Christmas Matters

Goodness me. The Christmas tree has finally been erected in our ancestral home in Royston, after days, even weeks of gentle reminders (face to face) and moans (out of ear shot) to my father, now a 72 year old man. Timely. The children and I had returned from watching the film “Nativity2 – Danger in the Manger”, which had perfectly put us in the mood for a bit of Christmas cheer and frivolity. Christmas is a time for children so it warmed the heart to return in the night, when it was cold, to be greeted by a house of colourful tree lights and a green twinkling (albeit artificial) tree in the corner of our cozy, open fired living room.

Our second morning in the UK saw us wake up to a sea of snow all around the area, as – unaware of any forecasts – white magic had enveloped our neighbourhood overnight. By 8am we are all in the garden making a snowman, throwing a few snowballs at each other and clicking the camera. Perfect moment for a family that has not spent Christmas together in the UK ever – the children’s first experience of snow in England. I had woken in the earlier hours and taken a few eerie pre-dawn photographs, trying to capturing the Narniasque atmosphere. It has been worth coming back to England just for this!

It has been good to see family – a gathering on Saturday 15^th December saw us all assemble in a Hitchin Public House for our traditional fare, and to exchange the first of the Christmas presents.   A traditional Christmas dinner at “Dad’s” is planned for Christmas Day – again a first for our children. Socio economic factors have always meant that we have felt our Christmas way of doing things has never mirrored the ‘perfect’ representation we see in the British media and pre-Christmas advertisement waves. As children growing up in east and north east London it never bothered us until we became more self-conscious as teenagers. I hope my own children are equally untouched and untroubled by this awareness.

Anniversary Matters

17 years married to the day. It all began in Nepal in 1994, when I met Manisha in the Nepal-India border town of Birgung. I was first introduced to her father, Mahendra, and gradually came to know the family. After a trek into the Langtang Himalaya together, Manisha and I decided to tie the knot, and the official court marriage ceremony was completed on 1^st December 1995. Due to visa red tape, I returned to the UK shortly after that, alone; and it was not until I had secured a job and was seen to be earning a UK salary once more, that I was able to ‘sponsor’ Manisha and bring her back to England as my wife.

How naïve I was then, were we both.

17 years on and now with 2 beautiful children – Chris (11 and Rebecca (5)…

Dinner for two yesterday at Nandos restaurant, followed by a film – Life of Pi. The film was interesting, especially the first half, set in India. The second half of the film following Pi’s shipwreck adventure, dragged a little, but the magical imaginary visuals were lovely to watch in 3D. Thanks to Annie, Manisha’s sister, for baby-sitting Chris and Rebecca.

Off to Changi airport later this afternoon, for our onward flight to the UK via Qatar. Winter vacation.

Strange noises that go bump in the … morning

I awoke with a start. The alarm had sounded at 6.30am; or rather my ‘must-remember-to-go-running’ reminder had buzzed me awake at this hour on the cusp of dawn.

My first thought was that a hanging had collapsed onto the floor inside my apartment, or a cupboard had fallen off its hinges. I slipped out of bed drearily, opened a few curtains and windows and gingerly crept in and out my suite of rooms, looking anxiously for the cause of the clamour, sleepy eyes searching in dreaded  anticipation of seeing a broken appendage on the floor. 

Nothing. 

As I opened the windows in my daughter's bedroom, instantly I knew the source of the clatter that had stirred me. A car lay crashed into a metal post and electrical box, the driver’s door open, but no other vehicle  in the vicinity. It appeared that the driver had lost control, maybe in trying to swerve to avoid another motor car, or had simply misjudged the wheel turn. Oddly, only a couple of security guards from our apartment block stood around, the identity or whereabouts of the driver unclear. 

Later, after I had finally donned my running gear and made my way downstairs and jogged past the   scene of the incident, I was no further enlightened. No driver, no other car. Later still – perhaps about an hour after the accident - I saw the car being towed away by a truck…

I prayed that any persons 'involved' were alright; and I thought of the Tamil lady who had died from a vehicle collision only last week…

Continuing my reading of Claxton’s Hare Brain Tortoise Mind, I share with you a favourite passage from this morning’s quiet time:

“In some moods it is possible to gain glimpses of what seems to be knowledge or truth of a sort – of a rather deep sort, perhaps – which is not an answer to a consciously held question; and which cannot be articulated clearly, literally, without losing precisely that quality which seems to  make it most valuable. There is a kind of knowing which is essentially indirect, sideways, allusive and symbolic; which hints and evokes and moves in ways that resist explication.“ p.173.

What matters?

The Tamil lady passed away on Friday morning, 9^th November 2012, in Sultanah Amirah Hospital in Johor Bahru. She had been hit by a motor cyclist while crossing a busy road the day before, on Thursday morning, a stone’s throw away from our organisation’s local office. At the time of the accident a group of colleagues and I had walked briskly to the scene of the road side accident. Another colleague had in fact partially observed the accident from the office window; several of us had heard the sound of the impact of the motorcycle on the lady’s body, that unforgettable thud noise. Later it was reported how the body had been thrown some distance due to the impact, had been almost bounced along like a rubber doll.

She was bleeding badly when we arrived road side. It was unclear from where the blood was coming. Possibly the side of her face, but there was blood oozing from her mouth and nose as well. She appeared to be breathing, and occasionally breathed more awkwardly as if feeling the pain more acutely. An arm was broken, and I later learned from her relatives at the hospital that in fact she had also broken her hip bone and her leg. Her condition roadside was critical. I lay beside her stroking her shoulder, checking on her breathing, occasionally offering comforting words, a part of me terrified that I might have to give her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. We had placed her in the recovery position, but with all those broken bones, perhaps in retrospect, such movement had only made the trauma all the more worse. What else could we have done? An ambulance had been called, but seemed to be taking an interminably long time to get there. There was in fact a much closer private hospital nearby, but this lady would be a government hospital patient, and would have to wait for her transport to the hospital in a more distant part of town.

