Division, Unity and a Fox.

The fox comes towards the kitchen window on its walk down the drive, oblivious of the watcher. Its sharp muzzle and bright eyes feel out the surroundings. The setting sun emphasises the red, russet brown and dark sleekness of its body trotting undisturbed over the tarmac towards the grass. The shape of animal intensity and intelligence exudes a kind of youthful freshness that may belie its age – ageless and sexless embodiment of a life.

The watcher, on the other hand, represents the grey/white hair of the of the turning year; his beard a determination of fatherhood and more in a world that stumbles towards the self -destruction of humanity like lemmings trying to find the nearest cliff to jump from, eyes tight shut and jabbering away. This watcher is unable to join the crowd, his eyes, though blurred by tears, are still open and he is aware of his connection with all humanity.  He, like many, regardless of gender, sexuality, wealth, education, nationality does not recognise separation in a world that is desperate to divide and destroy.

You are the watcher – an individual that is indivisible from humanity, from all that lives on this extraordinary Earth. You do not live in isolation either inwardly or outwardly, and this connection does not exist in ideas, thoughts or language. You are held in a web of life and death that exposes the ebb and flow of the tide of relationship.

However, we continue to cling onto the belief that we are involved in some kind of competition; comparing ourselves to others, desperately seeking signs of superiority and clambering over the bloodied and burnt bodies to reach the top, the summit of decay. So many global institutions are founded upon this way of being; not least schooling – that bastion of exploitation and brainwashing. 

So you are stepping out of the entertainment and acknowledging that there are no ‘others’; calmly and quietly you are stepping from the tracks that hold the speeding vastness of the runaway train. You are living as a creative human being, not self-consciously clever, not clamouring for power or status. You may dig the garden, paint pictures, film the ugliness and beauty of your surroundings. You may write words, sing songs and dance the dances. And with it you are bringing the light that can be glimpsed through the crack in the darkness of our collective misery.

The fox continues on its journey, but hesitates for a second and meets the gaze of the watcher. Its dark eyes are not reflected in the blue, for it is unaware of the watcher. Sleekly it makes a right turn and disappears under the tree, its burnished tail a flick of final copper light.  And the watcher is overwhelmed by the memory of the tiny hand of the child in its mother’s arms opening and closing, as if feeling out for the shape of this new life.

Connecting with Death

Grey-black against the sky, broad-winged, long-necked and legs trailing like sticks, the heron beats over the long remembered wood.  The house, its windows misted by neglect and the leaves of spring spreading into the peeling wooden frames, seems solid enough from the outside.  Inside the smell of disorder and decay expose the loss of routine, the continuity that held sway for nearly sixty years and ceased some time ago.

…

Cold, dark north-easterly rain held the backdrop of the previous day when the coffin was lowered into the ground, woven bamboo bright against the newly dug earth.  Maybe she did not want such a cradle at the end, perhaps preferring the deep mahogany gloom and Victorian brass handles. Its brightness eased the path to her resting place and held her empty body in a gentleness that reflected her final days.  The eldest grandchild stood tall in the church she occasionally took him to as a child; he read his poem

 ‘When I knew you were leaving us,

my memory spun in a hiss of gravel,

rustled through the trees, ….’

His voice uncovering the years as he read on, his eyes revealing the light of childhood, and the eyes of the congregation wet with the recognition of time passing.

…

When I last saw her the shock of her withered face, sparse hair, and eyes that seemed to have watered down the blue to a greying incomprehension, had disappeared and was replaced by the understanding that what lay in the bed was the body of a human not long before its passing.  To sit there by her bed in silence and watch the flitting of such a murmuration of thoughts: shaping, pulling apart and then reshaping, enabled communication that could not be tethered to words or rationality.  Fingers delve into the past as if searching in mud for something that had been lost and find that all that has gone before no longer has any form.  Just to be there was enough and to say goodbye to the person who brought you into the earth, brings an end to it all.  In the opening of those eyes there is recognition and in their closing there is also liberation; in a gesture of thanks and the quiet turning away - a new freedom. 

