tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84805041520091129152024-03-17T18:32:03.030-07:00Mr. P's WordsA Series of Mostly One-Page Essaysrfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.comBlogger537125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-61890864754500357252024-03-08T12:31:00.000-08:002024-03-09T09:22:35.886-08:00Ekphrastic Expositions<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOU-rpCPd6bydVt5XK4EEAokBT0VKIUMqkR9YwnhlFe_QheOG_pVAKp4_ufi6ZCaWsw-CE29jDhc8mBkiuXf9LxCKTBtmMN2pNV-RNlHxa4QK1kZcP3jUx1Gx8uI5ESRrlqXeM44rrYkCzJ8QPUk7txM388c-GE822MsfYpsACoRlKtXhlnYJJ9JyEjDF/s941/SPIRAL.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="941" data-original-width="941" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyOU-rpCPd6bydVt5XK4EEAokBT0VKIUMqkR9YwnhlFe_QheOG_pVAKp4_ufi6ZCaWsw-CE29jDhc8mBkiuXf9LxCKTBtmMN2pNV-RNlHxa4QK1kZcP3jUx1Gx8uI5ESRrlqXeM44rrYkCzJ8QPUk7txM388c-GE822MsfYpsACoRlKtXhlnYJJ9JyEjDF/s320/SPIRAL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">Ekphrasis? One explains things from one’s own
point of view. We expound with emotion, with insight, with knowledge, and even
with a pleasurable amount of guesswork. So too do we live in the canvas of our
lives. So too do we build upon our perceptions. And the original work, the
poem, the painting, the photograph that we expound upon, given the creative
springboard that gives rise to our own voice, is as ancient an ekphrastic
exposition of our minds as would be a gift from a Greek muse. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body">Ekphrasis? It’s the big words that can be off-putting.
The very chiaroscuro of our elucidations can be too much of a juxtaposition,
and without a ready mental formula to deduce what is being read, or heard, the
brain gives up. The ears tune out. We get bored. Why not just be simple?
Collectively, we feel little responsibility toward assimilating every new
concept. It is the rare individual, here and there, who wishes to ‘know
everything.’ There simply is too much. Yet inherent to the ‘dumbing down’ of
society, as we eschew big words for little ones, and as we hook into
Hemingwayesque pithy pronouncements, such as those anchored in the sea of an
Old Man, over a predilection for Victorianesque prolific phrasing, such as
those surrurating amongst the shifting sands of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, is
that the vitality and richness of a living language stalls. Keep it simple. Do
not ask me to look up a word. Make your references clear. Do not ask me to look up
a Title. Make your references obvious. Do not ask me to read for too long,
listen for too long, watch for too long, sit for too long, converse for too
long, or think for too long; I just want to scroll at my phone. Its screen does
not challenge me to stick to something, unless it interests me. I can flick
through stuff. I can text without worry about correct grammar. My auto type
will correct spellings, most Lee. So what if it makes miss steaks.</p>
<p class="Body">The argument for clear articulation is a
double-edged sword. Ekphrasis, at best, explores one’s thinking under the
Damoclean concept of evolving spiritually, responsibly. But in conspiring freely,
our self-awareness by contrast becomes a consummate concentration, enslaving us
to self-centricity, egoism, and independent connection. Huh? Yes, we can
connect with others across the globe, but at large we get to say what we want,
independently, even irresponsibly, and indubitably self-serving. Our every
action, however, impinges on all, not just around us.</p>
<p class="Body">Chiaroscuro? Day and night have their smudging
hours. The middle ground of left and right is where action yields to
compromise, to complicity, to compassion. Integration, by degrees, becomes a
fuller acceptance. How to accommodate that our own throne of responsibility,
which is the human condition, is to be under that sword of Damocles, where
every thought, and action, can be questioned, usurped, overturned? Very few
things in our world are absolutely and totally and inalterably ‘right’. We are,
as a species, too easily fragmented, dissociative, warmongering, and
contentious to be lumped into a wholesome group, such as those with the
collective brain of termites, or bees, or butterflies. Our metamorphosis is
generally individualized, and random, and even a choice, or not. Yet still, mankind
evolves more by accident than by design, however much an individual’s chosen cultural
group, or not, may control our thinking. At issue is the meaning behind
‘mankind’s evolving.’ Unless we are entirely given to all of us simultaneously
becoming loving and compassionate towards each other, as a species, we remain primitive,
collectively speaking. And therein lies the rub; integration, fully, would have
one accept ‘all’.</p>
<p class="Body">Ekphrasis, then, is a Greek word meaning, ‘exploring
with a detailed description’. But it is not about the selfies we take with our
cell phones, or where we’ve been, what we’ve done, and what’s on our plate. It
is rather about the degree of our sensibility of our responsibility toward The Whole.
It is not about moralizing and controlling; it is about understanding. It is,
after all, about one for all, and all for one.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_I3xkPOfpGRu9aIxXCiSGbUvt97a9GD20sClH-LRkqaQ6gegKGD7AMgjyYQ6YJV3rpujR06mxs2b6sLleT2-LumwUomi3m8PZRfA_GJQgjeZ7xtBG-GYqDdOlsCnGGabH34WJYs4hEw9aycSMiRnuDcyjByAzn-sHSNDopicNO3Xy-85dQBPHMBOVsBE4/s1488/Contentment%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1488" data-original-width="1167" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_I3xkPOfpGRu9aIxXCiSGbUvt97a9GD20sClH-LRkqaQ6gegKGD7AMgjyYQ6YJV3rpujR06mxs2b6sLleT2-LumwUomi3m8PZRfA_GJQgjeZ7xtBG-GYqDdOlsCnGGabH34WJYs4hEw9aycSMiRnuDcyjByAzn-sHSNDopicNO3Xy-85dQBPHMBOVsBE4/s320/Contentment%20001.jpg" width="251" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-77009014580538381502024-01-04T16:11:00.000-08:002024-03-09T12:54:05.264-08:00Graduated Grades Theory<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIo8Tzb97eTHv3JEiVtQsAAbd-zQS47F7vrVWLCjnsaJvr1fd91BBeiHY1JfQRRsBtEynls_PyNTvG1bSIEFI-xb0yUWOwZuG7KXJEumNtB9E6qzSXJjV9BaEC5PgXzJQkPZFT_XZ_jQeEcZlb0EckHivC0Xno92sA95dNjngtC1J3W-ZDMWiv4NGOrkL/s736/Religious%20Teachings.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="736" height="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzIo8Tzb97eTHv3JEiVtQsAAbd-zQS47F7vrVWLCjnsaJvr1fd91BBeiHY1JfQRRsBtEynls_PyNTvG1bSIEFI-xb0yUWOwZuG7KXJEumNtB9E6qzSXJjV9BaEC5PgXzJQkPZFT_XZ_jQeEcZlb0EckHivC0Xno92sA95dNjngtC1J3W-ZDMWiv4NGOrkL/w640-h500/Religious%20Teachings.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Hereby initiated, coined, theorized, full
integration is not easy. There is no ultimate graduation. Individualized and
abstract, the variegated shafts of the Grade Theory curriculum are neither
predetermined, nor predestined. Attainments within any given Grade Level, and
even from one Grade to another, are perhaps gradual, or perhaps in paradigmatic
leaps. As such, insights and apprehensions are exciting, or subtle, or blends
of both. And one may graduate from Grade Two to Grade Five, predominantly, or
regress back down a single shaft to Grade One, at any age, or at any stage of
one’s progress.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Put
simply, a lifetime is seen in terms of passing through natural grades of
maturation and comprehension, where predominant behavioral traits sustain one
at any given Grade Level, while one may have perceptions and insights
pertaining to all grade levels simultaneously. We may well attain levels of
expertise in our differentiated curriculums, beyond our age group, that are
observable, yet we can evidently still be out of our depth in foreign,
unfamiliar, or challenging fields. Some will find such challenges invigorating.
