Living Dangerously !

   A year or more ago when stepping into a crowded isle in church, I bumped into a man who apologised. Yes! He apologised, and explained that he was a member of the "Wobbling Club." I hadn't heard of it, and didn't admit to the possibility that I might be a member without knowing; and now I am in torment, not knowing who or what to blame when I go walking. Is it the treacherous pavements around these parts, or my walking shoes that are not of the best quality? or could it be that my limbs are not quite as strong as they used to be? “Blame”: because my gait, at times, doesn't seem quite as it should be.

   Well, to try and arrive at the truth, I crossed over the road yesterday, and set off along the footpaths that I believed to be in better condition than those on our side of the road, and all went well, until I fell, shocked! into a ravine. But, I had the presence of mind to keep my composure knowing that I had to climb back out again; and when I did climb out, I looked back in disgust at the disproportionate, dare I say, life threatening drop in the pavement that was supposed to mark the entrance to someone’s house. And I had some additional thoughts.

   Undoubtedly someone in the past thought that replacing flagstones with tarmac was a great idea, but without foreseeing the consequence; or perhaps they did, and didn't care, that as time passed, the utility companies - each in their own time -would come along and dig a hole, and then another, and yet another hole until in the end, we found ourselves walking on the the equivalent of a patchwork quilt. But that's not all: for along came the cable companies who made incisions all the way down the pavement, that sometimes, now that they are patched up - and a bit like me - veer to the right, and sometimes to the left, and almost always at a level above all the other patchwork.

   Now truthfully, I can tell you that I have fond memories of the pavements in Portrush, where I grew up. As the word suggests, they were flagged, and sometimes I enjoyed leaping from where I was to a flag in the distance. And as I raced over them, - to school that is - I know that I developed in my subconscious, a sense of proportion, - for the slabs were not all of equal size, - and precision, from the care with which, and irrespective of their size, they were laid. And I remember the men who came along and taking them up stacked them neatly at the side of the road before digging into the subsoil below. And I remember them putting them back with skill when the work was done. But sadly, in Portrush, for all it's natural beauty, the promenades are scarred with tarmac.

   Well, back home and confiding in Jenny, I told her that I didn't know whether the unsteady gait was my fault, or the fault of the wretched footpaths, but that I didn't want to resort to a walking stick, fearing, that in my 3 mile walk that would slow me down. But as wives do, she had the answer. What I needed, she told me, was a Nordic Walking Stick: so I am investigating. But, back to the outdoors.

   So as to reassure you that all this is not a figment of my imagination, let me tell you that a couple of months ago, someone, (it could even have been a battalion of them,) came along with a pot of white paint and painstakingly put a line of white around each of the areas of broken tarmac. When it first happened I was pleased, but worried, that whatever they did in the way of a repair, would be little more than a sticking plaster applied to a festering sore. But now I am a sceptic, or a cynic, or whatever word you might prefer, as nothing has happened since the white paint went down. Or, perhaps it has, as was intended: that there are fewer claims for compensation for personal injury, from people like me, - who go walking.

__________

  ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

A Timely Reminder

As men and women, booth religious and lay, struggle to come to terms with the reality of institutional child sexual abuse, and are at pains to know how to effectively safeguard children, we had, yesterday, in The Liturgy of the Hours, a timely reminder of the life of the Italian priest and Saint, John Bosco. Dedicated to the education of the young: the poor, the destitute and those at risk, in 1859 he founded a religious order of men, the Salesians, who, after him, would continue to work for that end. Below, and taken from the Office of Readings for yesterday, is a letter written to his fellow religious. It is as pertinent today as it was some 150 years ago, and part of its strength is in its realism:
__________

      "First of all, if we wish to appear concerned about the true happiness of our foster children and if we would move them to fulfil their duties, you must never forget that you are taking the place of the parents of these beloved young people. I have always laboured lovingly for them, and carried out my priestly duties with zeal. And the whole Salesian society has done this with me.

   "My sons, in my long experience very often I have had to be convinced of this great truth. It is easier to become angry than to restrain oneself, and to threaten a boy than to persuade him. Yes, indeed, it is more fitting to be persistent in punishing our own impatience and pride than to correct the boys. We must be firm but kind, and be patient with them.

   "I give you as a model the charity of Paul [St. Paul] which he showed to his new converts. They often reduced him to tears and entreaties when he found them lacking docility and even opposing his loving efforts.

   "See that no one finds you motivated by impetuosity or wilfulness. It is difficult to keep calm when administering punishment, but this must be done if we are to keep ourselves from showing off our authority or spilling out our anger.

   "Let us regard these boys over whom we have some authority as our own sons. Let us place ourselves in their service. Let us be ashamed to assume an attitude of superiority. Let us not rule over them except for the purpose of serving them better.

   "This was the method that Jesus used with the apostles. He put up with their ignorance and roughness and even their infidelity. He treated sinners with a kindness and affection that caused some to be shocked, often to be scandalised, and still other to hope for God's mercy. And so he bade us to be gentle and humble of heart.