…

Life has its own movement in its circular form with time measured in years, a small part is an individual existence.  As the winter holds old bones and frail bodies allowing the opportunity for some to gently take their leave, and spring begins the transition from sleep to an awakening, there is an ancient rhythm.  To watch this closely, observing the falling of leaves and the emerging of delicate green shoots, is to learn to be part of this movement; not to be a casual observer, nor to be some commentator – explaining away all that has gone before in a comfortable phrase or glib statement.  To be aware of the deep pulse of life and death and watch the response of emotion without the sense of what should be felt, is to be connected.  And after all this, is it possible to be alive to death?

The Passage of Time.

It is as if the seasons have shifted and the cold that would so often have been associated with the beginning of the year is now spread over the land in the sharp glinting sunlight of an earlier dawn.  Large clusters of snowdrops hang their heads under the trees and beside the hedges.  Sporadic daffodils nod their yellow trumpets, testament to the false spring of a warm winter.  Now there are primroses at the side of the lane, soft colours beneath the tiny, fledgling leaves tentatively appearing in the shorn, stubby hedges.

What is a life?  A period of time between birth and death?  A life is not confined to time though: a baby born dead, a child taken from its parents, a life ‘cut short’, a ‘long and fulfilled existence’, are all lives.  The trees, the animals, the birds and the rocks are all lives – not lived by a human definition, but lived all the same.  So what is the life of a mother that moves from independence to immobility, from the sharp focus of a mind honed on manipulation to vague recollections surrounded by scatterings of the past?

This is her life - slumped in the chair that is the centre of her existence.  Sparse white hair covers her head; it is dropped forward, nodding in a deep sleep.  A huddle of unrecognised clothes, white knitted socks loosely cover her swollen, discoloured legs and there is the unmistakable smell of indignity.  The carer gently shakes the old lady’s legs to alert her to the arrival of two of her sons.  Her head is lifted in a movement that manages to express incomprehension and pain.  Her eyes are red, the right one shows a raw exposure and there are unnatural crimson blemishes creeping down each cheek, violent against the white grey folds of skin.  After a few brief seconds she recognises her sons and greets them in a high forced voice that neither had ever heard before – the voice of an imperious duchess from another age, a caricature of control and superiority.

So the mother is no longer the mother, but has shifted into some kind of creature that exists beyond any attempt to influence, to shape another’s existence; instead she clings with the desperation of the drowning to some semblance of living her own life.  She is profoundly deaf and can only be effectively engaged in communication through writing on cards; though this does not dilute the cascading, unrecognisable sound of her voice – high and penetrating.  Yet she does not seem to be unhappy, the bitterness of a few weeks ago appears to have been superseded by a more childlike connection with what is going on around her; a connection where she is centre of attention.

The slow ebbing of life is visible in the body that deteriorates over the time between each visit.  She eats with some relish and the rose tinted wine is enjoyed, but food spills over her clothes and there is a frustrating mouthful of liquid that cannot be drunk as her head has dropped to a point where she is no longer able to make that final, satisfying tilt to sink those last dregs of wine.  She moves with pain on account of a fall she had two days ago, lifting herself out of the wheelchair is slow with stoic facial expressions and subdued intake of breath.  She is as determined as ever and will not demonstrate any weakness.  As her sons leave there is a look of desolation in her watery eyes, not of anger as there might have been in the past, but of abandonment – a look that may have had its genesis many years ago in her own childhood.

This is the life of an individual, unique as a product of environment, culture and experience; separate, fulfilled or not, independent.  Is it then that a life is the process of individual progression from birth to death?  Or is there something that goes beyond the individual, that division between mother and son: an expression of humanity that is not divided?  Is there life that is indivisible beyond humanity? 

If so, then what is death?

Walking up the Waterfall

For a while a buzzard has flown down from the nearby trees to stand in the field next to the cottage in which we are currently living.  It stands for some time surrounded by green shoots and surveys the world with sharp inclinations of its head; occasionally it will heavily hop a metre or two to take up a new position.  I have not been able to watch it for all the time that it has been there, but I have, once or twice, seen it lift itself off the ground and with a few strong sweeps of its wings take its next existence back in the trees.  Is it looking for food potential?  Is it just watching?  What does it see from the ground that it cannot see from the trees?  To watch this bird, indeed to watch any living creature, is to connect to a world that is beyond words.