Others will baulk and retreat to their own comfort zones. Idiomatic,
particularized, and empowering, we prefer the stance from which we may hold
court, intellectually, spiritually, morally, physically, emotionally, and even
politically.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Integration
is not easily attained. Each model of mankind, however simplistic or complex,
is perceived as a progress through levels of comprehension and attainment that
determine one’s predominant proclivities, or behaviours. From Adler; within
Graves; through Maslow; to Jung; we apprehend their integrative contentions,
perhaps with sincere interest, but easily may forget the particulars of their
curriculum, suggestions, or esoteric challenges. We generally are on our own
pathway. Sometimes, we adhere to the group. Sometimes, we stick to our own
beliefs. Sometimes we agree, disagree, vote, disavow, and absorb. Yet all along
the months and years of one’s life, integration keeps challenging our humanity
with its endlessness of more and more.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Being
human, evidently, is a complex state. One is assailed by variability. Choices
determine pathways, constraints, attainments, and patterns of behaviour. And
behavioral patterns in turn become one’s predominant proclivities. Grade Theory
is not about a naturally chronological maturation; it is about one’s endemic comprehension,
absorption, integration, perception, and apprehension of the largely
individualized curriculum inherent to one’s awareness. We take on the habits
and customs of our forefathers, our tribe, our family, our friends, our school,
our church, our political affiliations, our country’s cares, and our national
identity. We can become racist, xenophobic, polarizing, and entrenched. Indeed,
integration, full integration, absolute compassion, complete love, and utter
understanding is not easily attained. Rather, we have glimpses and insights and
momentary practices of them. We are, necessarily, self-protective, lest we find
ourselves entirely dissipating into the morass of mankind, devoid of our own
ego, smudged beyond our own boundaries, bereft of the curriculum vitae of our
individual identity.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">There
are adults still in Grade Seven who realize Ph.D. aspects in themselves. There
are post-doctorates who still need to perfect some Grade Three concepts. Being
ontological does not make one epistemological. Meaning making is not always
rational. To accept that each of us is highly differentiated in potential, yet
sometimes may ‘naturally’ be graded and grouped, can be bristling to some. Yet
to absorb, accept, include, and love everything and everybody, now there’s the
rub. The Grade Theory, in conception, is hereby intended to help. Integration,
after all, is all.</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z9puJ2g4VxHbRen78g_oMEw42urmWFO5S6ZGkxExohXnnBVzDaLAqtOsAb6J3SLiXHGB44usj5ZkOcW-oOir2zYg6xM9mHOM-HyhdiB1v44pLJiYmbdIC10_CgiITtnNcT43Ur_-1PruU0TjVzOu7MP_5192nMrW87OmdbajlLz-Sjg_ilruAyJLJDeQ/s513/Left%20and%20Right.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="366" data-original-width="513" height="456" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Z9puJ2g4VxHbRen78g_oMEw42urmWFO5S6ZGkxExohXnnBVzDaLAqtOsAb6J3SLiXHGB44usj5ZkOcW-oOir2zYg6xM9mHOM-HyhdiB1v44pLJiYmbdIC10_CgiITtnNcT43Ur_-1PruU0TjVzOu7MP_5192nMrW87OmdbajlLz-Sjg_ilruAyJLJDeQ/w640-h456/Left%20and%20Right.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-24039412175889785372023-12-29T19:31:00.000-08:002023-12-30T15:58:26.302-08:00The Plight of Pranks<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQ_NDifRtYAy8iRXP8nyJgX88lPAiV1n3bEv_YmacvUFls8mOtcoG6Afm3tj1AyAoE7sn1DHBCBRyqPlPkARBbjSsQLx_g7WCu9_6-9VcqodyaW1stkqVy3-RPKkBosaZ1IdYOmHYnltwW7crmU3fk0kLBcNa5TayibxWl9vHLkyCiIFYEeSdAiBJ4prr/s1050/1976%20Edinburgh%20last%20departure%20date.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="1050" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQ_NDifRtYAy8iRXP8nyJgX88lPAiV1n3bEv_YmacvUFls8mOtcoG6Afm3tj1AyAoE7sn1DHBCBRyqPlPkARBbjSsQLx_g7WCu9_6-9VcqodyaW1stkqVy3-RPKkBosaZ1IdYOmHYnltwW7crmU3fk0kLBcNa5TayibxWl9vHLkyCiIFYEeSdAiBJ4prr/w640-h366/1976%20Edinburgh%20last%20departure%20date.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
belligerent banging at our cabin door penetrated my deep sleep. It was an
anxious, agitated, ugly sound. Instantly, there’s a sea-dread in the dead of
the night. Muffled shouts erupted in the corridor, and then the distinct, “Wake
up! Get up. Get out,” urgency of it assailed me. Outside the porthole, it was
pitch black. I was on the top bunk. My wife was below. And no sooner had I
tossed aside the bedding, and leapt down, than my ankles were in cold water! A
certain panic arose. We both scrambled to the door, and as we yanked it open, gushes
of deepening water swirled and sloshed and gurgled into our space, quickly
rising to our knees. The corridor lights showed the water to be an ugly rusted
brown, and it reeked. I waded back into the cabin to pluck at our already
floating suitcases, since they had been packed and now waited only for our
early arrival at Southampton docks, but a ship’s officer barked: “Leave that! We’ll
retrieve your luggage. Go! Go! All passengers, go up to the lounge!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The
lounge? That might’ve been my first indication that things were not too drastic.
After all, we were not being called to the lifeboats. Yet still, the ship was
listing, astoundingly, and the water grew yet more voluminous as we struggled up
our short corridor, of about four cabins’ worth of noisy people to either side,
to join up with the jostling passengers, almost all in pajamas and night gowns,
crowding at the T junction to the main C deck starboard passageway. At the closed-up
corner cabin a purser kept vaingloriously banging on its door, and shouting alarms,
but then we all sloshed on past, heading for the stairs. Still, some of us had
to duck our heads down from the malodorous spray of the overhead sprinklers.
Several of them, it was apparent, were spewing out this putrid smelling water
as quickly as possible.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We
straggled into the lounge, all of us looking dishevelled, and somewhat distraught.
The ship’s personnel found us blankets, and pillows, and organized hot
beverages. “Your luggage will be waiting for you,” they promised. And then it
struck me. My artwork! Twenty years’ worth of sketches and water-colours and
even an oil painting or two, all rolled together and left standing in the cabin
closet, alongside my suitcase, with my brand new pair of shoes waiting on the
floor. I had to get that roll of paintings!</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“You!
Where do you think you’re going?” A ship’s officer called out. I baulked. "Just
got to rescue my artwork, Sir,” I tried. His finger shook. “Oh no you’re not. No
one goes downstairs until we’ve found out exactly what the problem is, and that
everything is secure. You stay here!”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Well,
that’s how come, as I write, nearly 50 years later, I have so little of my
formative work. But there were yet more dire consequences as a result of that
sad evening aboard the last voyage of the Edinburgh Castle, on the 11th April,
1976. Indeed, we all might still go on learning from them.</span></p>
<p class="Body">As part of a Facebook group, called Union Castle
Line Ex-Passengers, which I joined just last month, Pauline Hollis wrote: “I
remember that well. The crew were throwing anything they could over the side.
We saved a bag of the large Lego blocks. I seem to remember a stowaway and a
breakdown somewhere between Cape Town and Southampton.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes. In fact, back then Ian Pursch was the
purser, and (his) Paula (not Ms. Hollis), was a junior purser too. They became
friends of ours. We toured Scotland together. (My wife and I waited for them in
London while they went on the last voyage, sans passengers, to the Edinburgh
Castle’s sad grave.) But so too had someone else met her death on the last
voyage of the Edinburgh. We learned that an old Scottish woman, the one in that
corner cabin, hoping to make it back to her homeland after being in Africa all
her life, had died of a heart attack. She never made it home. And as for the
reason? Some partying prankster, on that final night of the long voyage, had
held a match up to a sprinkler. And yes, when we docked at Southampton, the
ship’s flag was at half-mast. One plays pranks, but there are consequences. And
one sails, but all our journeys do come to their end.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jInaBFg9dMORRmpN_oBXsji-hFhMo9Ocf-QQDueWlz16rVh8Gl4tnd0yFmdMhXFFddrXashIDDtAPRf4HF6Ujg7TZJNiG_9g2-4iMAhEKNBXfGrIDstFbc9Y-HUC3_TlCwoRCe2iW97nRKmWunLxaU5tcytuVh6Sgm352kzEN5SqOTXkh97YJ-zJpGsM/s1045/Edinborough%20LOG%20to%20PRINT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="1045" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2jInaBFg9dMORRmpN_oBXsji-hFhMo9Ocf-QQDueWlz16rVh8Gl4tnd0yFmdMhXFFddrXashIDDtAPRf4HF6Ujg7TZJNiG_9g2-4iMAhEKNBXfGrIDstFbc9Y-HUC3_TlCwoRCe2iW97nRKmWunLxaU5tcytuVh6Sgm352kzEN5SqOTXkh97YJ-zJpGsM/w640-h380/Edinborough%20LOG%20to%20PRINT.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-30740985072750641072023-12-07T12:06:00.000-08:002024-03-09T12:59:21.248-08:00van Niekerk's Veracity<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4EzE6b1xnU0MGBBQnZHQqzJhUGaI1NOYQI-onJfr6zG9sJt56ECmmG5ZcfDVain05xY9JpdrhmWGLezKg4lsmpQ2rGpbJOLi-iG0oxDRQwno2-2v-rvWbwA5OcKiNwTT4yyzV2TsYVDsylxHIK2ulmrtDc-06zoKAPPrbl0wfUCKMpjUuT8UJ__OyPpY/s998/John%20v%20Niekerk%20in%205E%20w%20ARROW.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="998" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS4EzE6b1xnU0MGBBQnZHQqzJhUGaI1NOYQI-onJfr6zG9sJt56ECmmG5ZcfDVain05xY9JpdrhmWGLezKg4lsmpQ2rGpbJOLi-iG0oxDRQwno2-2v-rvWbwA5OcKiNwTT4yyzV2TsYVDsylxHIK2ulmrtDc-06zoKAPPrbl0wfUCKMpjUuT8UJ__OyPpY/w501-h253/John%20v%20Niekerk%20in%205E%20w%20ARROW.jpg" width="501" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“I just wanted you to know I’m OK. I’m here, just letting
you know,” he said last night, etched clear as a Zoom projection onto my white
board in the university classroom. The other students, in their ranks up the
rake of the auditorium seats, wondered how I might respond. John’s image, as a full-grown
teenager with his black hair and chiselled chin, his strong brown eyes, and his
swimmer’s fit physique, clad in a white shirt tucked into jeans, stood in front
of a background of bright green trees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was he at the nearby Magnolia Dell? He was
bunking, and we both knew it, but now he was contacting me, just to let me know
that all was well. An intrusion on my visceral lecture about Dynamic Integration, I but briefly paused while I took in the alert senses of my students
as to whatever I might say.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The thing is, the truth about one’s life gets tangled. We
attempt to place happenstances precisely, but as we grow older the timelines
overlap, and we can search for connections by which to slot in the particular events
that demarcate our passage of time. Just when John had got up and left the
classroom was not clear to me. (Is not clear to me.) Why I should be an old
man, still lecturing, and he but a teenager, when he’d always been a constant
friend in my own youth, was perhaps subconsciously understood, even while I was
dreaming. Lucid dreaming, it is called. We know we’re dreaming. We can even
direct our dreams. We can face into our fears. We can determine if we should give
in to temptation. We can even be compassionate toward ourselves, and others,
and we can awake with a sense of having washed away at our ‘dirty laundry’. There’s power in dreaming. We are not necessarily just ‘led by the
nose’.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But the intrusion that John made into my classroom happened
without my having beckoned it. Or did I not? Just yesterday I’d re-read the three-page
story of John (on p. 303, of 50 Years On... Pretoria Boys High Class of 1970,
Our Stories), and I felt sad that we had but one indistinct picture of him. Then
too, I was reflecting on the great privilege of often being a guest at John’s
parents’ house, in the prestigious neighbourhood of Waterkloof Ridge. Back in
the late 60’s, a maid, a cook-boy (who was
really a full-fledged man), and a chauffeur, as well as a constant gardener,
complemented the house-hold staff. John appreciated them all. Laundry was always washed and ironed the
same day. And the table was set for dinner guests, or luncheon guests, with
crystal and... well, one gets the picture.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Thing is, almost 60 years later, just last night, I’d dreamed about John for
the first time, (far as I can recall.) We never re-connected after High School.
