Going without...

Several articles or incidents have featured recently about ‘going without’- without dyeing the grey, without cosmetics, without television and so on.  They made me smile for several reasons. 

Let’s take the grey hair first.  Frequent advice that I receive is, ‘Why don’t you dye, you’d look so much younger!’ The road to 60+ was not lined with marshmallow nor was I wafted along on a cloud. On the contrary, the road was sometimes rough and stormy, sometimes unlit and sometimes blocked.  Don’t get me wrong, there were broad and comfortable stretches too.  It was like most journeys and having reached where I am today, I see no reason to conceal the fact.  Staying grey was never a debate or a difficult decision.  I am just happy to be me.  Yet the articles on the subject all speak of the trauma of discovery, the inner conflict to dye or not to dye, the apparent distress at other’s comments, the daily struggle to look in the mirror and see an unfamiliar (undesired?) visage.  Weigh that against being tied to a bottle of colour, regular trips to the hairdresser, the anxious checking of roots to see whether they show, the constant attention to tresses that need extra care.  Nothing can compensate for the lightness of being and the freedom to be.  And what I’ve saved in costs can be happily spent on stuff for my crochet or reading.  Now that’s an unbeatable bonus!

Then there are the innumerable cosmetics that help us create that perfect mask.  According to my father, ‘war paint’!!  A trip to Europe, many years ago, revealed the fact that most women there hardly use cosmetics at all.  Perhaps moisturizer for excessive dryness, a dash of lipstick for a more formal occasions and dab of perfume to keep one sweet.  No wonder the cosmetic companies turned their attention to India.  Kohl or kajal, haldi/malai, mehendi and cochineal have been part of a tradition that goes way, way back.  I love the way we outline our eyes so dramatically and expressively and, yes, kajal is the one cosmetic I still advocate. But for the rest, I think that my laughter caused crow’s feet compensate for the furrows made by the endless perusal of manuscripts in the pursuit of printer’s devils.  Character maps the face and makes it readable. You know the person you are dealing with.  If you have ever spoken to a person who does not remove his or her sunglasses, you’ll know the feeling.  If you cannot see the eyes, you are groping in the dark – literally!  Bottomline?  There’s nothing like the fresh skin feeling that comes from knowing just natural soap and water and a brisk rub with a towel.

The third in the trilogy: giving up TV. Well, here I have to admit to an addiction: books.  Given the pull of a good book, TV comes in a very poor second, or third, or…. Once I get my nose between the pages, the hours just fly.  I get to visit people and places, real and imaginary; learn things I might never have discovered and experience the beauty of a language manipulated by skilful minds.  And the TV gathers dust.  Need I say more? 

May your days be as free of encumbrances and may you enjoy a life more natural, vibrant and filled with the joy of being the real you!

Some People!

Have you noticed?  There are some people you love to meet.  Even daily.  They bring a freshness, a joy, a new perspective to each encounter and you begin to look forward to that. And you can never get enough of them. That's Pope Francis for me. 

Pope Francis is truly a breath of fresh air.  He is that paternal figure which while representing authority does not enforce rigid hierarchical structures that stem from absolute power/monarchic models.  Rather, he suggests, proposes, enthuses and encourages.  And he sets an example.  He is inclusive, as Jesus was inclusive: towards the outcast, the unforgiven, the downtrodden, the different, the ones who are judged by ‘insider’ standards to be outsiders.

A case in point is his statement about meeting Atheists on common ground – while doing good!  Anyone can do good and this is a mutually respectful starting point.  We seem hell-bent (word deliberately chosen!) in bringing Jesus to others – He is the one and only way to the Father.  True.  But how do we bring the real Jesus to others if we do not know Him for ourselves first?

During Lent, I was asked to compose the Stations of the Cross for our FB page: something that people at work- or those with limited time or no access to a church visit - could download and reflect on.  My brief was that the Stations had to be completely original. Why?  There are so many Stations out there.  All we had to do was abbreviate and acknowledge!  No, it had to be our work and it had to be original.  So, rather than re-process the familiar, I decided to go to the source: the Gospels.  I was amazed to discover that Jesus’ falls were not on record nor was Veronica.  In fact, the Way that we profess in Lent was probably the personal and private devotion of one who imagined himself – or herself – walking at the Saviour’s side on the way to Golgotha. The Gospels are sparse; a factual record of what happened in grueling and inexorable sequence. But the horror, the anguish, the agony of the man, the seeming futility of it all – that is up to us to know and understand.  It took me many hours of reading, re-reading and reflection;  of deliberate walking away because at times my mind  came up blank of all thought.  But, slowly, even hesitatingly, I would like to think that I got to know Jesus just a little.  Certainly better than before.  And I am still not confident of being able to introduce Him to another! Pope Francis is showing us how, in incremental steps, day by day.

