Help is a simple thing

This poem was inspired by the work done by overseas charities for the disabled; and written in admiration of those who can prove, that with a tiny amount of help, they are not of small account.

 

SIMPLE THINGS

Such a simple scene:

an African village, chickens pecking in the dust.

An old man, shuffling along with a stick.

A small child, clutching his mother’s skirt,

his grandmother, slumped beside a fire.

All with one thing in common –

apart from being poor and black and of small account –

they are all blind without glasses.

Such a simple thing, a smile –  

big white teeth, big brown eyes.

It’s a wondrous sight, once a year,

when dozens and dozens queue in the sun

then grin in surprise at a sharp new world:

for the very first time, they have glasses.

Now the old man throws away his stick and his years –        

gets a job.

The old lady laughs in delight, cooks and cleans

so her daughter can work.

And the little boy can walk to school and read books.

Such a simple thing, glasses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Remembering war mules as well as war horses

THEY ALSO SERVE WHO ONLY STAND AND WAIT                    A short story

 

“Here he comes again! He doesn’t look well, does he?” muttered Jo-Jo to his fellow mule as they stood in the bright sunshine of an April day.

It wasn’t that warm, but the mules were too busy enjoying the spring air and the daffodils nodding in the frisky breeze to worry about the temperature.  Criss agreed that their visitor looked pretty woebegone as he approached them. 

“I suppose it’s because he’s confined to a wheelchair,” mused Criss.  His real name was Criss-Cross, as sometimes he was Criss and sometimes he was Cross, but Jo-Jo had got on well with him ever since they had been put together in the park.  The wheelchair passed them slowly without pausing.  This in itself was unusual as most people stopped and read the inscription on the wall close by.

            Next there came a little boy, also in a wheelchair, gabbling cheerfully to his mother.  Though he had no movement in his arms or legs, his head and neck were fine and were like the daffodils, bobbing all the time, constantly attracted to whatever was going on around him.  After stroking each of the animals on her son’s behalf, the mother pushed the chair away and strolled off towards the trees.

            “Well, look who it is!” exclaimed Criss-Cross one morning several weeks later.

Jo-Jo looked and saw the wheelchair man approaching. They had seen him a lot during the winter, always looking defeated and care-worn, but now he looked altogether brighter.

“I recognise that look,” said Jo-Jo.  “I saw it hundreds of  times in Italy when new mules would join the army train and spend weeks depressed and morbid with the stress involved.  Then one day they’d make the transition and could cope with the work; they made friends, adapted to the poor food and never looked back.”

“Yes, we saw it in Burma too,” agreed Criss-Cross.  “Poor things – having their vocal cords cut, so that they wouldn’t betray the army’s  presence to the enemy, was a terrible shock to the system.  And what with the endless humidity and the raging thirst – ”

“We agreed we’d never discuss it,” interrupted Jo-Jo firmly.  “Look, he’s actually coming over to say hallo.”

The young man with his clipper-short hair-cut and powerful arms, wheeled his chair as close as he could and read the inscription dedicating the monument to all those animals who had served in wartime.  He looked at the two mules, standing there so patiently, their  feet planted firmly to support their heavy loads, their heads drooping with weariness and distress; and two huge tears rolled down his unshaven cheek.

“ ‘They had no choice’,” he read out from the stone.  “They had no choice, but I did. And I can at least still choose.”

“Was that a good sign or not?” muttered Jo-Jo to his bronze companion after a few moments of respectful silence.

“I’m not sure,” pondered Criss, “but it’s usually a turning point.   I remember once –“

“No, you don’t,” interjected Jo-Jo more forcefully this time, and the two mules stood thoughtfully in the sunshine, concerned for their visitor.

So they were thrilled when the next time they saw him that he was accompanied by a dog.  The man had certainly turned a corner – he was smiling at the dog trotting by his side, and speaking to one or two people who congratulated him on getting himself a helper.

“Actually, it’s the companionship that makes such a difference,” he said.



'Animals in war' Memorial, London

He wheeled up to the memorial and read the inscription again, and Jo-Jo and Criss held their breath in case he was upset once more.  But not on this occasion.  He gazed intently at the two mules and this time he was looking outward instead of inward.  Jo-Jo and Criss didn’t know the name for the emotion on the man’s face, but it was compassion.