Conscription into the South African Army boiled my soul. I wanted nothing to do
with my past. And whatever old school friends I had, I lost them all. But not
in memory. My affection for friends stayed the same. It was just the detachment
I threw around each of the people I’d befriended, so long ago, cordoning each
off, like icons in the desktop of one’s computer screen, each with a program
that goes unused, until one clicks it, (at times ineffectually,) open. (It’s a
habit practiced, yet still too long.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Well, John’s message has me deeply affected. It’s as if I’d
been re-assured from another realm. Then again, quite aware of the synaptic gap
that inhabits every one of our neuronal interactions, I’m much given to
understanding the creative impulses inherent to the artistic, as well as the
phenomenological bent, of those such as myself, who also are easily given toward
making things ontological. ... Huh?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That’s part of the complexity of one’s thought processes, in
dreaming. (Sometimes, even in daydreaming, complexity creeps in.) We make of
our moments a kaleidoscope of meanings. And then we can conjure that which has
some sort of sensibility to it all, for ourselves. Epistemology aside, we are, essentially, quite imaginative beings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As for what my response was: “Thanks, John. Good of you to
let us know you’re Ok. Communication is everything.” And he disappeared. And then, John’s classmates
smiled.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, it goes. Such are dreams. And I wonder, shall we ever ‘meet’
again?<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2blSJLL_FS8ryFBGQRq1YVgEpirnz1c6nBGnBpcqDXZt8yHVvfVm63rK2F7vuydEjcb-NRIF3xUbvLUz-rPpMj-SQWfheZtageDL_xpOmCt6km3jnHRuZbfAZP4rMUAl35y3wU4Ljecwp42nqhRcp2Mvw8059HRLF9ZSegt5IEQGf-1Hc9afpi7vZbRcO/s3184/Our%20Stories%20cover%20and%20back%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2069" data-original-width="3184" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2blSJLL_FS8ryFBGQRq1YVgEpirnz1c6nBGnBpcqDXZt8yHVvfVm63rK2F7vuydEjcb-NRIF3xUbvLUz-rPpMj-SQWfheZtageDL_xpOmCt6km3jnHRuZbfAZP4rMUAl35y3wU4Ljecwp42nqhRcp2Mvw8059HRLF9ZSegt5IEQGf-1Hc9afpi7vZbRcO/w625-h406/Our%20Stories%20cover%20and%20back%20001.jpg" width="625" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;">(cover designed by Justin Neway)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="https://www.amazon.ca/Years-Pretoria-Boys-High-Class/dp/B09T61FB6R/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2HGU8YDOPYX9U&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.chyvJmnepNMBRjLm0uWk5Q.j1KbAasz7dfYB06wDSgpE0F9fLTsCjma0F2Y2hsxUc0&dib_tag=se&keywords=50+years+on+Pretoria+Boys+High&qid=1710017901&s=books&sprefix=50+years+on+pretoria+boys+high%2Cstripbooks%2C136&sr=1-1">50 Years On... Pretoria Boys High Class of 1970: Our Stories : Pretoria Boys High, The Class of 1970 at: Amazon.ca: Books</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-54523358872960044192023-11-08T11:25:00.004-08:002023-11-09T15:44:35.790-08:00Two To Tango<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1qk-T-UdgFoB4lKWQvJ2ww-8mG4_HgTzfUUSGFDofJFlopF41eTkvhN0zJfeI357ymUMthvzCcrnLMOkomQZIWwuDFrusOXRBjSA80DwNqVFgtWTUqvgWtJMC8xjo9cNDks7BPpkkivrm9mv-grrA3Br6R4uVTWTUwPvkhVEkYsj6Xl_o8H8Eef74IJH/s960/Us%20and%20Them.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="666" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib1qk-T-UdgFoB4lKWQvJ2ww-8mG4_HgTzfUUSGFDofJFlopF41eTkvhN0zJfeI357ymUMthvzCcrnLMOkomQZIWwuDFrusOXRBjSA80DwNqVFgtWTUqvgWtJMC8xjo9cNDks7BPpkkivrm9mv-grrA3Br6R4uVTWTUwPvkhVEkYsj6Xl_o8H8Eef74IJH/w291-h419/Us%20and%20Them.jpg" width="291" /></a></div><p>We, and them. Throughout history we’ve perpetuated it. The essential dichotomy is felt in the bones. Even when we overcome differences of race, of physiognomy, of language barriers, or even of social circles, it remains, however subtly, an 'us' versus 'them'. “We are not on the same page about this,” one person tells another. The implication is clear: my viewpoint is better than your viewpoint. We are not enmeshed in the necessary appreciation of the dual tensions it takes to do a tango. Too often, we hear entirely different music.</p><p>Life itself will do that to us, divide us, that is. From the earliest age we learn who is first, last, and somewhere in between. And as our sophistications grow into the apportionments of ourselves in the Venn diagrams of our circumstances, we become inured to the concept that we are right, they are wrong, and we go right, while they may take what’s left.</p><p>Politically, it becomes easier and easier to determine who is who. A great many of us more readily align with This, or with That. Religiously too. Even morally, we can become dis-ambiguous. And as for ethics? Well, the definitions of that concept fills volumes, so where is there a fine line to be drawn, over which one will not step? No, it is the traditions and the acculturations and the belief systems that we grow up into becoming, from child to adult, and seldom do we easily reach past the pastures of our forefathers. Seldom do we give up our identity. Seldom do we accept our sublimation into a greater whole. We are too much clung to our mortal coil, fearing we shall lose all identity if we no longer retain a ‘nationality.’ So it goes. On and on. Even much elongation of new generations will proudly say, “I’ve got the blood of a Zoroastrian in me;” especially if it be true.</p><p>And so Us versus Them continues. Thing is, it matters not at this time for particular distinctions. In our long history (even yet to be) we shall still call some, Romans, and some others, Greeks. So too do we readily call people by country, by school, by city, by family name, by ethnicity. We retain an identity. And we are 'us', while they are 'them'. So it goes.</p><p>Eventual integration is a myth. At best engendered in small groups, among individuals, it very much gets called into question (integration, that is) when the larger group sees itself more readily as an Us, versus a Them. (Anyone who has suffered marginalization knows the feeling.) </p><p>So much is at stake when being ‘different.’</p><p>Thing is, how do you become entirely 'accepting'? That’s right, You. If not you, then who? We each are responsible for inculcating an ethos of integration that entirely absorbs the ideological differentiations extant amongst us, and allows us to inculcate instinctual compassion, sincere compassion, intuitive compassion, enlightened compassion, and persevering compassion, unconditionally. Really?</p><p>Yes, there is an appreciation of duality in the challenge. That is the point. Ideological egocentricities perpetuate the tensions in the historical making, present, future, or in our recent past too. We are each responsible for not only allowing it all ‘to be’, but also for nurturing it all ‘to become’. To become what, precisely? Well, it is certainly not the eradication of our statues, or even the changing of place names that shall alter us, each by each; it is the clarification of history's significance, such that we might learn from the mistakes of the past, truthfully, factually, considerately, and most especially, compassionately.</p><p>Are some things worth tearing down?</p><p>Indeed. “Tear down the wall” was a deeply symbolic event.</p><p>And so too does tearing down the wall between 'us' and 'them'. </p><p>Trouble is, as just about everybody knows, it takes two to tango.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Q4JaDee8DDbLZRIEnmPwGDiyB9vLowRb0volcuLNBItC4UBHsZNGWA9BhdLeGIp-ZeDDNIwVYx4NlLHAqdituEqsPAERv6P-X7uwjR7o2O4nxhxaAQA7lqV9r9zYj-JGIVYlj0K_jZVceClme33mrHVT0p7tH7E0vbTKTSQG4mcZj4-Q08IYLqAq77Yo/s1180/1989%20Berlin%20Wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="1180" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Q4JaDee8DDbLZRIEnmPwGDiyB9vLowRb0volcuLNBItC4UBHsZNGWA9BhdLeGIp-ZeDDNIwVYx4NlLHAqdituEqsPAERv6P-X7uwjR7o2O4nxhxaAQA7lqV9r9zYj-JGIVYlj0K_jZVceClme33mrHVT0p7tH7E0vbTKTSQG4mcZj4-Q08IYLqAq77Yo/w400-h224/1989%20Berlin%20Wall.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-17964231410792149532023-11-01T16:40:00.009-07:002023-11-01T17:01:17.025-07:00Comparative Considerations<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqkZsvwiwcHcbJROLvpbrAHkWamh8YD7w-OUmsEPKN-J3rwM0SUL0Ob9wJTjH9nerYAzP8gOKkgvs_zg0xNTQSxI7KPhgaSoUGzpfMA3ngY6i1UsqGQhYG5b4858kaRVSEbewzT0boYsSrZqFt_w2qU2pfNs0yPwuJT6YoYrDv86x-MCWmqScn_WlXcz0/s2530/Comparative%20Considerations%20pic%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2530" data-original-width="2053" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOqkZsvwiwcHcbJROLvpbrAHkWamh8YD7w-OUmsEPKN-J3rwM0SUL0Ob9wJTjH9nerYAzP8gOKkgvs_zg0xNTQSxI7KPhgaSoUGzpfMA3ngY6i1UsqGQhYG5b4858kaRVSEbewzT0boYsSrZqFt_w2qU2pfNs0yPwuJT6YoYrDv86x-MCWmqScn_WlXcz0/w325-h400/Comparative%20Considerations%20pic%20001.jpg" width="325" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">‘Take nothing personally.’ At
