The Night Is Dark

And I am far from home
Lead thou me on...

Sometimes I lose hope. Especially when I've been sick for a long time and it just doesn't seem to let up. Like now.

And I start to get really morbid (joy blog notwithstanding).

I ask, what's the point? Who even cares?

Silence.

Then a spark.

And then somewhere, in the ether, an answer makes its way to me.

A glimpse of a word from an article. A phrase jumps out of a book. Or usually, it's Libera singing on my car radio. And the answer coincides with my question. Or situation.

And recently, they sang:

Love and mercy that's what you need tonight
So, love and mercy to you and your friends tonight

And funnily enough that penetrated my unprofitable train of thought. It lifted the darkness. It let the light shine through.

I guess there are angels all around us. And they do speak to us. We just haven't learned how to listen very well.

Soul Smile

Mizpah*

Remember the ragpicker Nits? I thought of him the other day and I went to my bookshelf and picked up The Return of the Ragpicker, rather than The Greatest Miracle in the World.

Why?

Because I remembered Mizpah, and I wanted to remember what it said. All those years ago, when I stumbled across Greatest Miracle, devoured it, bought God knows how many copies to give out to my friends. The warmth of that story, the old man, which brought tears to our eyes and we read and re-read that bit at the end. For 100 days? Who knows.

But as I was reading, I came across this excerpt about how to live longer. The message, so simple. Practise altruism. But I'l let Simon tell you about it, shall I?

*************************************************************************

"Now," I said softly, "let me get a good look at you."

After several minutes of silent embracing, I had taken the old man's hand and led him toward a portion of the pound's wall, running parallel to Blueberry Lane, that stood only two boulders high. What had been the third and and top tier of stones from that section lay on the ground inside the pound, half-buried in decaying oak and maple leaves, probably dislodged from their original position by men or boys with little else to do.

Now Simon sat facing me on the low wall, our feet resting on the fallen boulders. I reached out, gently caressed his wrinkled cheeks, and shook my head in wonder. "Amazing! It's been - how long? -- fifteen years since I last saw you and except for...forgive me...except for a little less hair on top, you haven't changed at all. Your birthday...the one that we celebrated in Chicago...help me...which one was that?"

He smiled and those warm, brown eyes opened wider. "You mean on that very special occasion when you and I planted your gift of a glass geranium outside in the cold in my second story window box?

"That's the one."

"The year was 1974 and that was my seventy-ninth birthday."

"My God, that means you are now...ninety-five years old! Look at you! What a miracle you are! Your eyes are clear, you stand just as tall and proud as back then, you felt as strong as an ironworker when you hugged me, and that beautiful voice still sounds like ti should be performing at the Metropolitan Opera. What's your secret?"

"We are all surviving longer than our parents and grandparents, Mister Og. In 1900 only one in twenty-five lived to celebrate his or her sixty-fifth birthday. Today, one in eight in this country is beyond that age. A child born back around the turn of the century could expect to live, on average, only forty years. Today's babies, with any luck at all, will make it to seventy-five. America is indeed turning gray. Already we 'over sixty-fivers' outnumber our teenagers. You want my secret for my long, long life? There is no secret. My reaching this very advanced age, so many years beyond even today's improved death rate, seems to be some sort of mysterious bonus granted to nearly all of God's ragpickers...to just about every individual who willingly renders aid and comfort and caring to those less fortunate. Now this great benefit for acting as one's brother's or sister's keeper, in volunteer work without pay, may still be a secret but I can assure you it will not remain so very long. Many reputable journals, such as Psychology Today, Longevity, and even my old favorite, Better Homes and Gardens, are already calling the public's attention to this mysterious connection between being what I would call a ragpicker...a giver of oneself, if you will...and additional years of life."

Simon Potter reading Better Homes and Gardens? That was a picture difficult to imagine until I reminded myself that the old man's quest for truth had always been unlimited in its range and passion. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees while he studied his folded hands.

"Mister Og, as you know, my profession, my avocation, my hobby, my life's mission for several decades has been that of a ragpicker. However, unlike other ragpickers, I salvage not empty beer and pop containers and old newspapers and cast-off clothes, but people...individuals who have fallen on bad times and find themselves, at last, on life's rubbish heaps. With much patience and work and the help of God I have been truly fortunate to rescue many lives and thus provide them with another chance to fulfill their true destinies, including many who have nearly drowned in the terrible whirpool of alcohol and drugs, two deadly enemies that are now penetrating every level of our society."

