Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Quote of the Week # 22

There is essentially only one way in which you can bring about self-transformation - that's if you want to - but you will not think you need to if you are still taking your happiness from outside yourself.
As soon as your happiness is dependent on anything outside, you make yourself a slave to a condition, substance or perhaps a person.
A slave is not free. And happiness is impossible if you are not free.
Perhaps this goes some way to explaining why our happiness fluctuates. Real happiness does not go up and down. Real freedom means that your happiness comes from inside out.
That requires detachment and renunciation, not least from the illusions and conditioning of society which would have you believe happiness can be acquired from outside in.
Inside out, not outside in.

www.thoughtfortoday.org.uk

Cats The Way Girl


Week Twenty-five: Sunday 18 – Saturday 24 March


I’m very fond of dogs; I’d happily have one in my life. Although I find it sad that so many dogs spend so much time inside, so I’m more inclined to wait until I have the opportunity to offer a dog a life outdoors before I find that ever obedient, ever loyal friend.

Cats on the other hand; I’d open my doors to a cat at anytime and in any place. I love cats: you never ‘own’ a cat, you merely facilitate one; if you do it well, in return you get all the subtle pleasures that can be shared between a human and an animal. Cats have no equal.

I get a bit despairing at the ‘cat v dog’ brigade; the assumption that you have to like/prefer one over the other, and that if you do then you automatically dislike the other. Like I say, I’m very fond of dogs; but I love cats.

There have always been cats in my life; although my first proper interaction with an animal was with a Border collie called Lucky who taught me how to walk downstairs when I was two. After Lucky got increasingly unlucky with the cars he used to chase, he had to join the place in the sky for country dogs who can’t settle in urban environments.

He was replaced with a cat called Duffle; all black, he came to us as a kitten and used to climb up the duffle coats and sleep in the hood to escape the attentions of a dozen or more adoring humans.

Duffle was an amazing creature: all cats are. And from Duffle came a line of cats that increasingly became a massive part of my life: Tuppence, Argyll; Star; Emmit. I was fourteen or so when Emmit joined the fray; she was the first cat I developed a very personal bond with. As a result I began to read about cats; not so much the history of the species, although that was interesting, but about the psychology of the species.

My parents moved from Edinburgh when I was 21; they took Emmit with them and I was ‘catless’ until my early thirties when first Marley, then Soxi, shared my life. I’m without a cat these days; life is too itinerant to build that special bond right now.

There is an awful lot of material, fact and fiction, written by some of the most creative and inspiring minds of recent times, out there about cats and how they tick. It doesn’t bother me when people say they prefer dogs over cats; it does bother me when people say they don’t like cats.

To not like a cat is to either not understand a cat, or be subconsciously jealous of its intelligence, grace and beauty, coupled with cunning, guile and independence. For anyone in any doubt about why cats have to be at least admired and respected, if not loved and adored, read ‘The Cat That Walked By Himself’ by Rudyard Kipling. It is a masterpiece in many ways, none least in the way it explains so much about cats.

By far and away the best non-fiction book I’ve read about cats is, ‘The Cat in Your Life’ by Karen Anderson. It is a fantastic, easy to read and digest, account of cat psychology and human/feline relations.

Basically, to enjoy the wonders of a proper relationship and friendship with a cat, you have to begin, and end, with respect. It is all about respect. A cat chooses to become your friend; that won’t happen until they feel they are respected and can respect you. Once a cat chooses you as a friend you’re a friend for life, so the decision is not made lightly. Cats have very sensitive, gentle emotions; they are easily offended and discouraged when it comes to relationships; that’s why they act so aloof about it all. It’s a protection; just like humans protect their feelings.

Once the decision to choose you as a friend is made, if it gets made, you’re in heaven; it is a unique and sublimely rewarding experience. But you only ever facilitate them; facilitate that friendship. As Kipling says, ‘ … when the moon gets up and night comes, I am the cat that walks by myself, and all places are alike to me.’

Anderson hits the mark when she states, ‘Cats actually do crave the deep, committed, I’m-in-this-for-the-long-haul kind of love that a human companion can offer. They only appear to have a take-it-or-leave-it attitude. Love your cat in a language they can understand, and they will feel safe enough to love you back; once you enter into an intimate relationship with a cat it’s like signing a pact. You will have won their heart, and they will respect you profoundly – so you have responsibilities and obligations to live up to.’ She should have added, 'and yet the cat in your life will always be independent and free.'

Instinctively, and without knowing, I have passed on my obvious respect, admiration and love for cats to my daughter. From an early age she has been bending at the knee with me, in street or garden, stretching out her arm and hand and rubbing her thumb and forefinger in unison with me, and chanting the ‘puss, puss – puss, puss’ mantra, that pleads with the cat to rub against your fingers and let you stroke them, in tune with me. With had a bit of success too; several cats have rubbed up against us both and let us both stroke and tickle them.