   "They are our sons, and so in correcting their mistakes we must lay aside all anger and restrain it so firmly that it is extinguished entirely.

   "There must be no hostility in our minds, no contempt in our eyes, no insult on our lips. We must use mercy for the present and have hope for the future, as it is fitting for true fathers who are eager for real correction and improvement.

   "In serious matters it is better to beg God humbly than to send forth a flood of words  that will only offend the listener and have no effect on the guilty."      
__________ 
Cormac E McCloskey 

On Refugees

 

     This morning I received an e-mail from UNHCR: [The United Nations Refugee Agency], in all probability, because I sent them a donation yesterday.  And while I prefer to keep the details of my charitable giving to myself, on this occasion, and in the light of recent experiences,  I have decided to share this e-mail with you.

      Some time ago when enjoying a pub lunch with friends that we hadn't seen for some time, the subject of "Brexit" {The UK decision to leave the European Union] came up; and in that context, it wasn't long before the subject of refugees "reared its ugly head." Not because refugees are "ugly," but because of a poisonous, or if you prefer, a debilitating attitude of mind that surfaces during such discussions. And it surfaced yet again more recently, when, with a different group of friends we were discussing the likelihood of Jeremy Corbyn [the leader of the Labour Party] becoming Prime Minister, now that Teresa May, by her own hand, has gone from having a parliamentary majority, to heading a coalition government. 

      What for me is "poisonous" when the subject of refugees comes up, is what I describe as, the coupling of a positive with a negative, or put another way, a professed sympathy for refugees, "but"! A "but" that in an instant devalues them as human beings, not withstanding the fact that for reason of war and persecution, and having lost everything, they are trekking across Europe in search of sanctuary, and a better life. A "but" that besides ignoring their immediate needs is especially reprehensible when applied to children and accompanied with the word "terrorist", (as it was in our recent discussions,) as it was to in the past to those children living in the unofficial refugee camp at Calais known as "The Jungle." Why? Because 18 year old's are officially classified as children, and at that age are perceived as potential "terrorists." And when we widened the discussion and asked, why they don't see the desperation of  refugees trying to get to the UK as a compliment to our way of life, they were unimpressed; what motivates them, we were told, is the UK's generous system of state handouts;  as they were unimpressed, when we made the point that it was reputable agencies, who, having visited The Jungle at Calais, expressed concern about the large number of unaccompanied children living there, who were considered especially vulnerable to unimaginable forms of exploitation; and who, on that account should be offered sanctuary in much greater numbers than was proposed, in the UK. 

      Now before I go any further, (and not withstanding what I have just written,) let me tall you a little more about our friends. Put at its simplest, not only are they are not without compassion, but in their lives more broadly, they have proven track records in being there for the disadvantaged, and, they have a way of coping.

      As the conversations unfolded, we learned of a form of charitable giving organised by the Salvation Army, of which they approved, and to which, I am happy to assume they contributed. What they liked about it was that it was a way of giving where they could be confident that whatever they donated, went to the people in need: a system of numbered boxes that were filled with the necessities of life, (including cooking utensils) that once dispatched, could be traced to specific camps and families within the camps. As outlined, it was self-evidently a scheme of which we could all approve, but one, as we pointed out, that falls well short of the actual needs of refugees, in particular, the needs of the hundreds of thousands of refugees who are living in official camps. And so the discussion continued, especially as our friends were of the view that managing the international refugee crisis, in a way that was transparent,  should be left to the Salvation Army. So we found ourselves explaining the obvious, to people who had more than enough intellect and experience of life so as to see it for themselves, except, that they choose not to.

      What should have been apparent, had they wanted to see it, was that their expectation that the Salvation Army could manage the international refugee crisis was not credible. As was the idea, however good in itself, that the distribution of numbered boxes of aid to people living in sprawling refugee camps, could ever be sufficient in itself. And had they wanted to, they could have worked out for themselves, that hard cash, (as donations,) is essential, given the vast sums of money needed to provide sanitation, schooling, medical facilities, trauma counselling and such like, within the official refugee camps. 

As for the e-mail that I received this morning, at one and the same time it was a thank you, and a reminder of the enormity of the international refugee crisis as reflected in the following profile: 

In recent times the UNHCR who are working in 130 countries "to tackle the highest level of displacement on record" has distributed:

"2.7 million blankets to people who have nothing."

"Enrol[ed] more than 850,000 children in school."

"Give[en] more than 200,000 people emergency shelter."

and they tell us that:

"51% of refugees are children below 18 years of age."
and that "65.6 m have been forced to flee worldwide."  

And such is the enormity of the task that the UNHCR are not alone in responding to the crisis.

Medicins Sans Frontieres : (Doctors Without Borders) is another, and it is worth recalling here that their emergency hospital in Syria was bombed by the Syrian army, who, at an official level, and for reasons of safety, had been given the coordinates for the hospital. And there are other charities, both lay, and religious, also working with and for refugees. 