The old man patted my knee. "I believe I have even been able to make some contributions to your life. You are a much better man today, Mister Og, than you were back in the mid-seventies when we would meet and chat in my small apartment in Chicago, near your office, after you had spent long and difficult days as president of W. Clement Stone's excellent magazine, Success Unlimited. Your many books and your countless speeches on success, around the world, have contributed much to humanity since you resigned your position, in 1976, to devote, as you said, all your time to writing, lecturing....and golfing."

"You know what I've been doing?"

He nodded. "I have been following your activities closely. But first, let me finish with this longevity matter, because it is so very important and with your great following, perhaps you might choose to spread the word. First, there are four very simple rules that one must live by in order to increase the odds of a longer life and everyone knows what they are although I'm afraid that many lack the necessary fortitude or pride in themselves to observe them. First, just use some common sense in the amounts and types of food you stuff into yourself. You need no calorie or nutritional expert standing by to guide you. Second rule...when it comes to drugs and alcohol turn away, completely, except for perhaps an occasional glass of wine on a special occasion. Third," he said, wincing as he held up his battered and unlit corncob pipe, "put nothing in your mouth that is smoking at its other end. The fourth rule is to exercise moderately, at least three times a week. A thirty-minutes brisk walk will do just fine. Jogging so many miles each day that you are in excruciating pain and ready to drop is not required. Just be certain you remain active and never, never fall slave to that television set. Those who are referred to as 'couch potatoes' are committing the most insidious and saddest form of suicide known to this generation."

Simon then raised both his hands, fingers extended like some great maestro, to emphasize what he was about to say. "Now, my dear friend, any child over the age of ten could have probably given you those four commonsense steps to a longer life, but the fifth and most important step is little known as yet, although its value is so great that it can multiply, perhaps by a factor of two or three, those additional years anyone can add to their life by following the first four rules. Are you ready...?

It was like old times. The master was teaching. The pupil was learning. "I'm ready!"

"Practice altruism!"

"Altruism?"

Simon seemed to be enjoying the puzzled look on my face. "Altruism. Mister Og, according to Webster's, is an unselfish regard for, or devotion to, the welfare of others. For reasons that science and medicine do not even understand as yet, it appears that those who give of their time and energy to assist others, on a volunteer basis and with no expected reward, seem to suffer from far less stress and depression in their lives while enjoying many more invigorating moments of self-satisfaction, pride and a greater capacity for work, along with peace and contentment. Also, anyone fueled by these positive life charges will rarely suffer through the negative jolts of self-pity, hopelessness, and failure that always cause so much damage to anyone's immune system. What is so amazing is that several of the bright minds currently researching this whole area of longevity have come to believe that while we are in the process of helping others unselfishly, our body seems to release pain-relieving chemicals called endorphins, which athletes identify as the element that produces a runner's high."

"What a great recruiting tool for those organizations seeking volunteers, such as the American Red Cross, United Way, and Big Brothers. Join us and live longer!"

Simon scowled at what he probably mistook as my levity. "Mister Og, this is not some crackpot speculation that you might find in your newsstand scandal sheets. As down-to-earth a magazine as Better Homes and Gardens conducted a survey of its readers, asking how they felt when the regularly helped other voluntarily. The responses, turned over to the Institute for the Advancement of Health for analysis and review, indicated that a large percentage of those who assisted others through volunteer work actually became aware of a warm and pleasant physical sensation that has come to be referred to as a 'helper's high.' So you see, sir, less food and alcohol and a lot of practiced altruism, perhaps in your own neighborhood, will contribute greatly toward your chances of hanging around long enough to see your grandchildren grow up. And that, my old friend, probably explains why you think I look so good for my advanced years. I'm a ragpicker, and all ragpickers practice a lot of altruism every day. Anyone can join our club. No dues. No meetings. And financial contributions to worthy causes, I might add, do not seem to have any effect on one's longevity. You've got to give of yourself and your time with no thought of any of any kind...not even a 'thank you.'"

"Albert Schweitzer?"

The old man's face lit up. "A perfect example. Writer, musician, theologian, philosopher...one of the world's all-time men of talent and wisdom, and yet for the last fifty years of his life, as a medical missionary, he ran a hospital in the jungle with his own funds for the natives of French Equatorial Africa...a hospital he literally built with his own hands. They buried him at ninety."

