rude and dismissive of everything that I had to say. He was not just surly to me this behaviour was also shared with his colleagues – so I don’t feel as if I was singled out for special treatment. However, I chose not to accept it and told him so. He laughed at me.

I did not join him in laughter. Instead I told him that just ignoring me and walking up and down the store with my information was not acceptable. From my initial contact with him I knew there was a possibility of trouble. He literally elbowed his colleague out of the way, then took my receipt and guarantee and walked off. First he spoke to a colleague nearby, then he walked past me – ignored me – and wandered off around the store leaving me with no idea of what he was doing or how long I would have to wait. I did waited patiently but after many other customers had arrived, been dealt with and left I was still waiting.

Then he sauntered back and said that he couldn’t do anything about the faulty item. He smirked as he said it and pushed the receipt across the counter towards me.

This is when I, apparently, shouted again. I think that I just spoke firmly – at least that’s what it sounded like in my head. I know that I am capable of shouting as I have done so on two rather memorable and sad occasions in my life – I didn’t like either of them and shiver at the memory because I really was Ms Angry then because my back had been broken by too many straws of abuse.

In the end another, more senior member of staff, came and dealt with the problem more satisfactorily and sent this surly character away.

In these recent instances I was just mildly perturbed, I don’t think I was even approaching feeling annoyance yet; there was a definite difference between these times and the straw back-breaking moments. I think all I wanted was to ascertain some semblance of understanding between myself and the person I was talking to. I guess I spoke in clipped tones and in a register different to my normal calm voice; hence it was catalogued as shouting by the hearers.

I just like customer service to do what it says on the tin, that’s all!

Accessible caring

Caring is usually a close contact occupation. Long distance caring is harder to implement and maintain. But whatever the distance between the cared for and the care giver there has to be a means of access.

I was at a meeting that was important to me and I needed to retain some form of control and focus. I had notes with me and I concentrated hard throughout all the time I was there. When it was over I felt a sense of relief because it all went reasonably well. What I didn’t realise until later was that I was also showing signs of distress that I believed I had hidden well. Leaving the meeting I met up with some people and one of them looked at me – more than a glance – it was someone close to me, and she asked if I had been crying. I had not, but she rightly noticed that my eyes were red and watery (I didn’t know I had even got that emotional but evidently I had been closer to tears than I was willing to consciously acknowledge).

You see, I had allowed this person into my life and she was comfortable enough with our closeness to mention what she noticed and to inquire as to my well being. Without this close proximity it would have been like caring from the end of a pole vault, assisted by binoculars from across a paddy field – not the easiest situation to handle.

When somebody knows you, they recognise shifts in behaviour and can talk to you about them, touch you, comfort you or guide you to a safer place.

When this happened to me the other day I felt a sense of understanding and peace come from the care giver in my life at that moment. It made me reflect that sometimes I must lift up my anchor – that I have used to maroon myself on my private emotional island – and row closer to the bank that the care givers are standing on. It is when I begin to row that I notice that they are also pulling me in using the guide ropes attached to my bow.

I know I must be accessible to receive their care so I keep on moving towards them and we both come into each other’s view.

Brass monkeys!

A simple phrase and response can identify the group one belongs to.

Walking back from the school run one morning I casually said to someone “Brass monkeys today!” and smiled with a show of shivering.

Stood in her doorway as usual, she was waiting for the arrival of her daughter’s transport to school, she smiled and nodded. Her arms were clasped around her even tighter as we shared the moment.

“I know!” she exclaimed, and laughed nervously looking up to the sky as if for confirmation.

We totally understood each other and continued with our separate days after sharing another smile.

As I walked home I wondered what would have happened if I had said that to a recent arrival in this country. Would they have any idea what I was talking about? Language is a powerful tool that is used to include and exclude people all the time.

Knowing and using colloquialism and idioms are signs of belonging to and understanding any particular culture. If you get my drift...

Any the wiser? If not check this out ...