Words from Mother Teresa

The fruit of silence is prayer

The fruit of prayer is faith

The fruit of faith is love

The fruit of love is service

The fruit of service is peace

"Mother Teresa, Come be My Light: The Private Writings of the Saint of Calcutta", page 315 

Leisure

Taman Gaya Recreational Park in Johor Bahru on a Friday evening provides a delicious insight into one aspect of Malaysian leisure time.

Small groupings of middle aged men of Chinese descent gather beneath the plaster and concrete pagodas, structures painted red and white, but which look as though they should be constructed of natural wood and coloured - if at all - in ochre hues. Several men sit cross-legged on the concrete slabs of the benches laid out in a concentric arrangement beneath the shelter of the roof. They don loose blue, grey, brown or black coloured shorts with collared cotton shirts or vests, sandals removed, as they stroke their legs and massage their feet, meditatively listening to the oratories of their acquaintances. There always appear to be one significant speaker, often in the centre of the group, whose utterances command respect, it seems.  Or perhaps there are one or two who are particularly animated while the rest are content to listen. The scene is reminiscent of gardens and parks in southern China, Hong Kong, and Penang – places frequented long ago.

Young men perch on smooth giant boulders that lay in occasional clusters around the artificial lake, fishing lines between steady hands of one or two of the boys. It is a slightly comical scene as billboards in the vicinity state that Fishing is Prohibited, but nobody seems to mind. Families sit on nearby benches, on the familiar concrete ones like those that the ‘Chinese’ men enjoy in their pagoda. They look out across the lake, people-gazing and chatting. 

A Malay couple sit beside a stationary motorbike beneath the shade of a beautiful, native tree. The girl is covered in the traditional headscarf, the boy in his skin-tight white V neck T shirt looking not unlike any hero from the young cultures of the world. They smile at the scene around them, beaming at each other, an aura of innocent illicitness about them, a juxtaposition of the modesty of the girl and the carefree self-assurance of the boy wooing his lady. Other couples sit lazily on the ground, their hands stroking the mimosa grasses around them, whose leaves coyly mimic the lovers’ hands as they gently brush against them, the foliage in secret collusion, bringing their tiny fronds together reverently as if prostrating before a courtship ceremony.  

A dog is walked by on its lead, with a well-to-do elderly lady holding the line taut. The barking of an untethered dog can be heard in the distance.

Poor matters

In 2008 the World Bank estimated that there were 1.29 billion people living in absolute poverty.  The problem with definitions of poverty is that when it is based on social-economic factors, different cultures have different perceptions of what constitutes poverty. And different personalities experience poverty in different ways. Is it living below US$1 a day, for example, or a rubric of basic human rights denied or not enjoyed which constitute an individual being classified as 'poor'?

A biblical term "poor in spirit" speaks of a poverty in relation to God, where one renders one's needs and dependency on God as being the true way of being. Often it might be those who are socially and economically "poor" who find themselves in this relationship with God, but it need not be such people alone, far from it, and in any case that is not the biblical meaning. We can all be or strive to be poor in spirit. Perhaps we should all seek this quality of humility which accepts our vulnerability and dependency in our lives.

It is a funny old word, a word that traverses our language, and has usages that infuse all situations and walks of life:

poor show

poor job

poor effort

poor performance

poor delivery

poor weather

poor structure

poor result

poor health

poor display

poor attainment

poor achievement

poor workmanship

poor recording

poor yield

poor growth

poor quality

poor construction

poor climate

poor start

poor soil

poor discipline

poor sleep

poor grip

poor light

poor evidence

poor return

poor analysis 

Some photographers like to digitally 'capture' the poor, sometimes the destitute poor, or those in absolute relative poverty. The finished images conjure up strong emotions in the eyes of the beholder, a feeling that is sometimes both repulsive and strangely attractive at one and the same time, an almost artistic quality. Shame on us that this is so. Charitably, some images prompt action and calls to alleviate the poverty; some document the atrocities in parts of the world, committed by others who inflict more suffering on those already poor.  And sometimes we respond. But more often than not we do not, or we just behold the images and move on with our quotidian existence, or we respond meekly or insufficiently.

Poor show.

God bless the poor.

Who else can they truly turn to?

This beautiful world - driving to work

… Johor Bahru to Kampong Orang Asli, Sungai Layau, Malaysia

The imposing towers of the Desaru-Senai suspension road bridge, like electricity pylons, rise up to meet the edges of the dark, dawn sky, like a frozen intrusion on the landscape. The bitumen tarmac road races ahead and behind, as my grey machine hurtles along the smooth highway, with only circles of rubber separating it from a spark-flying explosion of friction.