            “Is that your dog, Mister?” came a chirpy little voice and the man swung round to find a small boy in a wheelchair gazing wistfully at the silky haired spaniel, who ran to the end of his lead in order to make a fuss of the child.

“Yes – I’ve only had him a couple of weeks.  He helps me to do all sorts of things. Do you like dogs?”

“Yes, but I can’t have one.”  And then with remarkable resilience for a child deprived of so many childhood pleasures, the boy beamed and said, “But I’m going to ride a donkey!”

“Are you?” Half disbelieving him, the man looked at the mother for confirmation.

“That’s right,” she smiled warmly.  “Donkey rides are wonderful therapy for disabled children.”

“Is this here in London?”

“No, in Birmingham, where we live.  We’re going home tomorrow when we’ve seen the specialist again.”

And still talking together, the three humans moved away from the monument and left the two mules to gaze fondly after them.

“I like new beginnings,”  Criss sighed with satisfaction.

Jo-Jo agreed happily: “Yes, for him, too, the war is now over.”

-- 000 --

 

Inspired by the 'Animals In War' memorial, Hyde Park, London.

Donkey riding therapy is available through the Donkey Sanctuary Trust see http://www.thedonkeysanctuary.org.uk/donkey-assisted-therapy/

At peace with life

There was once a little swan and every time he flew down towards the water, he would see a perfect swan rise up to meet him; but once he had landed the other had vanished. 

 




Sometimes when he was quietly floating down the river on a calm day he would see the other swan beside him; but whenever he tried to paddle faster to get a good look, he would disappear.  Mostly the little swan could see his elusive friend out of the corner of his eye but if the river wasn’t calm, there was no sign of him.

One day when the sun was very low in the sky, and he was feeling rather lonely, out of the golden light appeared the biggest, whitest swan he had ever seen.  It glided alongside him without a sound and looked at him with large kindly eyes.
 

 

 

 

The little swan looked up timidly and knew he had to ask what was on his mind.  “Why is it that I can only glimpse my friend at certain times, but never if I am paddling fast to catch him?  He is so beautiful, I would like to see him more clearly.”

The big white swan turned his regal head and the setting sun turned all his feathers to gold.

“Your friend is your reflection in the water, the tranquil half of you.  You see him when you are at peace and all around you is calm; when the waters of life are not stirred up by the mud of confusion.  You lose him when you disturb the surface of the water, or around you there is commotion.  A swan’s first duty in life is to present a picture of pure unruffled tranquillity, of harmony with our surroundings, in order to be an example of how life should be.  Even when the water is rippled, or you are swimming hard against the current, imagine how you feel on the days when you can see your reflection.  And you will find yourself at peace.”

And with that, the great golden swan rose from the water and flew silently away.

 

Are we driving the seas to destroy us?

In the last century sea levels have increased at an average of 19cm globally, and in the last two decades, at more than twice the rate than any other time in history.  The UN has just put this short video on Twitter, airing the consequences:  http://buff.ly/Wke1KM 

It does not attempt to explain why these changes are occurring, though clearly, melting of the polar ice caps must play a large part.  But that in itself is an effect rather than a cause.  Sadly, mankind must take the blame when it comes to the massive changes going on in the natural world.

But leaving aside the effects of global warming, there is all the other harm we are causing to the oceans - using it as a burial ground for all our unwanted rubbish, for instance.  It is not difficult stories on the internet about the 'icebergs' of plastic items floating in the Pacific and causing untold harm to marine life.  As another recent UN film points out *, we need to recycle our waste if the harm we instigate is not going to come back and bite us.

 

NATURE’S LAW

As I walk along the beach the tide teases me – in, out.

In. Or out?
It sucks and blows, advances and retreats.
How tantalizing – does it know what it’s doing?
Yet every year it sucks a little more sand into its maw.
Every year it inches higher up the shore:
every year we lose a little more land.

 

The sea is winning, slowly,

taking away man’s foothold on life,
leaving us wailing.
Not to say whaling:
Who fishes the seas to extinction?
Not whales!
Who scours the seabed to death?
It’s not the cod or the haddock!
Who poisons the sea with toxins galore?
Not the inkjetting squid.
And it’s not the dolphin calls that break the sound barrier
and drive the whales to terminal madness.
So who can blame the sea for eating up the land,
When we’ve done so much to drive it to destruction?