   Now as I am neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, and have my own limited insights, it would be wrong for me to presume to know, with any degree of certainty, why the attitude of our friends to the refugee crisis, is what it is, but I can hazard an intelligent guess.

What they have in common is that they see the world from their point of view, and not from the point of view of refugees, and to a degree, they don't quite trust foreigners, hence their failure to recognise, that when it comes to charitable giving, we can't always be in control,  that in terms of giving, sometimes we have to take a risk: do what we know to be right, and trust others to do their very best on our behalf. And if I think more deeply as to why they take refuge in themselves, one possible answer is, that if they tried to see the world from the point of view of refugees, it would bring them closer to the painful realities of life. As for linking "children" with "terrorist," apart from the fact that it is a perspective that clouds their judgement, and inhibits them in their response, it mirrors the insidious point of view of some of the more notorious tabloid press. A point of view that was challenged, when we recalled that some of the more recent terrorist outrages in this country had been carried out by "home grown" terrorists. All of that said, and in defence of our friends, I must tell you that they are not alone.

   In a recent interview on Radio 5 Live, Tim Farron who recently resigned as leader of the Liberal Democratic Party, (because he found his role as leader incompatible with his Christian commitment,) was asked what he would like to do next. And in broad terms, this was his response.

Having visited The Jungle at Calais and other refugee camps, he spoke of the refugees he met there, as having been through "unspeakable experiences." and he acknowledged a general reluctance among politicians and the wider European public, to rise to the challenge and do more. And it was this reluctance, that was motivating him to want to spend his time working as an advocate for refugees: for those who,  uprooted, have lost everything, and as yet have not found a place that they can call - home. 
__________

©  Cormac E McCloskey 

UNHCR -  here 

Medicins Sans Frontieres  - here 

   

Christmas: Journeying on . . .

   At the start of this year, 2016, our focus was on moving house, and delighted we were, when, within a fortnight of putting the house up for sale, we had a buyer. But what we could not have foreseen, was, that for all our planning something altogether more profound would happen: that in the space of 4 months, two of my brothers would have died: Kieran, age 64, from stage 4 cancer, and Brendan, who had just turned 70, and who had spent almost the last forty years of his life in hospital, in a state of total dependence on others.

   Though very successful in his career, Kieran was an introvert and something of a recluse. By choice, he lived mostly alone and in poor circumstances, and down the years he had little contact with his family. When he did appear, we enjoyed his company and wondered why he did not come around more often: but we saw him as a a private person, a modest man without materialistic ambitions, who was politically left of centre, who had found his niche: a style and way of life with which he was comfortable.  So, when I took an unexpected call from him in late February and we talked about inconsequential things: football, I knew that there was more to come. And when I asked why he had called and remarked that he didn't sound well, that gave him the opportunity to tell me that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer and would be having major surgery in a few days time.

As I digested this news, and though of Kieran living and coping alone through months of trauma, I was overcome with emotion, but together we got through it, and I confirmed that I would respect his wish, which was, that he would tell each of his many brothers and sister himself. And when in response, they came from far and near to be with him, he expressed surprise, and regret: that in the past he had not made more of an effort to keep in touch. But Kieran was who he was, his own man, who, in bequeathing his considerable assets, distributed them as percentages and in proportion to the needs of each, so that those with the greatest need, got by far the greater share, while those whom he knew to have enough, were allocated an equal proportion of what was left.

   Now when Kieran was first admitted to hospital and asked if he was religious, (a standard enquiry in the UK,) he didn't give the conventional "yes"/"no" answer. Instead, he described himself as "a catholic humanist," which was his way of making the philosophical point, that while he might not have a religion, he was not without belief, and that what he believed in, was, - the universal brotherhood of man. Sometime later, when he was nearing the end of his life, and we were alone, I asked, if he would mind if I read a prayer, and as to whether or not he would like to be visited by a priest. Willingly he consented to the prayer, which I put in context, explaining that as man's ultimate relationship to God is one of praise, I would read the Divine Praises. When I had finished, and after a pause, he asked if I would read them again:

"Blessed be God.

Blessed be His Holy Name.

Bless be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man.

Blessed be the Name of Jesus.

Blessed be His Most Sacred Heart.

Blessed be . . . . . ."

Then, and when he scarcely had the energy to speak, his "no" to the idea that he might be visited by a priest, came not as a "no," but in these words:

"I must be true to myself."

   Now unknown to me at this time, was that Kieran, in what was to be his last Christmas, had already considered this question of his relationship to God; the evidence for which, was in the form of a tentative poem written in pencil on the face of a gilded envelope. As it stands, he was attempting to put his life, and his illness, in context, and from his concluding remarks it is apparent that he had an audience in mind:

"My voice is croaking and my legs are cold

'cos I didn't listen to the tales they told.

So now I'm tired and my voice is dimmed

I don't walk far and I listen to hymns

'cos I hope that Jesus still has a place for me."

