Response

How do we respond to an act of terror? It can be hard to know.

People talk about standing against 'them'. But there is no 'them' to stand against. There is no physical enemy.

Others talk of standing against hatred, but I wonder even if that is right. A person who commits an act of terror does not know the people they are affecting and can have no personal hatred of them. It also seems to me that the cause of such acts is becoming increasingly less clear.

So, how do we respond?

As I see it the only way can be through love. Loving people, individually. Not because love is the opposite of hate, but because love is the opposite of a lack of love. A person doesn't have to be hated to cause violence, but if a person does not know that they are loved, that they are valued, that their life means something to someone, then there is no telling what they will do.

A show of love together in the immediate aftermath is good, but more important I think is the love we give to those around us every day, and particularly those who we might not think to care for. This love can be expressed as simply as a smile or a pleasant greeting, although the more you can show someone their worth the greater the impact will be. This is a deeper response than what to me seems to be the slightly shallow words of people trying to be noticed for their sympathy.

Ultimately our response should not be for what we can get out of it, but what we can put in.

And I'm still working on that.

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"Whatcha up to?" she asked.
"Filling time," he said.
"With what?"
"Life."
"Going slow is it?" she suggested.
"The dull days go slowly, the busy days disappear, and that's the way it is," he replied. "Time is a great magician."
"So what are you actually doing?" she asked again.
"Sinking balls on a snooker table."
"Is that on a dull day or a busy day?"
"Both, it's just that the busy days are the ones when the colours get replaced."
"You know you don't make any sense?" she complained.
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"What?"
"Like on exam papers. There're plenty of things that don't make sense."
"But it helps to make sense, because then people understand each other."
"That's the first thing you've said that might not have been a question" he noted, "but anyway, does it matter? I've met plenty of people, and I've never understood any of them."
"Everything matters," she said.
"Or nothing," he mused, "if everyone's special then no one is."
"You're special," she mocked.
"Thanks," he said, "so are you."

With Hope Before

A cloudless blue and a burst of yellow sinking slowly towards the pale hills. The first buds, the constant return of life, the energy and the peace. Is this why we love old England so? Is this why for millennia people from countries near and far have been attracted to our pleasant shores and have come to live here. From early invaders to the displaced, the rich and poor of distant nations, all have come to find life in this bounteous land.

Winston Churchill, in his History of the English-speaking Peoples, wrote of ancient settlers: “The invaders themselves were not without their yearnings for settled security. Their hard laws, the rigours they endured, were but the results of the immense pressures behind them as the hordes of avid humanity spread westward from Central Asia. The warriors returning from a six months’ foray liked to sprawl in lazy repose. Evidently they were not insensible to progressive promptings; but where, asked the chiefs and elders, could safety be found? In the fifth century, as the pressure from the East grew harder and as the annual raiding parties returned from Britain with plunder and tales of wealth, there was created in the ruling minds a sense of the difficulty of getting to the Island, and consequently of the security which would attend its occupation by a hardy and valiant race. Here, perhaps, in this wave-lapped Island men might settle down and enjoy the good things of life without the haunting fear of subjugation by a stronger hand, and without the immense daily sacrifices inseparable from military and tribal discipline on the mainland. To these savage swords Britain seemed a refuge. In the wake of the raiders, there grew steadily the plan and system of settlement. Thus, with despair behind and hope before, the migration to Britain and its occupation grew from year to year.”

In the human mind there is always the search for something better, something that will satisfy, and although nothing has ever seemed to fulfil all we hope for it hasn’t quenched our desire to keep on looking. For refuge, safety, security, prosperity. As Churchill hinted at, Britain has always been a place where such things could be found, and on such is our nation built. So now we, and the rest of the world with us, see a place of safety, security, peace and prosperity.

Yet the more safe we become the more vulnerable we are, blind to the real dangers, which no longer lurk just across the water but inside ourselves. Laziness, boredom, comfort. We should always be aware that although things seem to change only slowly, there is nothing permanent on this earth. The invaders and the migrants can tell us that. And so we live with 'hope before' as we seek a place of peace. Where all wars end and strivings cease.

Someone else's garden

The sun is setting as I wander past a garden; the last vestiges of gold giving it a pleasant glow. There is a yellowy grit path and a patio where a watering can lies abandoned on its side. Of course it may have been blown over by the wind, although I suspect not. I'm tempted to go and set it right, in its place by the latticed fence that is currently causing patterned shadows to be displayed on the flagstones. I like things to be in their place. Nowadays people call that OCD, but I just call it being tidy.
     A few plants squat in pots along the wall, some doing better than others. One has definitely died. The sunlight catches on some daffodils, though, and diverts my attention. Across the path there is a patch of grass that needs cutting. A baby starling, newly fledged is ferreting for worms. Another swoops from the roof to join him, but misjudges and bounces off the netting around the trampoline. He flaps violently and shoots upwards again before landing on the fence.
     The sky is pale blue now and grey, wispy clouds are blowing in from the north and west, from the invisible coast, just beyond the horizon. The garden shivers and settles down for another cool evening. 'Don't worry,' I say, 'summer will soon be here.'

Like A Slinky On An Escalator

Another year around the sun,
Another season just begun.
Another minute on the clock,
Watching moss grow on a rock.

Another penny in the meter,
Drinking fuel by the litre.
Another wannabe world-beater.
Undone by Time - the great defeater.

But there is hope with which to block,
Another day life tries to mock.
Another race must still be run,
Another battle must be won.

Something Impossible

Can you believe in something impossible? Sometimes I lose the energy. I want to dream of a paper aeroplane that could fly from London to Paris, or that the sun would travel backwards through the sky. However, I am a product of my generation and my culture. Everything has an explanation and either there is nothing left for the imagination or imagination itself is now an impossibility.
     I have also reached the conclusion that nothing ever really ends, only changes come slowly, shifting the days and years and giving us memories. Stories too, dreamed up, have to start somewhere, and yet they build off many other thoughts and when they end there is always more that could be said.
     It is not the disappearing days that give importance to our lives; each one becomes an irrelevance with time, productive or not, and even changes when looked back on simply alter the route we take towards some greater impossibility, some mysterious goal. We must always have a goal, and why should that goal not be impossible? Some would say that what we have already done is impossible. Our very lives, imprinted with the marks of others are something that cannot be explained or fully understood but are of utmost importance.

Testament of (21st Century) Youth

I stood in the supermarket aisle facing the mountains of toilet rolls. Eighteen different varieties I counted. How is someone supposed to deal with that sort of choice? And that was after I'd spent thirty-five minutes trying to work out the positives and negatives of fifty-eight different varieties of cheese. Plus the delay it caused in my planned speedy-shop doubled when I was beaten to the checkout queue by someone with a trolley loaded up with what seemed to be about half the store. Evidently they'd given up trying to chose and just picked up something of everything.
     That policy works well enough I suppose, but it isn't so good in other situations. It's small wonder to me that young people (and I still just about include myself in that bracket) have little idea of what to do when they're older, given the huge range of options available. A choice made harder still, considering the pressure to get it right, if that's even possible.

In other news I saw today that schools are already beginning to ban oversized bows, being worn by surprisingly fashion-conscious young girls, while the debate on whether such items are merely hair accessories or symbols of power and confidence threatens to shut down social media (slight exaggeration). Given that I only discovered this craze on Monday you can understand why I was surprised by how fast this story was moving, but that's the world for you. People used to worry about it slowing down, but it just seems to get faster. I wonder if the testament of today's youth will be their ability to make it to the escape hatch before they become convinced they're merely players in some bizarre video game, in which the aim is to find the ultimate brand of toilet roll.