"Simon, I remember reading somewhere that he was in great condition, both mentally and physically, almost to the very end, and he once said that the only thing that made him feel old was all the mail he received that he was unable to answer."

Excerpted from The Return of the Ragpicker by Og Mandino

* The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent, one from another.

Ode to Joy

My old blogging buddy Nessa once told me that this scene, of the boy Ludwig lying in a lake full of stars and staring up at the sky, reminded her of me. We have never met. And then she sent me the DVD Immortal Beloved. And I was blown away.

True art transcends everything. Because that's just the way it is.

Some Good News About Endangered Animals

After covering the last surviving rhinos in Sabah (I shall feature the stories I wrote about that sometime soon), something in me seems to have shifted. I actually clicked on and read this story and cheered. Also, Martha Beck's book about the work they are doing at Londolozi helped. Animals coming back from the brink. What more could we ask for?



The last West African giraffes, now living in the wild only in southwestern Niger, are making a comeback with numbers standing at 310 last year, the environment ministry said here Wednesday.

Only 50 of them, their lowest number, was recorded in 1996.

The 'giraffa camelopardalis peralta', distinguished by its light-coloured spots and found only in the Sahel, was nearly extinct when a campaign was launched to protect it from poachers.

"Efforts deployed by the government to protect the giraffes have borne fruit as their population has increased from about 50 in 1996 to 310 in 2011," the ministry said quoting the result of the latest census.

The giraffes -- 146 males and 164 females -- live in the vicinity of Koure, a little over an hour by road from the capital Niamey.

The Association to Safeguard the Giraffes of Niger (ASGN), a non-governmental organisation which works along with the French zoo of Doue La Fontaine, has set up community projects in the area to encourage the local population to preserve the giraffes.

They have offered seed to farmers, dug wells, and granted interest-free micro-loans to women to help them set up small businesses.

Two giraffes were killed by poachers in 2010, but highway traffic, especially at night, is even more of a threat to the animals.

The ASGN attempted in 2010 to keep track of the giraffes by way of satellite-radio transmitters attached to their necks, but these had to be removed after several animals developed problems wearing them.

The Join-up

I've just come back from dinner - company was good but my stomach is still upset so I picked at the food and had a pleasant conversation. I can't wait for Lent to be over and for me to be back to me.

So in the meantime, in the hiatus of all good feelings inside me, I'll share the good feelings of others, k?


If I wanted to, I could see the little palomino by looking at top of my own shoulder, picking her up in my peripheral vision. But instead I just let my eyes drink in the scenery: the rolling California hills, dappled with light falling through the clouds, a truck parked nearby. Everything, including the truck, seems equally beautiful and equally alive. At this moment the palomino is neither more nor less important to me than the sky.

To say I haven't spent my entire afternoon in this state of serene detachment is like saying that the Three Stooges were not neurosurgeons. For what feels like hours, I've been pursuing a herd of two-year-old colts in weird slow motion. I amble up to them in arcs. They wait until I get close, then nervously move to a different part of the field, whereupon I doggedly start amble-arcing toward them again. My instructors have told me that striding up to them in a straight line could scare them off for good. My goal is to serpentine, calmly but relentlessly.

Amble, arc. Arc, amble.

Oops. There they go again.

I keep thinking of that joke about the turtle who's mugged by two snails and later tells the police, "I'm sorry, I can't remember much. It all happened so fast!" Perhaps it was unwise to relinquish my afternoon and good sense to the renowned horse whisperer Monty Roberts and his protégé Koelle Simpson. I've just met both of them (never suspecting that I'll later spend some of the best days of my life watching Koelle "whisper" zebras and elephants). Monty kindly invited me to his farm after I mentioned his horse-training method in a magazine article. He and Koelle have brought me out here to this lush pasture and are now standing by the fence calling instructions and encouragement.

"Keep arcing!" they say. "A little faster -- no, not that fast! Watching out for -- well, that's okay. Manure is easy to slip in. Don't worry, they haven't gone far. Just get up and start over."