least, that’s what The Four Agreements invite. Also, ‘Do not compare yourself with
others, for always there will be lesser and greater persons than yourself,’ says Desiderata; (which was at first purported to be a 14<sup>th</sup> century
inscription in a hidden church wall, until someone discovered that the poet, Max
Ehrmann, had written it, sometime in the first half of the 1900’s.) And then
there’s my own observation about comparisons, called:</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">The Ten Pears<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A man sees ten pears in a bin
at the store. ‘This one looks the best,’ he determines, and buys it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A woman sees nine pears in
the same store. ‘This is the best one for me, she avers,’ and buys it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Another woman comes along to
the pears. ‘Of the eight, this is the best,’ she smiles, and buys it.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A girl is next, sent by her
mother. ‘Out of the seven, Mom will like this one the most,’ she’s sure.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A man sees six pears in the
bin, and he carefully concludes that the one he takes ‘is best, indeed.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Another man arrives, carefully
examines the five, and picks the very best one for himself too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">An older woman, knowing fruit,
sees four pears left. ‘Hm, here’s the best one for me,’ she thinks.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Another old man, seeing the three
pears, thinks, ‘Ah! Now here’s the very best of the three!’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A very busy young man sees
just two pears. ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, ... nope! This is the better one!’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">At last, the lone pear sits
there, until someone, wanting a pear, sees it. ‘Lucky me. I found a pear!’</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> .................................</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Thing is, for each pear in
the bin, someone found it to be the best, each time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">So... indeed, we compare by
contrast, certainly, but at each stage of our participation in evaluation we have
only the ones before us by which to choose. As such, my having received the
honour of being among ‘the world’s best oil-painters’ hardly really needs be
taken personally. After all, yes, 72 countries participated, but only the
artists who happened to send in their works to be evaluated were among those
chosen. And then too, in all the categories (like fruit in a grocery store,)
how many were ‘pairs.’ Well, enough entries for my ‘third place’ not even to be
isolated, but paired, ‘tied’, with another artist, Eugene Kuperman, (whose ‘Boulevard
of Broken Dreams’ (shown below) strikes me as superbly profound, not only in its execution, but in its
symbolism too.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We who write books, who make
music, who paint paintings, who do theatrical shows, who make movies, who act
and dance and teach and lead and serve, in whatever capacity, are doing what we
can with every one of our products directed at being accepted by someone else.
Yes, someone ‘other’ may find this product better than that (even among my own works
I’d place rankings); but the thing is that each thing that we do is paired with
our energy, our intuition, our instinct, our talent, our state of mind, our physical
health, and our innate ability at a given time. And time itself, we know, can
affect even the very best of pears; (ha!, ask any fruit fly.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Take nothing personally. Do
not compare. But certainly, it is appreciated that one likes my fruit.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Now then, anyone up for getting 'the perfect pair' of my novels? See them at:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/author/richardpentelbury" target="_blank"><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">https://www.amazon.com/author/richardpentelbury</span></a></span><u><span face=""Verdana",sans-serif" style="color: blue; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></u></p><p class="MsoNormal">And see ALL the art at:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #242424; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; letter-spacing: -0.05pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"><a href="https://americanartawards.com/2023-winning-artists-american-art-awards/" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue; letter-spacing: -0.05pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">https://americanartawards.com/2023-winning-artists-american-art-awards/</span></a></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5R3t19GPyNPyRwbxLKFUsXNmaSLdoOF43hPoIy7mNVY8vA4zifuohtrZ4Wj8XR92A2H_zwgHepc5YXqVUaRuogYqqMcEXN_L6TK3hS-bQhJgWcgA6DVbvoqiw6m2IF2pNK5hFWa43ucOgeeg3hSW_kx-0gnQOA2fwvjFqLo805XmVmvrsxFZDaBhiKdXD/s525/Kupert's%20Boulevard%20of%20Broken%20Dreams.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="525" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5R3t19GPyNPyRwbxLKFUsXNmaSLdoOF43hPoIy7mNVY8vA4zifuohtrZ4Wj8XR92A2H_zwgHepc5YXqVUaRuogYqqMcEXN_L6TK3hS-bQhJgWcgA6DVbvoqiw6m2IF2pNK5hFWa43ucOgeeg3hSW_kx-0gnQOA2fwvjFqLo805XmVmvrsxFZDaBhiKdXD/w400-h309/Kupert's%20Boulevard%20of%20Broken%20Dreams.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-8564072253005802312023-09-07T13:44:00.000-07:002023-09-07T13:44:01.219-07:00Don and Death (YOU are in here)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhprzq3efUXdYAVxc8SjDi1YVAXYqhWRTXthw5tpTXF_1onQJD734CQhlQKq8dRnvtEupxbdL_4eKbiREtXinJx_e2AythqCKQtCLSiGUtNamu6G0KhpyQ6cGLuY5IbIcHCD1Svb-Y03dOlXQjGjEXGnGYzdnANUQRJoJqNap-8KH70srduFa6cbhyUgg/s2048/Don's%20Death.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXhprzq3efUXdYAVxc8SjDi1YVAXYqhWRTXthw5tpTXF_1onQJD734CQhlQKq8dRnvtEupxbdL_4eKbiREtXinJx_e2AythqCKQtCLSiGUtNamu6G0KhpyQ6cGLuY5IbIcHCD1Svb-Y03dOlXQjGjEXGnGYzdnANUQRJoJqNap-8KH70srduFa6cbhyUgg/s320/Don's%20Death.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“If
you’re waiting for that famous last moment, before someone dies, to say the
things you should be saying all your life, well, you better have great timing,”
Morrie Swartz said to Mitch Albom, in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">a line
from the play, ‘Tuesdays with Morrie.’ It’s phrasing to sink into the soul. We
find it so hard to say the things we feel, sometimes. We can sense the
threshold of the maudlin, the sentimental, the gushing, and even the thread of
interdependency in our words of love and care to someone else. It’s sometimes hard
to let go. It’s sometimes hard not to let go. And so, with friends and family
and acquaintances, we perpetuate the usual acculturations we’ve been taught.
For a lot of us, less is more. For another lot of us, more and more creates a
sense of it all meaning less. Words matter. Feelings matter. How best to convey
‘the right thing to say’ at the many moments of life, let alone at someone
else’s ‘end’.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Don just died this morning at 8:30. ...Very peaceful and so glad
it’s over for all of us. ... our doctor was just here, and all is taken care of,”
wrote his wife.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">It is so sad a note to receive, and yet so real.
Who among us has never received news of death? And who among us has not wished
we might have said something to the person we loved, cared for, thought about?
For some of us, we’ve had a chance. We were told about the possibility of
imminent death. We were given opportunity to write, to visit, to speak. And at
other times, with the sad news of someone’s death, we were taken by surprise.
We did not know that the person was ill, was in trouble, was in a state of
distress so dire that death would overtake them. And we had no chance to tell
them how we felt. It would’ve been ‘nice’ to relay our feelings. It would’ve
been ‘good’ to let them know about our appreciation, if only....</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In the passage of our lives, at any age, there are
the boxes we are given to ‘tick’. Have we been kind, considerate, thoughtful,
compassionate? Have we been generous, given time, given friendship, given care?
Have we shared our thoughts, our feelings, our hearts, our souls? Have we been
honest, truthful, careful, and inclusive? Have we allowed them ‘to be’? And
then again, is that tick list all about our self, or is it about another? Have
they been those things to us? All of those things? And in the end, that ‘end’,
which of those things in the tick list might we not apply? Surely the person
hearing them might feel guilty for not exhibiting all those elements towards oneself.