When the ambulance finally arrived, maybe half an hour or more after the collision, the staff seemed hesitant about the scene before them. They were slow in their application of a neck and arm support and clumsy it seemed in positioning the limp body on the mobile stretcher, a body which was then shunted into the back of the ambulance vehicle in a rough sliding motion. There seemed an absence of compassion at the scene, these ‘medical’ men, nay boys, just doing their job, picking up the body and transporting it to the hospital. I wondered what level of training they might have had. It appeared quite minimal.

I was troubled that I had been weak and ineffective at the roadside, and I felt ashamed that in my mind at least I was hesitant and nervous at the prospect of having to do something more demonstrable to try to save this lady’s life. Every time the lady appeared to stop breathing I was afraid that this was going to be my moment to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and I was not at all sure if I was able or up to the task, even though eighteen months previous I had undertaken an Emergency First Response (EFR) course. I scolded myself for my shallow recall of what needed to be done in this situation.

That night at home I watched again my EFR videos and hoped that I might be a little better prepared if there was a next time and I found myself in such an emergency situation.

The following day at work we reflected on the inadequacy – at least by western standards - of the emergency response services here in Malaysia. ‘Life seems quite cheap’ was a comment banded around. Why had the woman tried to cross such a busy road? Why had she not walked a little further along and used the over pass? Why was she running? Why and how had the motor cyclist not seen her? Had he been travelling too fast? To his credit - poor man in a state of shock - he had accompanied the Tamil lady to the hospital in the ambulance. I wonder what will happen to him now, now that the Tamil lady has died from her injuries brought on by him, or at least his motorcycle. Is he to blame? Will it be a charge of manslaughter against him? What a tragedy. What a waste of a life.

What really matters?

God rest her soul, rest in peace, battered woman. I pray your family grieve well and learn from your accident and death, if at all possible. 

Communion Matters

I arrived at the church at exactly 6pm, pleased with myself that I was not late, and with the fact that despite the traffic and heavy rain I had managed to get there on time, in one piece, composed. But as it turned out I was late, as the service had already begun. In fact the time had been changed from the regular 6pm start hour to an earlier 5.30pm commencement – on the occasion of the local community’s celebration of the First Holy Communion of the young children of the parish. 

Lovely damsels dressed in white gowns with green garlands in their hair lined the front pews, occupying places of honour for their big day. Boys sat separately in their smart or smart-casual attire, not looking half as celestial as their sister counterparts. Mums and dads, relatives and god parents sat in between and behind them. The rest of the congregation filled the remaining pews in the second half, rear part of the church. I sat outside. No room at the Inn for me, although I had not searched earnestly for a place to sit.

While I tried to follow the service from a position of restricted viewing, I focused on the patterns of the pale white and ochre coloured tiles beneath my feet. I recalled a conversation I had had with my son only a few days earlier about how if you stared at such tiles for long enough you would be able to “see” things. We agreed at the time that this was so and mutually verified each other’s experiences. 

The marble-like tiles showed their faces to me this evening. Lions, gargoyles, monsters; Christ-like visages, Neanderthal men, Homo sapiens apes. Faces, half faces, a solitary, lost eye, with a countenance halved as if having been tortured, spoiled or disfigured in some way. Mutilated, yet a recognisable face. I considered my need to make meaning and order out of such chaotic shapes. Perhaps we all have this need and ‘see’ what we want to see. I have had this experience all of my life. Is it worrying, or is it just evidence of an imagination at play?

At what I thought was the opportune time, I went up to receive Communion myself, as is my custom. Upon reaching the foot of the altar, however, I realised that today the Host was not being distributed to all and sundry, and computing my mistake further, I continued walking to the right nonchalantly, as if to give the impression that I had only come forward to ‘have a closer’ look at the proceedings. Inside I felt red with embarrassment, and maybe one or two parishioners also observed this as I sensed their gaze fixed in my direction, but the moment passed off quickly enough. I returned to my seat, host–less.

Solitude Matters

Having looked forward (for months) to this opportunity to be on my own – as the family have taken themselves off to Nepal for four weeks – as I reckoned it would give me ample time to immerse myself in some company-related writing commitments, I find myself restless in an empty, people-and-family-less apartment, experiencing it as somewhat hard to focus without the constant distraction of my children!  In an earlier epoch, I always needed quiet to get things done – reading, writing study etc.; but in these years of family life I have learned to be more flexible and have adapted to working with interruptions. Dare I say it, that I have become good at it, and now find it quite normal to be sneaking time here and there - in between conversations about school rivalries with my five year old daughter, and debates about the latest Apple products with my eleven year old son. Over the years my wife and I have also increasingly come to know and accept what each other likes, and I love my wife the more that she tolerates my introverted quirks of behaviour, and allows me to sit and read or write away from where it is all happening with the family. 

And yet… The house is very quiet these last two days – they left only on the 1^st November – and already I am missing them, especially my daughter, who exhausts me with her constant demands for attention and the need to engage in dialogue or games. It was lovely to Skype chat with my son yesterday. I feel his need to talk with me and felt bad that I cut him short a little as I needed to sleep earlier than him. He sounded grown up, more articulate even.

I do like my solitude, though, and I see that as I age it will be important for me to have these times for re-charging the spiritual and emotional batteries. They serve almost like mini retreat times, interludes for contemplation and prayer, as well as a time to increase my exercising regime, which always makes me feel more alive, disciplined and focused. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, the cliché runs, and I have always found it to be so in the past when husband and wife have been apart. That is a good thing too.