My ears burn with shame. Theoretically I'm learning to behave like a strong, determined horse leader, mimicking the gestures, positioning, and energy of a "matriarch mare." (Horse herds are led by experienced females, while the stallions bring up the rear, defending against predators and competing sperm donors.) Monty told me to focus my attention on the little palomino. If I approach her with just the right actions and attitude, she'll follow me of her own free will. I've seen Monty and Koelle do this with other horses. I believe it will work. But for me, learning horse communication is like trying to yodel in Latvian while undergoing dental surgery.

"Don't worry!" shouts Koelle as the herd bolts yet again. "You're doing great!"

Amble, amble, arc, arc, amble, amble, arc, arc. Buh-bye now.

Why the damn palomino, anyway? She's the jitteriest, least approachable horse in the herd. They're domestic-born but not yet trained, and to me the palomino seems almost wild. After an eternity of watching me amble, some of the other colts are so bored with me that I can walk right in between them, gently pushing them aside with my hands. But just when I get within arm's length of the palomino...

"That's okay!" Monty says as the filly tosses her head and runs off, accompanied by the entire herd. "Keep trying! You've almost got it!"

Yeah, I wish.

But then, about fifteen minutes later, by George, I get it.

Maybe I'm so tired I slipped into Wordlessness, though this is before I've learned to value this state. Maybe, there's something in human DNA that clicks into equine communication during emergencies. ("A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!") All I know is that one moment the motion of the herd seems chaotic and random, and the next, everything is meaningful. I don't need Monty and Koelle to tell me why I'm ambling in arcs; I just feel that the horses like it better than the straight-line approach.

A subtle but absolutely clear awareness diffuses through my internal world, like dye colouring a glass of water. It saturates my body, then flows beyond me to the palomino. The moment it touches her, I know she'll let me touch her. I arc up to her, hold out a hand, see her skin shudder, gently move away, move in again. We both draw in a breath, exhale in unison. I lay my hand on her neck, brush off some dust and hay, scratch along the line of her mane. Then I arc away, walk a few yards, and stop.

No need to think.

The California hills, the clouds, the light, the truck. Everything beautiful. Everything equal.

I don't look behind me because I didn't need to; the palomino has already told me she's coming. The stream of communication connecting us feels as real to me as a signed contract. So I expect to hear the little horse's footsteps drawing near. Instead, confusingly, there's a strange rustling sound, like a cottonwood tree in the wind, or a church congregation shifting in a quiet chapel.

I feel a puff of warm, moist air on my right shoulder, and then, a moment later, the palomino's velvet nose. She's accepted me as a leader. She stands behind me radiating the sweet blend of power, guilelessness, humility, and trust that is particular to horses. My eyes fill with tears. Though I've seen "join-ups" like this before, the moment is a miracle. I can't imagine feeling anything quite so magical ever again.

Until I feel a second nose, a second puff of warmth, this time in the center of my back. And then a third, on my left upper arm.

Confused, I look at my shoulder to see, peripherally, what's going on behind me. (Turning and staring would tell the horses to run.) A warm buzz runs through my body and the hair prickles on my arms as I understand what that rustling noise was: not four hooves walking up to me, but sixty-four. The palomimo is the matriarch mare of the herd. When she accepted me, so did all the others.

I walk forward. An entire herd of horses, of their own free will, walks with me. I turn left. They turn left. I circle right. So do they. I stop. They stop. That sweet horse energy fills my body so completely I seem to be seeing through their huge soft eyes, hearing through their fuzzy ears. The loveliness of this day blends seamlessly with their consciousness. There are infinite wonders out here in this pasture: the herd, the horse whisperers, the truck, every mouse and mosquito living in the grass. me.

And there is only One.

Martha Beck

Tales From An Observation Ward

So yeah, I woke up feeling better, if tender all over. I unfurled my limbs like the petals of a morning glory and got out of bed. Having eaten nothing the day before I was slightly sluggish, but I could feel that the bad stuff had passed. Well, nearly all of it. There was still one run to the bathroom for what I think was the final clear out.

Walking around gingerly I took my time getting ready, and it was past noon when I was finally dressed and ready for work.

And then Dadda calls out: "Jenny can you come here?"

And he asked me to leave a taxi number.

Now with my father, "leave a taxi number" is code for "I'm having chest pains and need to get to a hospital."

I said, get dressed, I'll take you now. And he said, no, no, go to work.

Long and short, he got dressed and I drove him to the Accident and Emergency and then went off to park the car. By the time I'd managed this and made my way to A&E, he'd already been wheeled in for observation. I watched as the student doctor tried to insert an IV, hurting him terribly in the process. She probably didn't like being watched, so she sent me out to register. Except that he had already been registered. When I made my back in and started pestering her with questions, she said, I'm just a student, you need to talk to the doctor.