After which, he is uncompromisingly honest with himself:

"I'd like to recover [record?] I'd like to find

The quality I had in an earlier time

But I can't do either 'cos I lost the gifts I had."

Then, in what follows, there is something of the ill defined in the sentiments as he expresses them, for having told us that he would like to recover those qualities that he had "in an earlier time," he goes on to represent himself as detached; unemotional: "I don't feel sorry," he tells us, "and I don't feel blame," after which he changes tack yet again:

"I want to share because I care

I want to learn and give concern

About how things are and about how they might be."

Why ?

Because, ". . .most of all you don't want to be like me"

As I read it, this tentative poem is an admission of failure, by someone who was not given to the expedient, even when the odds were stacked against him, as they surely were at this point in his life. But it was failure of a kind, which was why, when close to death, he was able to respond to to my question, in the same manner as he had when first admitted to hospital, not with a negative, but with a positive, and he was taking it with him:

"I must be true to myself!"

__________

   By contrast, Brendan who was qualified in hotel management, was an extrovert, who came across as bright, interested and interesting, and through whom I met my wife. He was well liked by everyone who met him and there wasn't a malicious bone in his body. But when on occasion we locked horns across the chess-board, more often than not I found myself battered and frustrated by his sheer mental agility. No sooner had I made my ponderous moves, (about which he never complained,) than he had made his.

But unlike Kieran, Brendan never found that niche or way of life with which he could be comfortable. Instead, and in an attempt to find it, he veered between extremes, on the one hand, to the flamboyant world of the amateur actor, and on the other, to "Moral Rearmament," a fundamentalist and evangelising religious movement, whose members, in their zeal, were oblivious to his fragile mental state, a condition that in the end required him to be "sectioned" (compulsorily admitted) to a psychiatric hospital. 

Now because of its complexity, Brendan's story is not so easily told, and the most tragic aspect of it was still to come. In a "cry for help," and while living under supervision, he overdosed on a cocktail of prescribed medications, and as a consequence, destroyed his "motor function." So for some forty years, and unable to speak, he lived in a state of total dependence on others. And here, (notwithstanding the tragedy,) is the good news.

In that time, day in and day out, the care that he received, within the NHS, was of the highest order, which was important in itself, but the more-so because Brendan knew who he was and where he was, and it was that quality of care that allowed something of the old Brendan to survive: his alertness and capacity for the mischievous.

As for Kieran, a truth that we all came to acknowledge in the last few months of his life, was, that while we loved him as a brother, we didn't really know who he was. But here too is good news: tangible evidence, that he was resolutely and practically on the side of the disadvantaged and the marginalised. For a number of years after he had retired, Kieran worked as a volunteer for the Citizens Advice Bureau, (CAB) and this appreciation, and insight, was given at his funeral by the Director under whom he worked:

“. . . over the last year or so he saw more than 150 people. The youngest was 24, the oldest 82. His cases included housing – he prevented homelessness in more than one case. Debt – he stopped bailiff action, renegotiated payments and stabilised clients finances leaving them better able to manage. Benefits – he helped clients gain benefits and challenged decisions from the DWP [Department of Work and Pensions]. He dealt with complaints to utility companies, wrote letters to employers, made phone calls . . . Some clients he would have seen just once, others several times.

“Kieran always struck me as an intelligent listener, a man of empathy, and those attributes will have been invaluable in identifying what people's problems really were and how best to help them.

“But Kieran did more for our organization than this. He was the volunteer staff rep and would attend meetings – and would speak up on their behalf on their opinions and issues.

“Kieran also volunteered, or maybe he was nominated for, extra projects for CAR. Recently a group was established to design and implement a new office layout – and to improve the environment for our staff, volunteers and clients. Kieran was instrumental in the success of this project. He designed a floor plan, he got quotes for the work. Someone identified some office furniture being discarded in a London office. Off went Kieran with a tape measure and soon a range of additional furniture was in our office – with Kieran organizing the location to meet his floor plan. This was a massive task and would never have succeeded without Kieran's input.

“My own personal memories of Kieran remind me of the twinkle in his eye – his dry sense of humour and wry asides. He was one of those people who see a need, and just knuckle down and achieve it – always consulting and involving other, but above all getting it done.”

__________

© Cormac McCloskey

Fraudsters

                                                                Kieran, listening intently. 


Over recent months my brother Kieran has been living with us, and sadly, while battling unsuccessfully against a very aggressive form of cancer. And while going through his personal papers, we came across this:

                                                                                                   [Chinese characters]
                                                                                                   "e-MAIL: ruk9980@live.co.uk
                                                                                                   June 03, 2013

"Kieran McCloskey
[etc., etc.]


"Dear Kieran McCloskey,

"My name is Zaithyn Ruk, I am a contacting you in relations to late Charles McCloskey. I worked for him as his private investment manager, and in the few years prior to his death invested substantially in various opportunities.