The human being is born into the wild, the uncontrolled; born into fragility; and born into the extraordinary potential that is life.  Unfortunately, much of this life is spent in denial and in direct conflict with all that connects us with that which is more than our individual and collective selves.  As human beings we are nature, indivisible from the animals, plants, and all living things on this earth.  When we die we return to the unknown and our deaths are no different to that of the fly, the elephant, the fish or any other living creature.  So why do we educate our children in enormous regimented mechanical factories?  Why do we create vast towering blocks for people to live in amongst the pollution in the cities?  Why do we produce food that has little or no nutritional value, involves the killing of animals on an industrial scale and the pumping of chemicals into their bodies?  Why have we made the pursuit of money the root of our existence?  Where is it leading to…?  Where are we going…?

So walk up the waterfall with a heart that bangs in the chest almost to breaking.  Watch with care the slight movement beneath the glassy water where the bird is about to rise.  Feel the soft rain fall and the bite of the cold on your cheeks.  In watching life, can you also observe your separation?  Can you see how you have been taught that it is all to be about you?  And how that prevents you seeing. 

The snow on the mountains cuts into the cracks and feels for the solid base to gather and stretch.  Blasts of wind take flesh and bone and play at throwing it down the hill – a good game!  If taken solely with sedentary logic and the pontification of the armchair, then your skeleton will gather dust in a room with no windows.  And the light of the slow revolution is appearing now through the spaces in the floorboards whilst the awful, destructive sense of those in authority is creeping like suffocating smoke into your thinking. 

You may be dividing yourself from others through sex, through age, through your cleverness – climbing the ladder of superiority; but you cannot hear the song, see the colours, feel the joy and touch the pain.  You are lost and already dead.  Others may also be lost, but they vibrate with a life that has come knocking unexpectedly at their door.

The buzzard is there again today.  It is cold and it shakes its feathers against the chill wind.

So the killing continues...

I wrote this blog about eighteen months ago and the only response I feel I can have to recent events is to post it again.  For the passage that begins ‘This week has seen...’, I now write - the massacre of innocent people in Paris, the state killing of an individual by use of a drone, the continuing aftermath of the bombing of a Russian passenger plane, the almost daily atrocities taking place in Syria, Iraq and many other places.  The politicians will call for greater security, the military will call for reprisals, the media will look for blame, and all will fuel the flames of fear.  So the endless circle of violence rolls on as the individual cowers in tears for the human race.  Soon the politicians will meet in Paris to discuss climate change.  Will they make the connection between the devastation of the earth and the devastation of humanity? Will they see that peace and sustainable living are intricately linked?  Or will they bow yet again to the forces of greed and callous cruelty?



Last night the moon rose from the Albanian hills, a ghost of what it was to become.  As it gained form and substance it filled with an extraordinary gold/silver light, sending a pathway across the sea towards the tiny village on the coast of the island of Corfu.  Today the sunlight dances on the water against the background of the blue, misty hills and the pale early morning sky.  The beauty takes the breath away, not in some sentimental moment, but in the realisation this is the natural world of which all humanity is part.  It exists, untouched by human thought. 

The killings go on, justified in the name of security by men on television in their impenetrable grey/black funeral suits; whilst for their 'enemies' murder is carried out by men dressed as plastic action men dolls.  Flesh and bone are torn apart to make room for ideas: there is nothing sacred about a life which does not agree with you, may threaten you, might defy you.  Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, sisters brothers; indiscriminate lives, indiscriminate tears, lost smiles and all tenderness exposed as bloodied flesh in the explosion of bomb and bullet....