So I amble up to the doctor, who fixes me with a gimlet stare and says, no, he doesn't know if Dadda will be admitted and he'll only know once they do the X-ray and blood work.

Reasonable enough, except that his tone put my back up and I started to seethe. So they put Dadda in for X-rays, they extract blood and when he tries to give that little yellow slip to the doctor, that (expletives deleted, this is family blog after all) simply chucks it on a nearby table and walks on.

OK, calm down, calm down. I go retrieve the paper and give it to an orderly who has been helping us and is very polite (later we realise that he or one of the 10 or so people whose hands he passed through in this one visit, has lost his blue card). The orderly smiles, takes it from me and moves on. And no, he doesn't chuck it on a table.

I'm thinking I should really, really shift my state now. All this concentrated animosity towards the arrogant doctor (and why does the UH have a higher share of them than anywhere else?) is not helping. He probably feels the arrows of sheer abhorrence coming out from me. I need a distraction.

The bed next to Dadda's is occupied by a young lady. She is in a white coat and she seems to be smiling and cheerful, and I can't fathom her presence in the observation ward where everyone looks this close to heaven.

She asks me what is wrong with my father, I tell her, then ask her the same.

"I have a brain tumour," she answers, cheerfulness unabated. "And I had some fits today. Irregular activity so I was admitted so they could observe. But I'm probably going to be discharged soon."

She is a pharmacist working at that hospital. Only 34 years old. Last year, they bored a hole in her skull and removed a tumour the size of a ping pong ball. 4cm lesions, she said. This year, it's back, (1 cm lesions) and she is option of radio surgery instead where they do not have to bore another hole in her skull. She relays all this information in a matter of fact manner. She tells me that when they remove a tumour they remove a little of the surrounding cells which may be affected. I mean, if these cells are not too important. Not if they're related to language or motor skills (which they just might be, seeing as the tumour is in her left parietal lobe). But if they're related to memory, I mean what's the loss of a memory or two, right?

I take out my Jill Bolte Taylor and show her. After all, Jill goes on and on about the brain in that. She takes note of the name and asks if it is easily available. I tell her that it might be as when I bought it, it was on display at Borders (the Gardens one). She nods.

No, she doesn't want to read it now as her head does not feel OK. She will get a copy later, maybe. There are so many books she wants to read which she never got around to reading. Like Cecelia Ahern's PS, I Love You.

I can't believe how matter of fact she is. Or how cheerful. She insists on remaining upright and chatting because she doesn't want to lie down. She wants to see if there will be anymore seizures. Her doctor comes to ask her some questions.

Her answers are technical in the extreme, making me wonder if she is the ideal patient.

Because my attention is effectively distracted now, I no longer feel that burgeoning animosity towards that doctor. I am concentrating on cheering up a patient that frankly doesn't seem to need any cheering up.

Finally the doctor strolls over and tells Dadda something which I don't hear because I'm still in mid-chat. But his voice is even, modulated, and dare I say it, polite?

He then asks to speak to and tells me that the chest pains Dadda has been experiencing are not the onset of a heart attack but heartburn caused by indigestion and he is going to prescribe some heartburn medication. His whole demeanour has changed and I can't understand it. Except that I can. When I stopped feeling offended, he stopped being offensive.

I come back to Dadda, who's IV is being removed by a nurse. He wants to follow me to get the medication, but the nurse says it would be better for him to wait here. The girl with the brain tumour asks to see what the doctor has prescribed and she nods her head...hmmm, all this is medication for heartburn. So it's not cardio then. Wow, she seems to be as good as any doctor. And this with a tumour pressing on her parietal lobe.

I shake hands with her and wish her all the best. She smiles at me and we say goodbye.

She was just the person I needed to meet to turn around the situation. I guess I'm hypersensitive and take offence easily. And when I do and I get angry, the other person can feel it and they react. Making a bad situation worse.

Dadda was allowed to leave. We had some lunch at PJ Hills and then I drove him home. The dogs were overjoyed to see us. Too late to go to the office, and besides, I've already taken emergency leave for today because I didn't know how long I would need to stick around.

I don't remember her name. But I do remember her smile. And I don't think I will forget it.