* UN film http://bit.ly/1rnV2xm

In times of horror, there will always be roses

There will always be roses,

there will always be new birth
and hope and joy.
The sun will always come up in the morning
and the stars will glow forever.

 

Only the ghastliness will pass away,

the stench and fear of death,
the greed and torment,
the unforgivable and irreclaimable.

 

Washed with a new rain, a summer’s day shines forth,

Clean and bright, optimistic and young.
How is it, that when all around us lies death and desolation
we can see beauty mitigating the night?
Yet in times of peace and plenty
all we can see is evil?



"There will always be roses":  Mrs Miniver, World War II English film

The power of kindness

There are so many videos these days on the internet illustrating the rewards – in terms of well-being – of helping one another in small ways.  The enduring appeal of the film It’s a Wonderful Life  is that we need to do so little to make someone else’s life happier, whether it’s encouraging them to follow their dream, supporting someone in their ill-health, or smiling at the lonely old lady in the park.

Because we see on film how little it takes, it encourages us to review our life and how we relate to others.  Mostly we don’t use the word ‘compassion’ in our daily lives.  But our desire to relieve suffering where-ever we see it, and in whatever form it impacts on us, is compassion.  Everyone we see is suffering in some way that is not known to us, and even if we do no more than resist judging them, we have helped.

Equally we need to recognise how much we are supported and encouraged by those around us, particularly those whom we take for granted – our partners and families; our neighbours; the person who doesn’t snap back when we have unwittingly expressed our inward stress; the stranger who points out that we have dropped something in the street.   Life is made up of such little kindnesses and such little heroes.  It shouldn’t take a film to point these out; but then we all need a reminder from time to time that we’re all in this together.  And that life will be sweeter if we help one another along the way.

 

A couple of recent films from the internet on this topic:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uaWA2GbcnJU

http://faithreel.com/watching-touching-acts-kindness-will-change-day/

Climate change: a short fable explores the possibilities in one small village.

TO THE POWER OF TWO

Everyone kept talking about it, so I had to go and look for myself.  It was a long time since I’d been down Longelm Shute, but as it was a glorious spring day, I decided I’d walk that way for a change.

The steep hill was cold, so overgrown with trees that it was completely dark.  The road was narrow where the bushes and brambles had crept onto the carriageway, and in the lee of the cliff there were still patches of snow and ice.  There had been only a couple of  houses down that road and they had been abandoned to the chill long ago and were in an advanced  state of decay.  I saw not a single soul, not even boys larking in the ruins; and when I listened, no birds sang.  With my heart beating rather fast, I was glad to emerge into sunlight at the bottom.  I shivered – the place seemed bewitched.

People I spoke to told the same story – everyone avoided it, the children were scared to go there.  Because it was only a quiet back way into the village at the top of the down, even traffic had stopped using it because it had become so overgrown.

The Council came and cut down some of the trees and for a short while the place seemed lighter.  But within days the road had started to fall down the hill – perhaps because the trees had been holding it up.  So they left it.  The young saplings thrived, and the tunnel down the hill was soon as dark and gloomy as ever.

I say ‘down the hill’ for I never went up it, so fearful had I become of its silent, menacing atmosphere.  But I took to striding down it regularly – a road that had become no more than 6 feet wide in places – though there was more determination than pleasure in it, especially as I never saw another person, adult or child.  But something stubborn in me refused to let the enchantment win.  Soon I noticed that where the old trees had now gone, I could see beyond the end of the tunnel to the river and beyond that, there was a patch of yellow shining in the sun.  I started to look for it every time I plunged into that pit.  The shining drew me onwards – encouraged me  – but when I went across the marsh, I could find no real explanation – a few straw bales,  a patch of yellow irises, nothing more.

One day at the top of the Shute, as I was wondering what could prevent this unholy area expanding ever further, and driving away even more of the residents, I looked closely at the very last house on the road before it dipped into the shadows.  This sensible 1950s house sat firmly on its plot, as stolid and contented as a horse asleep in the sun.  The paintwork was spotless, the garden a bright flood of flowers.  I glanced across every time I passed, it was such a brave sight before I plunged into the depths.  I saw the owner one morning and she looked up and gave me a reticent smile.   I smiled warmly back, for here was a respectable elderly woman who would have no truck with any nonsense from the creeping pestilence of the Shute.  She might have been a headteacher or a housekeeper, such was her determination  to keep things as they should be.