"After a few years of profit making, he instructed that all the money be collected together into a single bank account, and I arranged with a specialist bank here in China to secure the money in a single account, shortly after he died, I assumed his relatives has since made claims, only to get a phone call from the bank a few weeks ago that Charles funds remains unclaimed, and the money would go to the Government if nobody claims it.

"The bank used international people finders to locate any relatives of Charles but they failed to locate any, hence I have taken the initiative to make enquires myself, in the process I have been provided your details, I propose that we don't allow this money go to the Government and work together to legally secure this money in full compliance with the laws of China.

"Kindly write back to me on the estate of late Mr. McCloskey, kindly keep this communication confidential due to its sensitivity as we do not want this inheritance to fall in the wrong hands.

Zaithyn Ruk "

__________

Now anyone with half a brain, (and for a variety of reasons,) would recognize in this letter, a fraudster at work. And I am happy, on Kieran's account, to let you know that he was not taken in; for on the back of the letter he asks the question: "How's this for a scam?!" But the sad truth is, that a reasonably well educated person, took the time and trouble to compose it, (and goodness knows how many others besides,) in an attempt to deceive and defraud: and with a grain of truth. The grain of truth, is in the reference to "Charles", who, in real life, was James Charles. So who was James Charles McCloskey?

In the letter, the writer takes the credit for finding Kieran, something that the investment bank's own team of "international people finders" had failed to do, an achievement that is as astonishing as it is ridiculous, for James Charles McCloskey left behind, not 1, but 11 children: Kevin, Anna, Liam, Cormac, Deirdre, Brendan, Colum, Bronagh, Kieran, Orla and Fionnuala.

Now for those of you who don't know, in 2011, I published a book of "Autobiographical and Other Poems", under the provocative title, "Who Would Be A Girl When You Can Be A Boy?" : the title of a poem in the collection, in which, girls, surprise! surprise!  come out on top! So in the context of "Charles" and his investments in China, allow me to share the details with you.

In the poem "Time", I present a series of character sketches of previous generations of my family, all deceased, and in it I have this to say of "Charles":

"Charlie, for a long time a bulwark against the laws of nature
succumbed, jaundiced to the rigours of tobacco and alcohol.
His widow, penniless, but with eleven children,
helped him to go peacefully
supported by family intercession and extreme unction."

And in a much longer poem, "The Vigil", I recall the boyhood experience of sitting with him through the night as he drank himself into oblivion: A small section of the poem will suffice, the point at which I am painting a picture of ever increasing squalor as the night wore on:

"And how as the evening passed and the hearth was soiled
with dredged bottles, spittle, and spent matches;
and the air ran pungent with the smell of Stout,
you lapsed again and again into unconsciousness;
while I, vigilant, saved all of us
as your cigarette, silent, slipped to the carpet.
But how like a phoenix you rose defiant
and vitriol spewed out."

Now it would be a mistake to think that these poems are a diatribe against my father, or mother for that matter, or that my view of my parents is to be found in any single poem. Here, for example in the poem "Daddy", you get a more rounded picture:

"A cultured man, a refined man, who,
from the pages of legend, gave me my name.

A silent man, a violent man, who,
in his addictions, stifled hope and love.

An inadequate man, a moral man, who,
in his floundering - squandered pity."
__________

As for the letter, it gives no clue as to when "Charles" was considered deceased. So here are some clues of my own, a chronology of sorts, of events in China.

MAO was at the height of his power, and the Cultural Revolution had not yet been conceived, but a belief was gaining ground, that, "Half of China May Well Have to Die."

So the truth is, that the nearest my father got to the "Global Village", was to live to see the advent of horse racing on television, and then, only in black and white.

As for the letter, it may be the work of a novice, but fraudsters have to begin somewhere, and live in the hope of future "rich pickings": fraud on a vast scale.

So let me end with a quote from "Mc Mafia," a study of the global mafia by Misha Glenny, the "Mc" being a metaphor for the mafia, as a global corporate entity on a par with legitimate multi-national corporations, and in some instances, with nation states In the context of the subject of criminality as he covers it, this is at the margins, but it is a sobering thought none the less:

""If I can get one credit card from you and I do a 25-buck transaction, will you notice? Will you report it? Will they do anything with it? $25 - no police force in the world is going to chase $25."" So from the point of view of the writer of the letter to Kieran, and whoever else besides, the possibilities are endless.

__________

© Cormac E McCloskey

McMafia
Crime Without Frontiers
by Misha Glenny
Publisher: The Bodley Head 2008
ISBN:-13 : 9781847920072 (TPB)

.

Christmas: the dichotomy

      From my childhood, I have especially fond memories of Christmas, for as a small boy it appealed to my imagination in a way that no other cause for a celebration could. And perhaps, the fact that Christmas came in the depths of winter, and that much of the excitement came after dark, that was an added bonus. And the caveat, (for that's what it was): "from my childhood", was intended to alert you to the fact, that in adult life, I have, at times, been troubled by what this season of the year tells us about ourselves: about our predictability, and, dare I say it, (and children excluded), mindlessness.