With Pope Francis at the helm, I see a church that returns to its reason for existence – the path set out by Christ: follow my example, do as I do and simply love one another in word and action. Is this too simplistic? Perhaps.  Because we are human and we like complicated answers.  

There is an old Protestant hymn penned by Whittier (the words, over the years, have been adapted somewhat from the original) and they express best the vision I wish to convey:

O brother man, take to thy heart thy brother.

Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there.

To worship rightly is to love each other;

Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer.

Follow with reverent steps the great example

Of him whose holy work was doing good.

Then shall the wide earth seem our Father’s temple,

Each loving life a psalm of gratitude.

Then shall all shackles fall, the stormy clangour

Of wild war music o’er the world shall cease.

Love shall tread o’er the baleful fire of anger

And in its ashes plant the tree of peace.

Then shall the earth resound to children’s laughter,

And all its tragic cities ring with song.

So shall we leave for those who follow after

The realm of God, a world set free from wrong.

And to end with a smile, here is a typical Jesuit joke: A non-European Pope? Improbable.  A Jesuit Pope? Impossible.  A non-European, Jesuit Pope? A miracle!

Pope Francis, for me,  is a miracle indeed.

GETHSEMANE . . .

(I wrote this many years ago for our Parish Bulletin, but in the light of yesterday's service and hour of prayer, I thought it relevant to post it here) 

Have you been there Friend? to Gethsemane ? Have you been weighed down by oppression and burdened by pain?  Is your heart heavy and does hope seem forlorn? Is the night so dark, that the way ahead seems treacherous?  Do friends turn foes?  Have you felt abandoned? Do you feel the need to cry....

“Dear God . . .

Let this cup pass.

I cannot bear

Another moment.

This pain

Is too great,

And weighs heavy

On my heart.

I have known

The cold sweat of fear.

Fear that has bred

Hate, anger and

Led me to

Despair.

And now I stand

At the very edge

Of existence.

I speak, but

No one understands.

I call out, but

No one hears.

Is this why

I am?

Where is the answer?

Where must I seek?

I shall go to the garden

Again and again.

As Jesus went before . .

To pray.

To find God.

To know my Father.

Have you been there, Friend?

Have you been to

Gethsemane?

A girl is raped, a girl dies,

the old year draws to a close.  And the hotels, bars and restaurants anticipate the moolah from ‘packed to the rafters’ New Year’s bashes.  And people will party till they stumble home in a blurry haze of booze and bonhomie. And the girl will be a topic of conversation, but the party will still go on.  And the roads will be thronged by drunken hooligans while the police will sarcastically advise that women should stay home or be prepared to be groped.  Keeping the streets free and safe is not an option.  Not on New Year’s Eve; not on any other night or day.   

And, before too long, the girl will become a memory. Until another girl or woman is raped.  Because life goes on regardless. Because it is not our mother, sister, daughter. Because such 'news' begets a transient attention span. Because one horror replaces another in quick succession.  Because we have abjured our values so that we no longer see the image and likeness of God in creation.

Because rape is just another silent scream.

Knee Jerk!

How quickly we react, how easily we see in black and white only, and how easily we pass judgment. But is it really that simple? I’m going out on a limb here with what would be considered as outrageous by practically everyone who has lapped up the media reports that have appeared over the past two weeks.

Let’s take the first.  A prank call, a lot of smug laughter, some chaffing, some backslapping (for those that pulled it off) and wide media coverage.  At that point it was still a prank to top all pranks! And then the laughter turned to censure. Just like that.  What an awful thing to do! How irresponsible! The pranksters are now considered criminals.  Irresponsible, certainly. But, criminal?

Let’s look at the picture a little more closely.  Two people impersonate public figures and make a prank call.  They do not know who will take the call and they probably expect to be sent off with the proverbial flea in the ear.  The nurse on duty makes an error of judgment, and the prank goes viral.  The unintended ‘victim’ becomes a joke.  Suicide follows. 

Now look at a mother who has to choose between remaining a national joke for probably a very long while (certainly among colleagues and friends) and being there for two children whom she is raising and loves very much.  Hard choice?  Probably, but only if you are already close to the edge.  A nurse’s life is not easy: graveyard shifts, the responsibility for life, taking tough calls, dealing with extreme illness, dealing with death. And, in this particular case, a duty that allowed a mother to connect with family only once in the week: the kind of life that would take its toll on the strongest of persons, physically, mentally and emotionally.  So, was the prank the cause of suicide? Or was it the last straw? Think about it. Then, whom would you hold responsible? 