So too, might we not feel guilty for not demonstrating those same qualities
toward them!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Every day, have a little bird that sits on your
shoulder, that asks, is today the day? Am I being the person I </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">want</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> to
be?” advised Morrie. Well, in that ‘wanting’ lies much of awareness and insight
and action.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">My friend, Don, has a long history with me. His
boxes are ticked. His life had great import. His love meant a great deal. Our
communication, sporadic, intermittent, intense, and meaningful, was imbued with
the essence of respect for the other, appreciation for the journey, and care
for the other’s interests.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Another longtime friend, at the news of Don’s death,
wrote succinctly: “You will miss your friend.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Such is the truth of living.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsvwDRG83ue2FijXjq9MBUY9gHiXYKwwiYsDP-Xc3FA3QQRTbe8uS0GJCum8o2Pxy7GdpjjJTAmbMsrdmPX0Era4Nd_W-rv2n1zAAvwdZOjeenIZeYgjuh3K3vp9PW_GOHBmg5Iub34BEEtmcwawzDd2bh3hc1IVVYVG2eUVoWrQnAJ6YUJwuHI7fR8Y4/s4160/20200320_185809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3120" data-original-width="4160" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEsvwDRG83ue2FijXjq9MBUY9gHiXYKwwiYsDP-Xc3FA3QQRTbe8uS0GJCum8o2Pxy7GdpjjJTAmbMsrdmPX0Era4Nd_W-rv2n1zAAvwdZOjeenIZeYgjuh3K3vp9PW_GOHBmg5Iub34BEEtmcwawzDd2bh3hc1IVVYVG2eUVoWrQnAJ6YUJwuHI7fR8Y4/s320/20200320_185809.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-23240947070728113702023-09-05T11:24:00.001-07:002023-09-05T12:29:31.045-07:00Perfecting Peace<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDO6eda41huYJszqczqYG5sRkI4coJWIdKCKxbK6Olgw_Rtnuz1CmWhj3O4ArshsfqqSvAj-4rtnk3bmdRm3qU9KRdcqel3cGxmKQoDHcKld4yWdtq1X_IW4Uqi22kQEFRfitSEs0WyLKp2chhy2PoWRFdJGYxQ71cvg2-yJjDhQBo0tVNyQmaSJryPkMI/s843/Equal%20Truths.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="843" data-original-width="843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDO6eda41huYJszqczqYG5sRkI4coJWIdKCKxbK6Olgw_Rtnuz1CmWhj3O4ArshsfqqSvAj-4rtnk3bmdRm3qU9KRdcqel3cGxmKQoDHcKld4yWdtq1X_IW4Uqi22kQEFRfitSEs0WyLKp2chhy2PoWRFdJGYxQ71cvg2-yJjDhQBo0tVNyQmaSJryPkMI/s320/Equal%20Truths.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Happiness is so temporary. Dependent on external factors,
one feels it in time-bites. We depend on the weather, on our looks, on our hair,
on our relationships, on our abodes, on our gardens, on our phone calls, on
our... we are happy when things are ‘right.’ Yet the state of ‘being happy’ is
easily fragmented. In the long haul of life, we all know just how very many
things have made us ‘unhappy’. We are not at peace with ‘this’, or with ‘that’.
Indeed, as Yeats puts it, “...peace comes dropping slow.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Peace,’ as a slogan can be a call to action. It can be a
phrase intended to calm down the fight between children, between armies,
between religions, between couples, between nations. The word can appear trite,
temporary, and false. It can lose the essence of its meaning as one unhappily
shakes hands, calls a truce, endures the draconian dictates of a family, a cult,
a religion, a political system, a world order. One can be hard put to feel
peace when one’s fundamentals are threatened, cauterized, curtailed, and
jailed. In the long haul we are victims to the times. "Grant me the wisdom to know the difference," is so true.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Perfecting peace comes at the price of letting go. Attaining
peace is not so much a sublimation, or a discarding of one’s wants and desires
and interests, as it is about developing an appreciation for our circumstances,
our things, our relationships, without being attached. ‘Attachment’ breeds
dependency, whereas ‘appreciation’ frees one to love.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I LOVE it!” is a ubiquitous phrase. Blurted at the banquet
of things, feelings, sounds, sights, smells, and touch, “I love it,” is married
with happiness. Yet one can become, if not ‘out of love’, then ‘used to,’ familiar
with, or even ‘bored’ by the very thing that once created that sensation of
love-happiness it evoked. We each have had so much in our lives, young or old
as we may be. And it is not just Birthdays or Christmases that give us the
presents we love. The surprise of a sunset, a harvest moon, a bird on the wire
can bring about such feelings too. All these things are, however, impermanent.
And so can be our ‘happiness.’ </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet ‘love,’ in the long-haul sense of the word, at ‘best’ is
entirely a feeling one gives, always, a sense one has, always, a non-attachment
to Everything, always. Appreciation is distinct from Attachment. As such, in
the integrative, assimilative, absorptive, inclusive, and personal peacefulness
of appreciation, as a verb, as a thing one does, it frees one to love deeply,
profoundly, and as permanently in awareness of Everything Else, so long as one
is ‘working at’ it. After all, one’s acculturation, habituations, lessons of
the past, experiences along the way, and even the expectations within the
groups one becomes involved with, creates these divisions of attachment between
what was, is, and may yet be. To be attached is to depend. To appreciate, is to
be free. Indeed, “...peace comes dropping slow.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But what about the accidents of life? What about the pain
and the suffering and the horror and the abuse and the torturous and the vile?
What about the unfairness and the betrayal and the unexpected? What of the
controls and the dictates and the censures? What of the bullies and the lions
and tigers and bears? How do we accept them?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Acceptance comes at the price of compassion. And compassion
arises from having ‘been there’, from recognizing in oneself, however minimally,
the instincts to hate, hit, hurt, kill, and smash that which opposes our
immediate sense of ‘happiness.’ Who among us has never killed an insect? Who among
us has never felt anger, disappointment, vengeance, greed, or.... Well, those Seven
Sins raise their heads. It is in discourse that we stand chance of nurturing evolution. And while we each ‘grow up,’ there is much of
enlightenment to learn in the passage of our own passing through. Indeed,
perfecting peace comes slowly. Yet in attaining it, however small the measures,
one knows there is always yet more to be had. Such is love. Such is peace. And
curiously, so may we include happiness too. “Peace be unto you,” is heartfelt.
So too is ‘Rest In Peace’. But it is the now for now where peace is best realized.
Now for now.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGomwJh1bVwkXSadLsrbrJncOFZKAH6rfc9TBoBjrQsuqT-9uB8EXCt71hanPjav0qXSqS0-8l2-DBnqQnhWmcZ5kUQPWzQkp5YW9UxBnHkQ9QgAGxuW7Uk3qQc0AoD01WoAPIqKUiJvrCokSidC86ruH4sQqGIQ5yRSmRjQ7y8C6QENBqaCbP9jgmLc7/s843/Emotions%20and%20the%20WORK.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="841" data-original-width="843" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLGomwJh1bVwkXSadLsrbrJncOFZKAH6rfc9TBoBjrQsuqT-9uB8EXCt71hanPjav0qXSqS0-8l2-DBnqQnhWmcZ5kUQPWzQkp5YW9UxBnHkQ9QgAGxuW7Uk3qQc0AoD01WoAPIqKUiJvrCokSidC86ruH4sQqGIQ5yRSmRjQ7y8C6QENBqaCbP9jgmLc7/s320/Emotions%20and%20the%20WORK.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-42884786046748249952023-04-27T09:11:00.002-07:002023-04-27T10:18:25.696-07:00Devolving Democracies<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNoOk-dANPgx7yYUFPDjki6s5RainYpKk5d656gp8ss4orKuork7oJErfsYoRk7ZLHDvAe1LY_YOWcB3UonAUmQ6YCmFesRJgrqBT__HpHh7eK_J0D0YO1Y76Ac7nW4Sl__DlbE8mfQDxfPhEA1GzW3zSbeAr988aUcyIpTqEZJgSazpI_ipQNgyYLA/s1154/Triangulation.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1154" data-original-width="852" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGNoOk-dANPgx7yYUFPDjki6s5RainYpKk5d656gp8ss4orKuork7oJErfsYoRk7ZLHDvAe1LY_YOWcB3UonAUmQ6YCmFesRJgrqBT__HpHh7eK_J0D0YO1Y76Ac7nW4Sl__DlbE8mfQDxfPhEA1GzW3zSbeAr988aUcyIpTqEZJgSazpI_ipQNgyYLA/w295-h400/Triangulation.jpg" width="295" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">We are in much fragmentation. Our world churns
with ingredients, political, social, religious, and even spiritual. Much
differentiation pervades. Much unhappiness persists. And like the old movie,
‘Network’, one may feel the need to thrust one’s head out of the window and
shout out something like: “I’m fed up with the system and I won’t take it
anymore!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body">Democracy as an ideal holds to the simple rubric
of majority rule. It works so long as one is comfortably not marginalized. It
is an anathema to the spirit if one is outcast, vilified, traduced, or
culminated. We wish to keep things simple. Let live and let live. Be who you
are. Just don’t expect me to be the same as you. Be vegetarian. Be against
blood transfusion. Be against (Covid) vaccinations. Be a Baptist or a Catholic
or a Jew. Just don’t over-mandate me ‘to be’ too.</p>
<p class="Body">Majority rule can create a disabling sense of
one’s worth. We don’t want ‘them’ over-taking us. We don’t wish for our current
status quo to be threatened. And so, as a majority of blue smarties, say, we grow
uncomfortable with more and more purple smarties entering our domain. They
clothe themselves differently. They make for a distaste in our life. They break
our codes of conduct. They clack together in a language we don’t understand.
And now, as their numbers grow, we find ourselves too soon under threat of being overwhelmed by their
voting powers, and we don’t like it!</p>
<p class="Body">Mandates have that effect on us. We lose our
vote. Mandates demand. We lose our freedom. Yet safely enough, should the
majority vote that everyone must wear a seat-belt, we can choose never to drive
or be a passenger in a vehicle again. We can choose. We can stay home. We can
walk. We can talk. We can write freely. … Or can we?</p>
<p class="Body">Democracy has it that we give in to the group’s
wishes, or one may choose not to participate. Draconian measures have it that
one must comply; or suffer direct censure. Our bank balances can be frozen. Our
freedom of movement can be rigidly curtailed. Our social participation can be
severely restricted. Our religious assembly can be cauterized. Our
individualism becomes eradicated, and a social credit system can be imposed. As
a person of the state one is subject to personal checks and balances. Yes, even the
purchase of too much broccoli may also be affected.</p>
<p class="Body">In the ‘free world’ we did not think it would
come to this. We did not expect to have our livelihoods threatened by the gods
of health and pharmaceutical industries and complicit governments and puppet
leaders of essentially non-scientific narratives. Like science itself, we
expected instead to have our lives evolving on established truths, yet
perpetually fluid to new information, new verifications, new admissions of the
need to alter course. Such is the stream of life. Such is going with the flow.