   From an adult point of view, and as if by the flick of a switch, we are in the run-up to Christmas, and in terms of music, entertainment, shopping, and parties, and office parties, it is entirely predictable. Then, and as if by another flick of that same switch, it is New Year: time to party, in Sydney, Shanghai, London, and New York and wherever, to be blaze, and obsessed with shopping, and hide from others, our innermost thoughts, what we know to be true: that this New Year, in all likelihood, will not be that much different from the old. There will be wars and rumours of war; and the hungry and destitute will still struggle to eek out an existence; and while people will fall in love, hearts will be broken by personal tragedies of every conceivable kind, and much of the good that so many people did last year, will be done, quietly, again this year, and pass unnoticed, as we go in pursuit of the sensational and superficial.

      Well apologies if I have got you depressed; for that was not my intention: I am simply getting myself of my chest, by sharing a few dark secrets with you, before getting around to the matter in hand, which is to share with you, a truth, that the innocence and simplicity of the birth of Christ in a stable at Bethlehem, has always stood in marked contrast to the reality of life as we know it.

      Then, it was the Roman occupation of Israel, and an edict from Caesar Augustus. Wanting to count the number of people under his thumb, he inconvenienced everyone, by requiring that heads of households return to their ancestral home, to be registered in a census. On the roads it was chaos, which was why, Mary and Joseph, arriving late from Nazareth, found themselves homeless, and desperately in need of somewhere to stay, and why, in the end, they had to make do with a stable.

      Now in the context of the dichotomy that is Christmas, it is worth reminding ourselves of one of the most improbable of edicts. It came about in England, when Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector, or Head of State, presided over a puritan parliament, and religious fervour was at its height. It was the edict, that made unlawful, the celebration of Christmas; and that despite the fact, that it had nothing to do with shopping, but with the celebration of a heavenly proclamation, of, "news of great joy, a joy to be shared by the whole people", that "today, in the town of David, [Bethlehem] a saviour has been born to you, he is Christ the Lord."

   Well, when I read the extract, quoted below, from John Evelyn's Diary. (the year 1657), at a certain point I laughed, but of course, at the time, it was no laughing matter, for besides illustrating again the dichotomy between the simplicity of the story of the birth of Christ, and life as we know it; John Evelyn's experience, is a reminder, of how impenetrable, and dangerous, is the mind of the zealot. The square brackets are mine:

"I went with my Wife &c: to Lond[on]: to celebrate Christmas day. Mr Gunning preaching in Exesceter Chapell on 7. Micha 2. Sermon Ended, as he was giving us the holy Sacrament, The Chapell was surrounded with Soldiers: All the Communicants and Assembly supriz'd & and kept Prisoners by them, some in the house, where yet were permitted to Dine with the master of it, the Countesse of Dorset, Lady Hatton &c: some others of quality who invited me: In the afternoon came Colonel Whalley, Goffe & others from Whitehall to examine us one by one, & some they committed to the Martial, some to Prison, some Committed: When I came before them they tooke my name and aboad, examined me, why contrarie to an Ordinance made that none should any longer observe the superstitious time of the Nativity (so esteem'd by them) I darest offend, & particularly be at Common prayers, which they told me was but the Masse in English, & particularly pray for Charles stuard, [the king] for which we had no scripture: I told them we did not pray for Charles Steward but for all Christian Kings, Princes and Governors: They replied, in so doing we praied for the K[ing]. of Spaine too, who was their enemie, & a Papist, with other frivolous & insnaring questions, with much threatning, & finding no colour to detaine me longer, with much pity of my Ignorance, they dismiss'd me. These men were of high flight, and above Ordinances [above the law] & spoke spiteful things of our B[lessed]. Lord nativity."

      Now while Caesar Augustus, in issuing his decree, was unwittingly bringing about the fulfillment of prophecy, in respect of the extraordinary event that would happen in the obscure town of Bethlehem, someone, who spent a lot of time on the road, by choice, was the Welsh poet, writer and tramp, William Henry Davies. He wrote a book about it: "The Autobiography of a Super Tramp", and a sequel, "Latter Days". And despite what I am going to tell you about him, he ended up respectable: with a young wife and a dog. We are told that he did much of his tramping in America, and that his experiences were richly coloured by "bullies,  tricksters, and fellow-adventurers", and "that he was thrown in to prison in Michigan, beaten up in New Orleans, witnessed a lynching in Tennessee, and got drunk pretty well everywhere." Well, among his poems, is one that many, in this part of the world, would have learned at school, and that the shepherds in Bethlehem, would have readily understood, for it has a lot to do with the true spirit of Christmas, though Christmas doesn't get a mention:

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care
We have no time to stop and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich the smile her eyes began.