The next time I passed she had bunches of flowers for sale.    I bought some – goodness knows why, I had plenty at home – and as I ventured down that claustrophobically dim lane, I strewed them haphazardly, each one a brief spot of colour – yellow, gold, flame and scarlet – in that silent twilight place.  "Fighting fire with fire”, my trepdidation made a weak joke. Then another flash of red – and I hear a robin sing!                 

After that I take my own flowers to the top of the hill and sell them alongside Mrs Wright’s.  As the summer progresses, we sell vegetables too, and soon the people who drift mindlessly out of the characterless little church on the hill, wander down as silently as battery hens and buy produce; before departing cheerfully, talking happily together.

One day, to our surprise, a woman comes to the stall, emerging from the chilly gloom that is still Longelm Shute even on this glaringly hot day.  She gives us a pumpkin, as though we are a charity.  It still has its supermarket label on it, showing an American flag.  She is perfectly groomed, with her expensive hair-cut and highlights, the designer jeans, the immaculate manicure with long red nails that never did a day’s work.  Mrs Wright takes the pumpkin from her and I compare the hands – Mrs Wright's wrinkled, red and rough with years of toil, with short, no-nonsense nails.  She and I exchange a glance but thank the woman anyway.

When I go down the hill later for my daily walk, I take the pumpkin and roll it away down the slope, whence it came.  Under the bushes where it comes to rest I see that – finally – the very last patch of winter snow, which has hung on under the lee of the hill all these months, has gone.  A couple of boys flash past  me on their bikes.  Shrieking to each other as the fierce incline whizzes them down towards the river, they almost hit the postman as he wheels his bike up the steep road.

I catch his eye and smile.  “You’re only young once!”.

“Yes, I did that that when I was a nipper!”  He smiles back. “Some things don’t change”.

 

 

--o0o--

Little acts of kindness change the world

Have just seen this charming film about little acts of kindness.  It is so in tune with the blog below that I am attaching the link below:

http://faithreel.com/watching-touching-acts-kindness-will-change-day/

The song by Matisyahu is pretty inspiring too.

What would you do to change the world?

If there was just one thing that you could do the change the world, what would it be?  You are not allowed to wave a magic wand.  It has to be something that you could do.

There was a quote on Twitter today, “It’s easier to put on slippers than to carpet the whole world.” (Al Franken)  It is another version of, ‘If you want to change the world first change yourself.’   We all tend to assume that change is going to come from without; that ‘they’ will change things if we moan enough.  But what is each of us doing to become one of the ‘they’ that get things altered for the better?

Deep down we’d all like the world to be carpeted so we wouldn’t have to bother with taking off our comfortable slippers.  But in reality, how much effort is involved in making, say, one small change this week and another small one next week?

Imagination – that’s what we need, to be able to see how dramatically life would change if we all changed a little.  Imagine, as a simple example, a day on the roads where everybody showed just a little more consideration for other drivers, cyclists, buses, horse riders.  Of course slowing down and giving a horse or cyclist more room won’t change the world overnight.  But it will change your mind-set.  And it’s because we’re not prepared to start with small changes that we do not change at all.

No one person by themselves can change the world, nor would it be right that they should.  We’re all in this: it’s by working together that we can change things together.  We’ve all admired individuals in the past who have achieved great things: Nelson Mandela, Bob Geldof, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, for a start.  None of these – or a thousand, thousand more – achieved what they did, alone.  But crucially they began with themselves, their determination to make change happen, regardless of any personal cost in terms of freedom, future, time, money or effort.

Goodwill, community spirit, maximising beneficial relationships – these are the seeds for growing world change.  I’ve just set up a new Twitter feed, and even with the small selection of feeds I am following, I am surprised, delighted and heartened at the amount of goodwill, kinship of spirit and fostering of right relationships that is currently out there.  All manifested by people who strove to change.

Community  is not just about your immediate neighbourhood, your social set, or even your religious community.  It’s about sharing ‘in common’ with everyone on this planet all the problems and all the solutions, all the abundance and all the deprivation.  We all have something worthwhile to share, whether it’s our time, money, prayer, action – or indeed, just the will to change.  We need to throw off those comfortable slippers, put on our working boots and start a process of change – today!

 

www.twitter.com/TakeOneVoice

and www.positivenews.org.uk  is always worth reading.