One has choices! But what if it is too late?</p>
<p class="Body">What is done cannot necessarily be undone. We
can return most purchases we make for a full refund. We can unsubscribe. We can
walk out of the urgent care clinic if the wait is too long for us, and we grow
too impatient. We nowadays can even choose the right to die. But once having
had the polio vaccine we cannot take it out of us; nor so for measles, the
shingles, the smallpox, or the malaria vaccine. In the bloodstream, they do
their thing. Still, we are mostly comfortable, if not even grateful, for their
validation in us. They’re tested. We can feel secure.</p>
<p class="Body">Not so for Covid. There is far too much
controversy surrounding ‘The Jab’. There are far too many news reports,
articles, web sites, interviews, gainsayers, and medical experts warning one
not to admit the vaccine into one’s bloodstream. As well, much research revealing
the pro-phy-lac-tic in-efficacy of the vaccine hardly gives one a realistic boost
of confidence. And so, it comes down to ‘The Mandate’. As proven, letting off
steam by our shouting out of the window does not do much for all of us, effectively.
Choice is a precious commodity. One cannot un-ring a bell. Yet in the bonny province of B.C., with Bill 36, the mandate remains clear: Get jabbed, or else! (Now then, heard of British Columbia's Bill 36? One loses all confidentiality with any Health Care Worker, at the Government's demand, or that Health Care worker loses their license, or worse*.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxEUsKYfmjsKr-2iUfsMXwT5i_Mo7XEDZyE7g3vlpX5hObiSV2CTVhxtZJOep3iIXOHgCLb1pjmmVBk-LPABE4ZTFSiS67327AmpANF5tKzLV3L0bOu687bc4oczNVw5QadaUD-KCbDjiqfBneflsI1CHA96fcTdlzH-XI2SBtV7oAmWCOuvd7yVZAQ/s1620/Murrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHxEUsKYfmjsKr-2iUfsMXwT5i_Mo7XEDZyE7g3vlpX5hObiSV2CTVhxtZJOep3iIXOHgCLb1pjmmVBk-LPABE4ZTFSiS67327AmpANF5tKzLV3L0bOu687bc4oczNVw5QadaUD-KCbDjiqfBneflsI1CHA96fcTdlzH-XI2SBtV7oAmWCOuvd7yVZAQ/w266-h400/Murrow.jpg" width="266" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body">*<span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">Bill 36 BC is</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 700;"> a new law that replaces the Health Professions Act</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"> and changes how health professions are regulated</span><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg1" h="ID=SERP,5427.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=51fa5e709ff8aa6fJmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQyNw&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuYmNkaGEuY29tL3RyYWNraW5nLWJpbGwtMzYtaGVhbHRoLXByb2Zlc3Npb25zLWFuZC1vY2N1cGF0aW9ucy1hY3QtaHBvYS8&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">1</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg2" h="ID=SERP,5428.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=a733a4d4fecf51faJmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQyOA&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly9yZWNsYWltdGhlbmV0Lm9yZy9icml0aXNoLWNvbHVtYmlhLWNhbmFkYS1tZWRpY2FsLWNlbnNvcnNoaXAtYmlsbC0zNi8&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">2</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">. It gives the Health Minister the authority to appoint College Boards, to mandate vaccines for health practitioners, and to punish them for challenging government policies</span><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg3" h="ID=SERP,5429.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=1ee1d8ad2d3215d3JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQyOQ&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuY2hwYmMuY2EvYmlsbC0zNi10aGUtZGV2aWxzLWluLXRoZS1kZXRhaWxzLw&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">3</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg4" h="ID=SERP,5430.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=efecdf712a33b8b8JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzMA&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuYmNudXJzZXNmaWdodG1hbmRhdGVzLmNhL3Bvc3QvYnJpdGlzaC1jb2x1bWJpYS1oZWFsdGgtcHJvZmVzc2lvbmFscy1pbi1zaG9jay1vdmVyLXByb3Bvc2VkLWJpbGwtYzM2LWFyZS10aGVpci1yaWdodHMtYmVpbmctY29tcHJv&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">4</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg5" h="ID=SERP,5431.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=44ae864a4a05d7a5JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzMQ&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuamNjZi5jYS9qdXN0aWNlLWNlbnRyZS1leHByZXNzZXMtY29uY2Vybi1hYm91dC1icml0aXNoLWNvbHVtYmlhcy1iaWxsLTM2Lw&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">5</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">. Some critics say it violates the independence and rights of self-governing professions and the public interest</span><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg3" h="ID=SERP,5432.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=524e5202c93b1b5bJmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzMg&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuY2hwYmMuY2EvYmlsbC0zNi10aGUtZGV2aWxzLWluLXRoZS1kZXRhaWxzLw&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">3</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg4" h="ID=SERP,5433.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=e4ed51b08fe66a2fJmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzMw&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuYmNudXJzZXNmaWdodG1hbmRhdGVzLmNhL3Bvc3QvYnJpdGlzaC1jb2x1bWJpYS1oZWFsdGgtcHJvZmVzc2lvbmFscy1pbi1zaG9jay1vdmVyLXByb3Bvc2VkLWJpbGwtYzM2LWFyZS10aGVpci1yaWdodHMtYmVpbmctY29tcHJv&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">4</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg5" h="ID=SERP,5434.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=c342eece76d93792JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzNA&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuamNjZi5jYS9qdXN0aWNlLWNlbnRyZS1leHByZXNzZXMtY29uY2Vybi1hYm91dC1icml0aXNoLWNvbHVtYmlhcy1iaWxsLTM2Lw&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">5</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">. It was approved by the legislature on November 24, 2022 and received Royal Assent the same day</span><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg1" h="ID=SERP,5435.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=11bca6665674fbc7JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzNQ&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly93d3cuYmNkaGEuY29tL3RyYWNraW5nLWJpbGwtMzYtaGVhbHRoLXByb2Zlc3Npb25zLWFuZC1vY2N1cGF0aW9ucy1hY3QtaHBvYS8&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">1</span></a><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg2" h="ID=SERP,5436.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=bf3e9c2ebde67800JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzNg&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly9yZWNsYWltdGhlbmV0Lm9yZy9icml0aXNoLWNvbHVtYmlhLWNhbmFkYS1tZWRpY2FsLWNlbnNvcnNoaXAtYmlsbC0zNi8&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">2</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">. It will come into force by a Cabinet order</span><a class="ac-anchor sup-target" data-tgpsgid="d_anstgpsg2" h="ID=SERP,5437.1" href="https://www.bing.com/ck/a?!&&p=9fb88f812d8381e7JmltdHM9MTY4MjU1MzYwMCZpZ3VpZD0yM2I4ZjBkMy0wMGJjLTY0MjMtMDM0My1lMmI1MDEwNTY1MGMmaW5zaWQ9NTQzNw&ptn=3&hsh=3&fclid=23b8f0d3-00bc-6423-0343-e2b50105650c&psq=bill+36+bc&u=a1aHR0cHM6Ly9yZWNsYWltdGhlbmV0Lm9yZy9icml0aXNoLWNvbHVtYmlhLWNhbmFkYS1tZWRpY2FsLWNlbnNvcnNoaXAtYmlsbC0zNi8&ntb=1" style="background-color: white; color: #4007a2; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank"><span style="align-items: center; background: rgb(209, 219, 250); border-radius: 3px; color: #123bb6; display: inline-flex; font-size: 10px; font-weight: 600; height: 14px; justify-content: center; margin: 0px 2px; min-width: 14px; outline: transparent solid 1px; position: relative; text-decoration-color: transparent; top: -1px; vertical-align: top;">2</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: #111111; font-family: -apple-system, Roboto, SegoeUI, "Segoe UI", "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, "Microsoft YaHei", "Meiryo UI", Meiryo, "Arial Unicode MS", sans-serif; font-size: 16px;">.</span></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-84047388815487650412023-03-26T11:30:00.000-07:002023-03-26T11:30:05.040-07:00Ergo Ego<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pLdvANhVM8lTCZB-CC2ds_8c7o9rYnnkYvJuf1NJwRagCKykJLn2bpNFTdDXjHzeoL5Hm0VDriqkGVkOZ9L81KrYpB1hS55EMA42Yq2Yl9SD_MTORwVSZSoJCaHnwF24JeKwm1qzvZyVfqqvz2f3lsaq3QYi6HNdHSWqi-Z46i-nFmkG464OI1JrFg/s892/ERGO%20EGO%201.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="892" data-original-width="751" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4pLdvANhVM8lTCZB-CC2ds_8c7o9rYnnkYvJuf1NJwRagCKykJLn2bpNFTdDXjHzeoL5Hm0VDriqkGVkOZ9L81KrYpB1hS55EMA42Yq2Yl9SD_MTORwVSZSoJCaHnwF24JeKwm1qzvZyVfqqvz2f3lsaq3QYi6HNdHSWqi-Z46i-nFmkG464OI1JrFg/w336-h400/ERGO%20EGO%201.jpg" width="336" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm;"><span style="color: black;">“Come to the
edge of your limitation,” she urged, “and then leap; you shall feel free.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“But
I am afraid,” he responded.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Ego,”
she said. “Get past your fear.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“But
I am uncertain,” he reasoned.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Ego,”
she said. “Get past insecurity.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“But
I am not strong enough, healthy enough, settled, enlightened enough,” he
averred.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Ego,”
she repeated. “These things will always be with you, but they contain you in
your smallness of self-centredness; they capture you in your sense of
imperfection; they garb you in clothes of vanity, however subliminal, as your
ego demands that you be aware of your physical limitations, yes, but does not
free your mind and spirit to be bigger than the moment.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Bigger
than the moment?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Yes.
Small ego is irritable, insecure, vain, anxious, uncertain, belligerent,
obstinate, and whatever else does not allow for being ‘larger than the moment.’