A poor life this, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
__________

And he too, mindful of the dichotomy that is Christmas, wrote this:

The holly on the wall 

Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.
You do not know that millions are
This moment in a deadly war;
Millions of men whose Christmas bells
Are guns' reports and bursting shells;
Whose holly berries, made of lead,
Take human blood to stain them red;
Whose leaves are swords, and bayonets too,
To pierce their fellow-mortals through.
For now the war is here, and men -
Like cats that stretch their bodies when
The light has gone and darkness comes -
Have armed and left their peaceful homes:
But men will be, when there's no war,
As gentle as you children are.
Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.    
__________

    Now this dichotomy between the ideal and the real, was often a part of my own childhood Christmas, but there was always that undercurrent of excitement, which was sufficient of itself, to keep me believing in the wonder of it all. But that said, there was no escaping the uncertainty: Would my father be drunk or sober? and if drunk, how drunk? : reduced to silence, or roused to a destructive rage? And would my mother's, lesser anxiety, be eased: would Grandma remember to send a goose or a turkey. But when it came to Mass at midnight, the world was transformed. The church was packed, as though the parish had doubled in size, and the broad window-ledges were strewn with holly. And among the faithful, were those few, who, obviously "the worse for wear", had managed, somehow, to make it, to be there along with the rest of us: to be reminded of Mary and Joseph's arduous journey to Bethlehem, and to be reassured, and strengthened in their belief, that, that "good news of great joy!" was for them.
__________
© Cormac McCloskey

The story of the Nativity. Gospel of Luke. 2
The fulfillment of prophecy in respect of Bethlehem as the birthplace of the Messiah:
    The Bible: Old Testament:, Micah 5:1-2 Recalled in the Gospel of Matthew 2:1-6
The Diary of John Evelyn, and The Holly on the Wall, by William. H. Davies:
from  The English Christmas
          Published by  The Folio Society 2002
          The square brackets were inserted into the text by me
"Charles stuard" / "Charles Stewart" : [Stuart] One and the same, King Charles I, who, in 1649, was beheaded by the puritans during the second English Civil War.
Leisure, by William H. Davies
from Common Joys and other poems
"the worse for wear" : intoxicated, or obviously adversely affected by too much alcohol.

"to exist on earth is beyond any power to name."

 
   At the poetry meeting that I attend once a month, we have had some brief but interesting discussions about the merits of poetry in translation: as to whether or not two people can write a poem. But for me it has never been an issue of any consequence, for not having the option to read poems in languages other than English, the yardstick by which I judge the quality of what I am reading, is in its effect: as to whether or not I feel enriched by the experience. So it is thanks to Robert Fagle's translations from the Greek, that I am able to enjoy Homer's epic poems, The Iliad, and Odyssey. And to James McGowan, whose translations from the French, allow me to enter the Parisian, and in some respects seedy world, of Charles Baudelaire  And James E Falen, whose translation from the Russian, has allowed me to enjoy Alexander Pushkin's novel, Eugene Onegin. Written in verse, and set in imperial Russia, it draws the reader into a web of complex personal and political relationships, and intrigue. But if reading poetry in translation, (or novels, for that matter,) has to be second best, someone who helps to redress the balance, is the Polish poet and Nobel prizewinner, Czeslaw Milosz.

Now as a general rule, I don't pay too much attention to what a dust cover has to say, but in the case of Czeslaw Milosz, (and having read all his work,) I am happy to make an exception, so here it is:

"One of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. Czeslaw Milosz defined the tragedy and beauty of his age with an unrivaled elegance and precision. Whether describing his early youth in Poland, the anguish of war-torn Warsaw, or his personal search for religious meaning, his poetry brilliantly evokes the wonder, amazement and sensuous detail of living, and the particular individuality of every life. Compelling explorations of mortality, war, love and faith, these unique poems are at once unsettling and deeply inspiring: a passionate confirmation that "to exist on earth is beyond any power to name.""

This appraisal is taken from a publication of his work by Penguin Classics, the title for which, in contrast to the above, is drab in comparison: "New and Collected Poems 1931-2001 " But what really matters in the context of this blog is, that these poems were translated from Polish into English, by the man himself,. and that surely has to be as close as you can get to the original, when reading in translation.

Now for our last meeting the theme was "a journey", so I brought along one of his poems and introduced it as representing, life's journey.

POET AT SEVENTY

Thus, brother theologian, here you are,
Connoisseur of heavens and abysses,
Year after year perfecting your art,
Choosing bookish wisdom for your mistress,
Only to discover you wander in the dark.

Ai, humiliated to the bone
By tricks that crafty reason plays,
You searched for peace in human homes
But they, like sailboats, glide away,
Their goal and port, alas, unknown.

You sit in taverns drinking wine,
Pleased by the hubbub and the din,
Voices grow loud and then decline
As if played out by a machine
And you accept your quarrantine.

On this sad earth no time to grieve,
Love potions every spring are brewing,
Your heart, in magic, finds relief,
Though Lenten dirges cut your cooing.
And thus you learn how to forgive.

Veracious, frivolous, and dazed
As if your time were without end
You run around and loudly praise
Theatrum where the flesh pretends
To win the game of nights and days.

In plumes and scales to fly and crawl,
Put on mascara, fluffy dresses,
Attempt to play like beasts and fowl,
Forgetting interstellar spaces:
Try, my philosopher, this world.