She is too young yet to learn about the complexities that make up a cats character and personality. However, she already knows about being patient and gentle with a cat at all times, and how to kiss them by ‘looking them in the eye and blinking eyelids at them.’

She has a real fondness and innate love for cats already – just over three years-old. I love it: partly because I love cats and know we will enjoy cats together as she gets older; partly because I know what special delights in she in for if she continues to develop and hone her already obvious admiration and respect for cats.

Her first full-on, all by myself, ‘cat experience’ occurred the other week, while I was at a football ground watching Hibernian FC win a trophy in some style.

My sister’s cat, a big, proud, handsome striped Tom, who spends most of his time inhabiting and exploring the countryside, although he frequently appears in the house for love, affection and food. He wandered into the kitchen, sniffed around all those in the room and then jumped up onto my daughter’s lap and nestled in.

My daughter was in awe and ecstasy: she said nothing; her face said it all. Her eyes and body language blared out, ‘Look at me, look at me; there’s a cat on my lap.’

Despite being at Hampden to see the Hibs captain, Rob Jones, lift the League Cup after demolishing Kilmarnock 5-1, when I heard the story of my daughter’s first cat experience, and saw the photos, I wished I’d been there instead.
Okay, maybe two places at once; I would really loved to have shared my daughter's first cat experience with her.

Tuesday, March 20, 2007

Quote of the Week # 21

If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come.

Chinese Proverb

Glory, Glory To The Hibees


Week Twenty-four: Sunday 11 – Saturday 17 March

I have often been accused over the years of being a little too green for my own good. Now I'm sure those who have directed such comments in my direction were referring to my naivety, not my dedication to Hibernian FC. Either way, who cares?

The fact is: if you have a love, a passion, a deep rooted care, for a football team then when they have won a national trophy, a major piece of silverware, then you really don't care about anything at all. Or, conversely, you care deeply about everything; it's just that nothing matters, nothing is a problem, all is well with the world.

So whether I am too naive for my own good, or whether I am too committed to my football team, Hibernian FC, or whether both and a whole lot of other faults thrown into the mix, I don't care. Not right now, at this particular moment. You see the Hibees did me, and all the tens of thousands of other Hibs fans in Edinburgh and all other parts of the globe, proud on Sunday 18 March 2007 by beating Kilmarnock FC 5-1 in the League Cup Final. Yes, 5-1!

We (Hibs) hadn't won a trophy for 16 years. We'd lost a couple of finals in that time, and a few semi-finals too. But no trophy for 16 years! Until now.

We were all nervous at Hampden Park, Glasgow, anticipating possible disappointment again. No need to worry. We were 1-0 up after 30 minutes and went in at half-time holding that lead. The second half was a stroll in the park, apart from a five minute spell when Kilmarnock got their consolation goal to make it 3-1. Other than that, our name was always on the cup.

I wasn't even going to go to the game; cash and time constraints convincing me that I couldn't afford to make the journey. But as fate/luck/karma would have it, I won two tickets and travelling expenses in a competition four days before the big day. I hastily booked a car and made travel plans. Driving up on the Saturday, driving back on the Sunday night.

It was worth every second of the trip to be there. Not just for me personally to see my team win a cup, but to be with my brother and my nephews at the game and share in the joy and euphoria with them.

It is because of my big brother that I support Hibs, and it is because of me that virtually all of my nephews support Hibs. There were four of them at the game with my brother and me, two of whom are too young to have seen, or remember seeing, Hibs last trophy triumph. I have seen how upset they have been when Hibs have failed in the past; I have shared their pain and felt responsible for their suffering, having convinced them to be Hibs supporters in the first place.

But on Sunday, before the game had even finished and it was clear that we had won, I felt only happiness to be part of something special in my life, my brother's life and the lives of my nephews. Hibernian FC - we love you.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Quote of the Week # 20

I have found that if you love life, life will love you back.

Arthur Rubinstein

Express Yourself

Week Twenty-three: Sunday 4 – Saturday 10 March

I’ve been banging my drum a lot recently. Calm down euphemists, calm down. I joined a Samba drumming group about six weeks ago; every Friday night, for an hour-and-a-half, I go along and bang a drum.

It is a great thing to do. Not only am I learning how to drum and about drumming, something I have wanted to do since I lived in Zimbabwe and became mesmerized by the trance inducing drumming I experienced there, I am expressing myself.

All the thoughts, worries, concerns, tensions and pensiveness that I carry around with me all week dissipate for that one and a half hours as I bang away to the rhythms of the Samba band.

I really feel liberated while I bash away, and I get an opportunity to express myself. It’s such an important thing to do – express yourself.

Last week the Samba band even had a gig. Thursday 8 March was International Women's Day; as we practice at the Falmouth Women's Institute we offered to lead the procession that marched through Falmouth High Street. It poured with rain for the whole of the march, but the marchers got a lot of public support as we followed the banner clad women raising awareness about the many inequalities that still beset women all over the world in the 21st Century. All about expression, and expressing yourself.