Large ego is inclusive, absorptive, assimilative, understanding, compassionate,
and holistic. Why fragment yourself in bits of enlightenment when you can come
to the edge of your limitations, and in allowing for a paradigm shift, let go?
Then shall you be at peace.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Be
at peace? Sounds like R.I.P. (ha!) I’d rather be alive.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Yes.
Yet peace while alive is about complete acceptance of the circumstances. Like
the age old prayer: grant me strength to change the things I can, courage to
let live the things I cannot, and the wisdom to know the difference.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s
not how it goes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Yes.
But the sense of it is the thing offered here. So accept that much. Needing
perfection is for material things, like building bridges and designing cars and
making aeroplanes fly. Accepting imperfection is for spiritual things, like
faith, and hope, and insight, and enlightenment, and wisdom too. One makes
paradigm shifts incrementally, independent necessarily of one’s age. And the
grade levels of one’s insight are not a lockstep, like being in regular school.
In our lives one may be in grade three in mathematics, but at university level
in reading. Accepting that much differentiation for each of us, and most
especially of the self, is the primary root of compassion. And compassion, like
enlightenment, is not a product, but an ongoing journey. So… come to the edge
of your limitations, one by one, and let them go.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">“Hmm. <span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT470_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;"></span><span class="object"><span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT474_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;">Tomorrow</span></span>.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">“<span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT471_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;"></span><span class="object"><span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT475_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;">Tomorrow</span></span> and <span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT472_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;"></span><span class="object"><span id="OBJ_PREFIX_DWT476_com_zimbra_date" role="link" style="cursor: pointer;">tomorrow</span></span> <span style="color: black;">creeps on this petty pace, from day to day.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“That’s
from Macbeth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; min-height: 13.1px; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;">“Indeed.
The operative word here is ‘petty’. A myriad of petty things inveigles the
perceived needs of our egos. We are so very concerned about how we are
perceived by others, even if we are in strange crowds. But to let go of all
that and to be concerned for, interested in, and loving of others truly begins
with loving the self sufficiently enough to let go of one’s limitations. So
then, be larger than the moment. Go to the edge. And grow beyond.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background: #FDFDFD; margin: 0cm; orphans: 2; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsnpkJcRnnk29z2WAO4czenpktuhErWxeAgQVqcItrgsJP590ICmieIPj3j7-_v3SpBAgGe27C0DU76NF5KGsZODp7gk4lHiubOEqsyVE37ISQ6SZ-bOTSmAMfKTMvu7ZDxK7Qa8TdnFa3qXqFCv-lOsacZ4bto7QWOuIItflaeCLraizrgIrIMLIKg/s825/ERGO%20EGO%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="649" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOsnpkJcRnnk29z2WAO4czenpktuhErWxeAgQVqcItrgsJP590ICmieIPj3j7-_v3SpBAgGe27C0DU76NF5KGsZODp7gk4lHiubOEqsyVE37ISQ6SZ-bOTSmAMfKTMvu7ZDxK7Qa8TdnFa3qXqFCv-lOsacZ4bto7QWOuIItflaeCLraizrgIrIMLIKg/w315-h400/ERGO%20EGO%202.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-52018122681299981652023-01-25T12:49:00.002-08:002024-03-09T13:05:15.653-08:00Toy Trains And Tiny Troubles<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nBcdgIQ6KX4SR-lgX41CBWmDQV0QhayCqQGLtwu9ivrBiA4WYP7YIUEA79LXH6DU4Eu_lb2bp6q0_kx1f6umYgmHyEaXRcr9PIiL_jOjfTF2wkTe_Bcoc8Eq0tyBvcMPwaXbWbTSkYULgSpWjUTVsbP6xgjnlsOE_8dPPxA3OJUw_2VcCkA1EGE3xw/s1040/Toy%20Train%20Stoker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1040" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2nBcdgIQ6KX4SR-lgX41CBWmDQV0QhayCqQGLtwu9ivrBiA4WYP7YIUEA79LXH6DU4Eu_lb2bp6q0_kx1f6umYgmHyEaXRcr9PIiL_jOjfTF2wkTe_Bcoc8Eq0tyBvcMPwaXbWbTSkYULgSpWjUTVsbP6xgjnlsOE_8dPPxA3OJUw_2VcCkA1EGE3xw/s320/Toy%20Train%20Stoker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Grandfather’s hands were scarred with age. As he placed the
gift of my new toy trainset on the tracks I noticed them, as if for the first
time. The backs of his hands were criss-crossed with enlarged blue veins, like
railway tracks on the map of Rhodesia. The veins ran up the insides of his bare
arms, and disappeared into his shirt sleeves. Somewhere in there, in his chest,
in his heart, lay the origins of him, a son of Africa as he too was. But now
his voice rumbled.</p><p class="MsoNormal">“See. It takes patience, care, and precision, old son.
You’ll get it right. Just align the wheels very gently with the tracks as you
put the engine and carriages down. And notice that their couplers will connect
on the rails if you nudge the pieces together. If they do not, it’s because a
wheel is not properly on the rails.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At least, in what was my five-year-old memory, that’s what
Grandfather said. Then too, perhaps my observation of his physique, at the
time, was not so acute. Thing is, one makes up stories as one goes along the
train tracks of life, and alights at stations, and visits here and there, and
feels the years go by as perseverate as is the click-clack-clack sound of time,
sliding away from oneself, connected by month after month in the journey of
one’s life.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sixty-five years later, I still have that trainset. And even
now, as my own hands and forearms bear the veins of a journey across the
continents, the essence of Grandfather’s lessons remain. One need be cautious,
caring, considerate, thoughtful, aware, and precise if one is to have a
trainset working properly. As a metaphor for life, the slightest disconnect makes
for a train-wreck, over and over. The tracks need to be stable. The carriages,
like the chapters in a book, need to be coupled. The wheels, like sentences,
need to align with each other so as to carry the entire conveyance forward, and
around and around. And therein the metaphor breaks down. One can get bored with
around and around. Maintenance of the parts, of the essence of the thing, of
one’s life, in fact, is utterly necessary to keep it going, yes, but around and
around? Where be the progress, the excitement, the new vistas in that?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yes, one adds to the set of one’s life. We acquire new
carriages, different engines, add adjoining rails, and replace the
accoutrements of scenes around the circumstances of our lives. And the journey
swells. It goes round and round. But essentially, it is flat, horizontal, and
even predictable. Until there is a crash.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We speak of the stations in our lives, the tracks we’ve
taken, the engine that drives us, the carriages of convenience, and the
strangers we meet and befriend along the way. We speak of connections. We speak
of timetables and tunnels and watersheds and bridges and being transported. And
through it all, around and around we go; humanity, that is. Despite aeroplanes,
and even rocket ships, we seldom consciously aspire toward higher degrees of
enlightenment. As a people, our veneer of civilization is a thin covering over
the savagery of our malcontents. As soon as something goes wrong, we are
stopped up by the train wreck of our disappointment, anger, frustration, angst,
and disfavour. What now?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It takes patience, care, and precision, old son. You’ll get
it right,” is not so much about the mechanics of living as it is about the
essence of perception. To accept, to yield, to include, incorporate,
assimilate, and integrate becomes a pathway of itself. And unlike the tiny
troubles of the disconnects in the railways, (those that stop up the entire
progress of one’s trainset, one’s mindset, one’s evolution,) we can o’erleap
the gaps that would halt our progress, whether by accident or design, by
getting to the heart of the matter; one has the gift of grace within oneself.
And gratitude for everything, even the smallest of lessons, is yet one more way
to be at peace with it all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Such was the smile in my grandfather’s eyes. So it would be,
were he to see my trainset, still going,</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqBw6b7RlnzQz7hd58pCbKYS-KrAMqAQVxE-ITEhRVx_M1wNkUKeBnvhrCHWS0LIePRwOY5PkMrRXNCjs1pVV3JA6x4zsFs7aHSaauUWG9JfSfKpZt6cvgPJE7-GJi6MjTrbrm_Nsa789jSRuL_edDn1P8uUfOzvj9Lg9_M2f5kMuoxs4ZFDU98-bfA/s1040/Toy%20Train%20Station%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1040" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheqBw6b7RlnzQz7hd58pCbKYS-KrAMqAQVxE-ITEhRVx_M1wNkUKeBnvhrCHWS0LIePRwOY5PkMrRXNCjs1pVV3JA6x4zsFs7aHSaauUWG9JfSfKpZt6cvgPJE7-GJi6MjTrbrm_Nsa789jSRuL_edDn1P8uUfOzvj9Lg9_M2f5kMuoxs4ZFDU98-bfA/s320/Toy%20Train%20Station%20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> today.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-63952579019750087492022-12-05T13:29:00.027-08:002022-12-06T08:57:30.650-08:00Sowing Seeds<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihu5U5c6WviVq68GLdbNc5NALSHki7G_6sMvQH8BI0Jzj-5WAgGh0A5ruj3SLgsip4k_Demhx05K0Ghg-mQe7R3VM3O3KmXGCM1LSN3nT5Czb5yHHw32d8Kbs9QQIEHtEer-mkrEzV2MH60vypBf_tJYDXrcpEre9ZCpR3yW20p2CWBGpJM9yTrRWUkQ/s448/ArtWalk%20Exhibit%20Dec%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="374" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihu5U5c6WviVq68GLdbNc5NALSHki7G_6sMvQH8BI0Jzj-5WAgGh0A5ruj3SLgsip4k_Demhx05K0Ghg-mQe7R3VM3O3KmXGCM1LSN3nT5Czb5yHHw32d8Kbs9QQIEHtEer-mkrEzV2MH60vypBf_tJYDXrcpEre9ZCpR3yW20p2CWBGpJM9yTrRWUkQ/s320/ArtWalk%20Exhibit%20Dec%202022.jpg" width="267" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Incredible! You’ll take the lot?” (It became
difficult to conceal my excitement.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body">“Yes, everything,” he affirmed. “Since I’m an
art collector, and a dealer, I see them all as a great investment. Certainly,
(as I’ve been overhearing,) the majority of them are unlike anything one sees
locally, and even in Europe these would fetch much attention. Renaissance
glazing is almost a lost art. And almost everyone I’ve watched in this
exhibition space over the last two days has been mesmerized by the imagery.”</p>
<p class="Body">“I wondered why you kept returning,” I beamed.