This week has seen what human thought does at its most vicious: the attack on the Palestinians in Gaza and the shooting down of a civil aeroplane as it was flying over Ukraine.  Both these events have seen the violent deaths of innocent people caught up in the desperate fighting of other human beings, who appear not to care who they kill as long as their goal is achieved.  Elsewhere bombings and killings continue, the number of refugees rise and those who suffer most are women and children – the powerless.  As a species we seem to be addicted to violence, to the cruelty and greed that drives aggression.  We lack sensitivity and are dominated by fear, which leads us to seek security in ways that make us all much less secure.  We are divided by nation, by ideology, by religion; by the way we define ourselves; by the images we create; and we use these divisions to give meaning to our lives, whilst we cut short the lives of others.  One wonders sometimes how we, who are so destructive, continue to live on this planet that contains so much beauty; and, if we continue as we are, it would seem likely that we will not survive much longer.

What can be done amid such apparent callousness and ignorance?  Can a new generation be brought into being where violence, anger and selfishness are not seen as the way to be? At the moment we live in a world of separation and we teach our children through this separation; humanity is separate from nature; I am separate from you.  So we compete instead of collaborate; we exploit instead of care; we are individuals standing out from the crowd – who we despise.  We compare so we might feel superior, but all too often we feel inferior.   The continuation of war takes place in our families, in our classrooms, in our entertainment, in our media and ultimately in ourselves.

Do we really want to live without war?  Are we prepared to face the reality of how we live; in conflict with ourselves and in conflict with others?  Or will we continue to wring our hands in horror at the photographs of bloodied, broken bodies?  Cry our tears of outraged hypocrisy at the carnage, call for revenge upon the perpetrators and carry on the madness that underpins our so-called sane society.

We have to look at what life is, without sentiment, without judgement, and observe exactly where our behaviour is leading us.  So come to understand what is happening, without justification and without condemnation.  And then that understanding leads to a change in this way of being, not through the creation of a new ideology or system, but through taking care of humanity through pure observation.  Taking care in the sense of learning what it means to be human in this world, not separated, but unified through our common consciousness.

This has tremendous implications as to how we bring up our children – this is where the road to sanity begins.

(I have reverted to the original blog title for reasons of simplicity and due to my technical incompetence!)

In the company of writers... a time of learning

Waiting outside the station for the taxi I watch for anyone else who might also be making their way up to the house that used to belong to the poet, Ted Hughes, for a writing course centred around nature.  When my wife read the description of the course to me so many months ago I felt I had to go; that this would be an integral part of the next phase of my life.  Two women come separately past me, looking every inch writers; confident, assured, knowing where they were going.  I begin to formulate the question, but they are gone, over the narrow bridge that spans the loquaciously enthusiastic shallow water.  I realise then that I am apprehensive, that I am experiencing a nervousness born from past hesitance and antipathy to groups, heightened by the sense of being exposed.  Can I write after all?

I arrive at the house, a grey stone impressive monument, slotted into the steep hill; the meadows below give way to young woods that dip to the river then rise towards the horizon.  The colours will change during the week, but the mists, early morning light and evening gloom will create an ever changing connection in the mind.  I am shown to the Log Shed with its own grey plaque detailing its grand opening some years ago by a Baroness, no less.  I am honoured indeed and relieved to find the Log Shed has its own bathroom, cause for relaxation at the thought of private nocturnal wanderings. 

I am the first, but it is not long before others join me on the lawn that overlooks the valley.  We talk in tones that acknowledge our reasons for being there and it dawns on me that it is our love of the natural world that has brought us here and that many of us will be quite tentative in our approach to writing.  Apprehension continues, not like a debilitating affliction, more as an uncomfortable memory seeking to take hold.  This would carry on to an extent into the next day in its symptoms of a tightening of the throat; a turbulence in the chest and a tendency not to seek out interactions. All the time there is a magic in process, unseen, unknown and arising from my fellow writers with their unassuming abilities and care for the world; the tutors, so different, but with intelligence that reveals itself in their conversations and a genuine concern to explore humanity’s relationship to nature and how that can be expressed in writing.

On the third day there is a change of perception.  No longer do I question my writing ability – it is irrelevant.  What is clear is that I need to work on the project, to give it serious attention and to see where it leads me.  I am no longer apprehensive, as the walks through the woods, the sound of the river and the watching from the garden have mingled with the conviviality and communication to bring about an intense feeling of learning.