And all your wisdom came to nothing
Though many years you worked and strived
With only one reward and trophy:
Your happiness to be alive
And sorrow that your life is closing.
__________

Now without going in too too much analysis, this poem is remarkable in its conclusion: in his happiness at being alive, and his "sorrow" at the prospect of death, and that despite the fact that life was a paradox: a myriad of experiences that besides being contradictory, often provef illusory  But however "dark" or "sad" life was, (a life lived in the teeth of the Nazi occupation of Poland,) or certain he was, that all his "wisdom" had "come to nothing", the word that puts the poem in a true perspective is, "sorrow". Why? Because implicit in "sorrow" is the idea of goodness.

Well at seventy-three I too have been looking back, and musing on how, despite all expectations, I have defied the odds: the teenage premonition that I would die young. But unlike Saint Paul, who had an altogether more profound experience on the road to Damascus, and who was told where to go and what to do, I found myself alone and grappling with the question, What is young? And such were the subtleties of the teenage mind, that my premonition came with its own fell-safe mechanism. Though it seemed most likely that I would die in my thirties, there was an outside chance, that I would just scrape past the half-century. ..

Now in light-hearted moments my mother had a saying, "when the head's gone, all's gone," and calling it to mind allows me to tell you, that as things stand, my head is in very good order, as are my limbs, (no aches, pains or weaknesses in the extremities,) as is my appetite. For apart from the porridge, bread and honey, and pot of tea that I put in front of myself each morning, there is never anything of what Jenny provides, that gets wasted. And all the anatomical unmentionable bits of me, are in good order also, and I sleep well. But for all that, I am now on the cusp, and. as they would say, "physically and psychologically challenged", for what has changed is, that I can no longer take my daily walks for granted. And for someone like me, who all his life has been physically active, if this is to last, it will be a sea change.

So what has changed.

Well to begin with, I have never had a heart attack, nor could my local doctor, either this year, or last, find evidence of anything wrong with my heart or lungs. But as last year, I was complaining of tightness in the chest and difficulty in breathing, I was referred back to cardiology for an angiogram. On that visit they confirmed that the stent, (a small tube) that was inserted into an artery in 2006,) was clear and working well. But on the basis that they had detected a "pinched artery" in the heart, that might be the cause of my problems, I was referred for what is known as an Adenosine stress MRI scan. This scan involves a medically induced stress test, (a test that allows them to study the heart working under pressure.) But here too, as with my local doctor, the end result was the same, they found nothing to be concerned about.

Now if we link these medical details, (and in particular the result of the stress test,) to the description of my general health, the signs, so far, are all positive. But of course, what remains unexplained is, why if the results are positive, am I struggling with angina. As for the "pinched artery", that is not unknown, and many people who have the condition, pass through life unaffected by it.

And there is this final perplexing detail.

When the "pinched artery" was identified I was prescribed 30mg of a slow release nitrate, that has the effect of relaxing the artery so as to improve the the flow of blood around the heart. Now when I saw my doctor recently, and he was deciding what to do, I was happy to agree to his suggestion that, "we try simple things first", which was to increase the nitrate from 30 to 60mg. Well the long and the short of it is, that despite that, and the fact that I have added to this, the occasional use of a liquid nitrate spray before going walking, the symptoms persist. So I am headed back to cardiology at the end of July, and wondering why no one has had this conversation with me:

"Mr McCloskey, you are 73, and these things happen, and I am afraid that the test results tell us that your heart is only 85 per cent efficient."

To which, by way of reassurance, they might have added:

"But for you, the good news is, that we have patients your age, and younger, whose hearts are 65 per cent, and less, efficient."

Now it was this absence of an explanation in the face of medical investigation and intervention, that left me feeling depressed; to which I might add, that I was neither physically or psychologically ready to have my wings clipped, never mind die, and that despite the fact that I have a significant spiritual life:of prayer and surrender to God.

But the good news is, that the depression didn't last long, and here's why

When I set about studying a diagram of the heart, so as to understand better how it is structured and how it works, it was only a matter of moments, and against all expectations, before I had lost all sense of self, and instead, was lost in the contemplation of something extraordinary, beautiful, and riven with intelligence. It was the sort of response that I had in my youth, when I looked into the night sky, or tried, as best I could, to comprehend existence, and the every-day cycle of life. Long before I had heard of Aristotle, I found God, self-evidently manifest in creation. And for the first time ever, as I considered this diagram of the heart: its structure, purpose, and precision, I found in it, a new universe, with that same beauty and manifest intelligence, so that I understood, as never before, how it is possible for scientists, (as distinct from those of us who are preoccupied with the arts,) to find beauty, in all its fullness, in their work.     .

__________
© Cormac McCloskey

Czeslaw Milosz
New and Collected Poems 1931-2001
Penguin Modern Classics
ISBN [none given]

"to exist on earth is beyond any power to name"
                                                Czeslaw Milosz