Children, of course, are far more adept at expressing themselves than us adults, bashed and moulded into societal constraints as we are.

Take my five year old nephew, who comes to visit us once a week with his dad, my brother. Last week, after dinner, he (my nephew, not brother) decided to strip off to his underpants and run around the house hollering and whooping like an extra from a Mel Gibson movie.

Now, in certain circumstances such behaviour would cause embarrassment and discomfort to the adults present; not in my house, where such expressiveness is encouraged and treated with impressed pleasure. Actually, the person who seemed most put out about my nephew’s strip tease, near nakedness and hollering was my three year old daughter.

Which is kind of odd, as she loves nothing more than running around the house naked after she has had a bath screeching and laughing. Her favourite activity after a bath, and whilst still naked, is to get on our bed and jump up and down as if her life depended on it. Like a dog retrieving a ball or stick, she seems content to carry on jumping, then loosing her balance and falling, until she collapses with exhaustion. Even when she bangs her head on the wall, or falls off the bed, she isn’t perturbed for long and is soon back, big smile on her face, jumping away.

And she finds more subtle ways to express herself too. Last Saturday my wife and I went out for a meal, thanks to the kindness of one of my course mates who offered to baby-sit, or ‘big girl sit’ as our daughter insisted it be called.

Now, it was a bit of an act of expression on my wife and my part as we haven’t been out for a meal since our daughter was born. We felt quite excited about having a totally trustworthy person in the house looking after our daughter while we went on a ‘date’. And a lovely night we had too; pre-dinner drinks, and then to the local steak house for a couple of juicy slabs of red meat. An African’s dream; I don’t think such a thing as a vegetarian exists in Africa! And I love my beef too – euphemists, relax.

All had gone well with the big girl sitting when we returned; Jenny (my course mate) merely mentioning that she didn’t know what pyjamas our daughter was to wear and, given she seemed very sure of herself, she let her pick her own night wear.

When our daughter came through to our room in the morning she was dressed in the most eclectic mix of clothing, never mind pyjamas, that we have ever seen her in! A pair of purple ankle socks, three quarter length floral trousers that she hasn’t even worn yet as we have been waiting for summer, and a stripy vest top. She looked great, even though, while it doesn’t really matter what she wears to bed so long as she has something warm and comfortable on, her outfit bore no resemblance to her normal pyjamas.

Once again, I learn more from my daughter than I can ever hope to teach her. I just wish I was able to lock into that expressive, free will that a child comes into the world with for more than one-and-a-half hours a week.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Quote of the Week # 19

My curse upon thy venom'd stang,
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang;
And thro' my lugs gies mony a twang,
Wi' gnawing vengeance;
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang,
Like racking engines!

Rabbie Burns (on toothache)

Extraction Inaction

Week Twenty-two: Sunday 25 February – Saturday 3 March

I don’t know what a bear with a sore head looks or acts like. I imagine much like anyone with a sore head; I have my doubts that there has been any research to prove that bears are worse with sore heads than any other creature. And anyway, a sore head is a stroll in the country on a warm summer day compared to the hell that is toothache and tooth extraction.

Having supped malt whisky all day Sunday to alleviate the pain, I phoned for an emergency operation first thing on Monday morning and was given an appointment for the next day. That was a relief, but not from the ache, so it was back to the malt whisky. Having your first swill and swallow of malt at 8.45am and continuing every half hour or so for the rest of the day is not just a recipe for alcohol dependency, it renders you pretty incapable of much else by mid-afternoon. But what other choice did I have?

Having got through Monday, I was all set on Tuesday to get the tooth out. Only problem was the appointment was not until 11.30am and I couldn’t risk touching anymore whisky as I was going to have a fair whack of anaesthetic at the dentists. What to do? Suffer the pain; it was only a few hours after all.

It was hell, no exaggeration. The previous four days I had coped with a mixture of first pain killers, then whisky, then both. I had forgotten just how bloody painful the toothache was. I agitated and agonised through the morning, then rushed off to the dentist way before time.

When I finally got called in to the surgery room I was begging the dentist to inject me before I had even sat down. It took about five minutes for the anaesthetic to kick in and from that moment on I was quite happy; the dentist could have done a lot more to me than just take a tooth out and I would have been nonplussed.

The extraction was not too bad; it was a bugger of a tooth to get out (aren’t they all), but I felt nothing and was simply relieved.

By Tuesday night I was beginning to feel the effects of a mouth, jaw and bone that had been violated … more painkillers dealt with that. By Wednesday my mouth was not healing as it should and by Thursday I had an infection in the hole where my tooth used to be. Off to the doctors this time, to get some antibiotics.

So much of last week was a bit of a write off for me; I got little work done and was miserable most of the time. And, in the true art of misery, I passed that lack of bonhomie on to my wife and daughter. Luckily I am blessed with a wife from heaven and a daughter to match.