And this is my project: to explore what is learning and what is our relationship to nature. This exploration is set against the background of the work of J Krishnamurti, with which I have been familiar for over forty years; I am currently teaching in a school founded by him.  This will give the exploration context in a global sense and provide opportunities for further conversations in India and the UK in particular.  There is no attempt to create an authority or to adhere to orthodoxy, but the opportunity to examine questions and statements that have been alive for a long time.  This approach sits harmoniously with the direction the week has taken, in the sense of engagement with the world crisis through nature and the fundamental understanding that humanity is inseparable from the natural world.

I am not alone when I return to the station, with a grateful acceptance of the road ahead.  I have said my farewells to the two women who, at the beginning of the week emerged from the station; they are no longer strangers. I have been helped both in practicalities, and in understanding.  The road stretches out.

Treading the Road of Peaceful Revolution - last blog

Above is blue sky, the pale tender blue of an early spring, crossed by wisps of smoky cloud blown by a sharp breeze.

There is a call, a shrill cry, and the form of a bird of prey, long wings outstretched, drifts over the bare trees.  The grey brown of its feathers can be seen and its head moves from side to side, surveying the ground below.  There is another and another, at different heights, barely a movement of wings, yet they cover immense distances in a matter of seconds.  They are magnificent, free and beautiful.

The ground below is damp and muddy with the footprints of many sheep; several trees lie like broken giants felled by the unusually strong winds of the winter.  It is a blessing to be alive on such a day.

 To wander through life, both physically and psychologically, with no end in sight and no roots to put down, brings a sense of exploration that is neither romantic nor seeking out new experiences.  In engaging with living in this way there is an immediacy to relationships, an openness to question assumptions and a willingness to face insecurity.  It is not possible to hide behind dogma, ideology; to join any movement; to follow or to be followed; and yet if there is any separation from life then all exploration ceases

To wander; to move around; to be free; to travel; to see foreign lands; to observe; to swim in cold rivers and warm seas; to walk in mountains and forests; to see all manner of birds and animals; to listen to the voices of others; to talk to friends and strangers; to make mistakes along the road….. to be human. 

However, I am an ordinary man, somewhat cautious, neither a courageous explorer, nor a discoverer of truth.  Nevertheless, I have always been curious as to what might lie on the other side of the next hill.  I am a family man; I have not as yet uncovered any extraordinary revelations; I have not changed the world although I may have made some difference somewhere; my steps are small, almost inconspicuous, leaving the barest of footprints in the dust, sand, snow, mud and leaves.  All the same there has been movement, constant movement, the passing of time, travelling, ageing, and learning…..always learning.  Not the accumulation of knowledge, just learning: finding out, understanding; so that one word, a gesture, an observation, a reflection, has the possibility of changing the mind, opening new doors and closing old ones.  I have travelled across Europe to India, to various parts of that country and met so many people.  I have visited places in Europe, observing the different cultures.

However, I am a teacher, not of a particular subject, but of children and young people and I have been teaching for a long time.  I have discovered I know very little with certainty, and have more questions than solutions

The pilgrim, the wanderer, the teacher, has a particular responsibility; that is to observe, to listen, to question and to communicate.  How communication comes about varies from person to person.  When modern society is seen in its insanity, arrogance and stupidity, then there has to be some kind of action, and an action that does not arise from a reaction that will further contribute to the mess.  There is a slow, urgent, revolution in progress. The present stage of my pilgrimage is to question and explore the relationship between young and older people through learning and to participate in this revolution.

My pilgrimage may be one I have taken alone, but it is not a lonely journey.  My wife has been is an intricate part of these wanderings; the pattern of my life is weaved in with hers.  My children, grown and living their own lives continue to be an essential part of this exploration, and now my grandchildren form part of this delicate and fragile pattern.  The students I am with now, all the students that have come before them and those that will come after are a constant source of discovery: the wanderer learns the danger of conclusions and the illusion of knowing.

Now, in my seventh decade, the road has left more time in the past than that which will be to come.  As the leaves of the trees turn brown, become brittle and fall, and the branch’s stark beauty is outlined against the silver of the winter sky, so my wanderings will cease.  But now it is spring and there is energy and life in the air; and I am quietly treading the road of peaceful revolution.