The Sagrada Familia comes to mind, that unconventional, beautiful and puzzling cathedral that Gaudi brought to Barcelona. The serenity of both structures is there, but it is the artistic glory and power that strikes one more deeply. Pungent, bucolic aromas tickle the sleepy nostrils at this early Malaysian hour. Children’s frowns of resistance and repugnance come to mind, as they would no doubt make faces at such a pong. It is now a familiar one on my morning route, and familiarity often brings that sense of comfort and ease with it.

“After all, the world is indeed beautiful and if we were any other creature than man we might be continuously happy in it.” The Secret Scripture, Sebastian Barry, page 12 

School Matters

I am faced with a dilemma.

Working on a Malaysian School Reform Programme, one of the key components of our professional development training is to develop co-operative and collaborative learning structures in the classroom, in the teaching and learning environment. Assigning group roles, and ensuring equal participation by all members in a group, and giving teachers strategies and means and ways to include this in their planning, delivery and the organisation of classrooms.

I was running with this pedagogical theme and commitment, until, that is, I read Susan Cain’s Quiet: the Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking.  Suddenly a torrent of early child hood memories came to the surface, the quiet, shy boy at school, and the reality of seeing many students just like me in the schools in which I now work.

The quiet introverted type – how do they participate fully in group activities, and to what extent should teachers do their best to “bring them out of their shell”? I myself have written many a school report, where I referred to a child as very quiet in the class, and that they need to share their opinions more. Yet, I never did this myself – certainly not as a Primary school student, and even at Secondary level, I was a reluctant contributor, preferring to listen and mull on what was being discussed, rather than answer questions publicly or engage in animated debate.

To be fair, within the remit of our training programme and good classroom practice, we do encourage time for independent learning, but perhaps we need to consider further the learning styles of our introverted school children, who may learn better if allowed to learn on their own even more. Of course there are always times when we need or should say what we are thinking and feeling; and sometimes it is a matter of conscience or a deep value trigger which propels the quiet one to speak up or appear to out-burst. But there is still a tendency, I feel, to regard the quiet, introverted type in the classroom as problematic.

Recovery

I am back, having been recuperating from 'hospital procedures' and on medication for one week - hence the absence of posts herein. Yet the mind has been ticking away and a period of unwell-ness gives one time to reflect on what it means to be well.

In a previous post I wrote about vulnerability. "Wrote about" might be a bit over-stating it; rather I penned a few thoughts on the idea. Taking a cocktail of antibiotics and ant-inflammatory drugs for the last seven days has made me think long and hard about life's priorities. I have realised how dependent I was on my family, especially my wife, who - like a Nurse - ensured I took the correct pills, in the correct quantities, at the right time, until at last I had figured out the routines myself! Had I been alone, it would have been a wholly different and more stressful period of recovery. A recent article  in the UK daily newspaper The Independent (07 Sept. 2012) ran a headline along the lines of 'Miracle cure for cancer...marriage'. The article was in relation to a study of lung cancer sufferers and their relative longevity depending on whether they were married or not. It found that those sufferers with spouses tended to live longer. Whether such research and findings can be replicated for other types of cancers remains to be seen. But the point did resonate true with me. Families and loved ones are part of one's heath toolkit. I certainly can vouch for that this last week  I was vulnerable and had loved one's to respond to me with love, and not (as perhaps sadly happens to some souls) with indifference or worse, abuse. 

Thank you, Manisha.

Vulnerability

Sitting up in a hospital bed - The Regency Hospital in Masai, Johor Bahru, Malaysia - recalling the surgical procedures of the earlier hour of the day: a gastroscopy and a colonoscopy, it feels good to know that all has gone as planned and no malignant growths have been found within and beneath the surface. I slipped into a shallow sleep due to the medication administered, and only woke up when it was virtually all over. That was fortuitous. I had inwardly smiled at the Nurse's repeated (Malaysian-speak) "Sorry lahs", as she failed to find a good vein for the sedative injection, her running off to find a roll of toilet tissue paper for me and her frequent, reassuring "Don't worry la"  words of comfort.

One feels vulnerable in a hospital bed. There is no tangible strength that goes with it. But there is a kind of vulnerability which takes as its source the power of those great souls who have allowed themselves to be vulnerable for a greater good. Rosa Parks, Mahatma Gandhi, Mother Teresa to name but a few. Doors open when we make ourselves vulnerable. Connections are made between people, love grows, spirit is nourished. How divorced this kind of connection seems to that which (most of) our political leaders seek to nurture and envelope us in.