Soon, the headlines change dramatically. We hear about the massacre of the innocents.  The one thing that should be a certainty is that children should always be safe: at home, in school, on the playground – everywhere. A while ago I read a novel titled ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ which has so many parallels that, in hindsight, it is almost predictive in its content: an exclusive affluent environment, a child that is different and who prefers to be excluded, the murder of a parent (and a sibling) and the massacre of a class in a truly gruesome way.  

So where lie the answers? Because, surely, there are questions that need to be addressed; issues that need to be confronted and assurances obtained that such an abomination will not happen again. 

Could we find it possible to look at the perpetrator as a victim? Or is it just too convenient to write him off as a psycho – someone monstrously evil?

Look again at the child who was different.  A broken family (the school had a Psychiatrist that had to help children with issues ‘that they were unprepared to handle’ and these were children in the age group 5 – 10!); a father who left; a mother who seems to be the tough cop’s daughter and who taught her boys how to handle a gun (the choice of guns sounds more like a male statement than an option for security) and there is nothing more powerful than the feel of a gun in the hand – alone you are vulnerable, with a gun you are invincible; a closed neighbourhood that sent out a message that they were perfect in an imperfect world.  

To me, this is the story not of individuals but of a society that demands more – much more – in terms of who you should be, what you should deliver and the image you have to maintain.  It is the story not of individual crime but of collective error. We need to turn the mirror on ourselves and face the truth.  We need to retrace our steps and find the wrong turns. We need to ask ourselves the tough questions and accept the tougher answers.

When it comes to being as we believe God meant us to be, we need to stand tall and call the shots.  Without using a gun.

Hairspray!

It should have been a happy recall of those bouffant times, when we teased and sprayed our hair into impossible ‘beehives’ to stay in fashion, until brittle hair and threatening baldness made us realise that natural fall and bounce was the right way to go.  Instead, it was an evening of muffed lines, flat voices, a mike system that copped out more than once and a storyline that was robbed of its punch because of all that.  ‘Hairspray’, the musical, may not be among the better known or as sing-a-long as the Lloyd-Weber offerings, but it does have catchy tunes and chirpy lyrics.  Despite being set in the sixties, it still has a young flavour and the message is still valid.  Though black/white segregation is mostly a thing of the past, discrimination is not, and even ‘impossible’ dreams can be realised. 

After two hours, my immediate reaction was ‘what a waste of an evening!’ And then I overheard the director and teachers telling the children how well they had performed and there were congratulations offered all round. That’s when I did a reality check.

Here were school kids who had never ever done something like this: acting in a Musical and essaying parts that were as alien to them as the Man in the Moon. Okay, so they did stumble at times, but the one thing that came through was their one hundred percent commitment to the performance and their total enjoyment – they were onstage, in the moment and lovin’ it! And every child in the school had their spot in the limelight.  How cool was that?

Those schoolchildren may never ever sing or dance onstage again (or they may – who knows?), but they will carry the joy of this moment with them for the rest of their lives and probably hand it down to a future generation.

So, what’s more important: a flawless, professional performance or the happiest school time memory?

It gets harder…

It gets harder, everyday, to say goodbye…

And it’s the ordinary, the everyday that makes it so.

Today, I saw a couple engaged in conversation, so absorbed in each other that they were oblivious to all that was around – we were like that too.

Today, I felt the nip in the air and the coldness of a dog’s wet nose and I laughed and turned to share.  Did you know?

Today, as I made my morning cup of tea and fetched the paper and planned the day, I wondered what you’d make of it.  This is what we used to do.

Today, I sat with the team and proofed the Advent Booklet and tried to be as meticulous as you taught me how.  We worked together the very same way – grappling with space and layout, floating ideas, feeling the same triumph when the light bulb clicked!

Today, was the first day I turned on the Christmas carols while I worked at the computer.  Softly, so as not to disturb the neighbours just like you said.  How you loved this season.

And today, I started on my crochet decorations.  Red, white and green.  And I imagined that impish grin on your face as you delighted in the expectation of the bounty from yarn and hook.

Soon it will be the first day of Advent and the first recitation of the Christmas novena.  You used to keep count for the fifteen repeats.  Now, I will use my rosary beads.

And when the year comes to an end, I’ll play Auld Lang Syne at midnight just for you.