“And here you are again, just as I’d hoped, just before closing time. Just as
I’d envisioned, taking everything. Thanks!”</p>
<p class="Body">It’d taken me by surprise, having my works in
this exhibition. The invitation sprang into action the afternoon before the
local Art Walk began. The owner of the empty building, knowing my friend,
invited me to use the space. So, Rory arrived, and our two cars were loaded
with eighteen of my paintings, as well as hanging tools, an easel, my business
cards, and my two novels for display beneath the related painting, (on the
cover, of ‘Admission’.) Then too, the gallery owners set up a blurb about me on
their website, and the instant exhibition was born. The intensity of it all was
deeply absorbing. Over the two days some sixty people popped in. Some stayed
longer than others. Several asked questions. And my stories about the paintings
got repeated. Each time, like a dramatic performance, I did my best to sustain
the import. But not one, no one, made me an offer on any of my works. (Except my dream buyer: “Even if art is
disadvantaged by being a luxury item. Then too, many 'have no space on their walls'. Then too, people will often have to pay as
much as three times the value of art, ‘just’ to have it framed.”)</p>
<p class="Body">Our lives are art works. We sculpt them. We
adorn them. We frame the particularities of our own stories into meaningful
chunks, and we display them in our language, our habits, our preferences, and
our vocations. Some of us are very conscientious about the details. Some of us
are highly abstract. Others are a mixture of the surreal, the ontological, and
the existential. In our simplicity we naturally go for that which is most
comfortable. And hanging there, in the wall spaces of our interiors, the innate
art works of our past can be passed by with hardly a glance, (as we often do
with the paintings and artifacts presented in our real houses.) We take
displays for granted. Imagery is everywhere. Studying it takes effort. It takes
an intensity of focus. And since the meaning of imagery is not easily
articulated, it is indeed subject to interpretation.</p>
<p class="Body">We are right to be subjective. That which
appeals to me is for me; you have your own viewpoint. Our preference for
agreement is innate too. (“I like this one, don’t you?”) But to own something?
Most of us are constrained by our budgets. As such, we are often out there,
without a specific list of needs, and something attracts us. It can be the
thing we had no idea we wanted at all.</p>
<p class="Body">So too for the adventures in our lives. We do
not necessarily go searching; they happen to us. From our own reference, we are
more comfortable with those who can relate. We nod in affirmation at those also
eschewing predestination. We agree with those disagreeing with clear cutting.
We beam in recognition of anguish-experienced enlightenment. We chuckle at the symbolic
yoking of disparate entities, depicting collaboration. We marvel at history’s
lessons, not being learned. “No, life is not cricket!” One is drawn in by the peace
within ‘Mornings Missed’.</p>
<p class="Body">At least, that last phrase was the exact title
of one of my paintings. And the descriptions of life embedded in the preceding
paragraph do apply to each of my works. Yet of what matter? They do not adorn
other people’s walls. In fact, there was no such benefactor, as depicted
herein, at all. No. Nothing sold. Yet one puts one’s intensity of purpose into
one’s daily life, and advertises with one’s card, and who knows where such
honourably intended seeds may grow? ("Here, do take my card.")</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4K3FQJ-ABe5uQ8cZ3Veg-0_xpCsqmmOwkrAJdZ2DxhavpNpf_dc4G_h3TtMdpGfs2oPrKZkzlsy2WaCYTkuCVWLhh8UcD3gT6TjrNXCFr6QYl_ZbmvhGpmkWVxUB2xCbdcf_6bwPQ7Hcnj9ycoqLSo2A5nwCq6AL_HnLMXbmBkD07EZjDof_810vb3g/s1076/My%20Card%20001.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="620" data-original-width="1076" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4K3FQJ-ABe5uQ8cZ3Veg-0_xpCsqmmOwkrAJdZ2DxhavpNpf_dc4G_h3TtMdpGfs2oPrKZkzlsy2WaCYTkuCVWLhh8UcD3gT6TjrNXCFr6QYl_ZbmvhGpmkWVxUB2xCbdcf_6bwPQ7Hcnj9ycoqLSo2A5nwCq6AL_HnLMXbmBkD07EZjDof_810vb3g/w400-h230/My%20Card%20001.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-84450141849413970172022-10-04T09:23:00.003-07:002022-10-04T09:24:39.984-07:00Lancaster Lessons (second half)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialUaDzqx-wU15CR3um9cl4clDpnn2VfCnFir_lrWPeHnkyU94VwA6nU0V_TctmjhIXu4CPHOOMvCoCfnMQ8zYrdOWHGmslkBXIRiyTLFI_da1xuaOMPoe4b8Cs9MhLtR4FIg2x1fq1UvAmlxKbob4jKs2MReayspVFJsdIcHplMCkAM0MjHvZ3fxAXQ/s1117/Lancaster%20001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="1117" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialUaDzqx-wU15CR3um9cl4clDpnn2VfCnFir_lrWPeHnkyU94VwA6nU0V_TctmjhIXu4CPHOOMvCoCfnMQ8zYrdOWHGmslkBXIRiyTLFI_da1xuaOMPoe4b8Cs9MhLtR4FIg2x1fq1UvAmlxKbob4jKs2MReayspVFJsdIcHplMCkAM0MjHvZ3fxAXQ/s320/Lancaster%20001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">We are about to leave the Mosquito when the
young man pauses. He turns toward the other side of my display table. He points
at the music-speaker to the right, and leans forward to inspect another model plane
atop it, displayed seemingly to float on the air. “And this one is an Avro
Lancaster, yes?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Yes. Even more significant to me. Had a model
of one as a boy. Played thoughtlessly with it.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Hm. Boys play. But now, like that Mosquito
there, you knew someone else who’d flown one?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“No. But M’Lady Nancy Sinclair’s twin brother,
Denys Street, flew one. His plane was also shot, and he also had parachuted
out, but he too was captured and sent to Stalagluft Three, just like his
counterpart, the Mosquito pilot, Denys Sinclair.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Counterpart? They both were called Denys?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Yes. And more than that. They met on the
prisoner train when on their way to Stalagluft Three, became firm friends, and
were in the same bunkhouse for the next four years in prison. Not only that,
but Denys Street, Nancy’s twin brother, told his pal, Denys Sinclair, all about
his beloved blue-eyed and beautifully intelligent sister, Nancy; so much so
that after the war, when Denys Sinclair was finely free, he searched Nancy out,
and the rest, as you’ve learned, is history.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Well, not quite. What happened to Nancy’s
brother, Denys Street?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“He was one of the fifty caught, and then shot,
in the so-called Great Escape.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Really? Wow. There was a movie about that. Right?
With Paul Newman?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“That motorbike-maniac story was entirely
fabricated for the sake of the movie. But Nancy’s pain at the untimely loss of
her brother, that way, endures to this day. They were born in 1922, see, and
that means he too would’ve been100 this year, had he lived. But neither the mighty-might
of the British air force, back then, nor the luck of drawing the right straw
was with Denys. And the tragic story of those fifty brave souls who tried to
escape has resonated through time. Denys Sinclair did not draw a short straw.
Denys Street did. And what followed is a very sad story.”</p>
<p class="Body">“All sad? But what about the Sinclair story? After
the war, when Denys Sinclair got free, what happened to them? He, and your
M’Lady? You said they moved to Australia?”</p>
<p class="Body">“I did? Oh? Good listening skills. Yup. They
first had their five children. They tried to make a go of a vegetable farm in
southern England, a place near Godalming, but the economic after-effect of the
war was too strenuous on them, so they emigrated to Oz. Ended up near Perth. Denys
taught flying lessons, and M’Lady Nancy taught French lessons. She also did
pottery, paintings, furniture upholstering, pot-pourri flower arranging, and
recorded-readings for the blind, among other things. She is a most gifted
person. But eventually Denys died too. She’s lost a lot.” </p>
<p class="Body">“And she’s still there, near Perth?”</p>
<p class="Body">Yup. But she’s here too,” and with that I reach
up and touch my heart. “Always.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“A bit like these boy-toy planes of yours,” the
young fellow smiles at me, “constantly alive with very real and quite profoundly
significant memories. Always.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dmR-4tSJRCC20UFrwRgLJDP-QA4RxL5XaMJrmy4EMDskOO0rqny02gs9yaJqvCAZUE9WlmSD036pZ3MZbs1x-ywxlIxFfMaYhivrFP1XlErjgDe4B7Q9IsHe8iuVutppwPNLRaUkDiNkQ5how9h9_l0If3M-vmdN5Evzscsuc0UFcFv4mmHKlVhq_A/s1697/Two's%20Company%20001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1697" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dmR-4tSJRCC20UFrwRgLJDP-QA4RxL5XaMJrmy4EMDskOO0rqny02gs9yaJqvCAZUE9WlmSD036pZ3MZbs1x-ywxlIxFfMaYhivrFP1XlErjgDe4B7Q9IsHe8iuVutppwPNLRaUkDiNkQ5how9h9_l0If3M-vmdN5Evzscsuc0UFcFv4mmHKlVhq_A/s320/Two's%20Company%20001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-19886846789579233922022-10-04T09:18:00.001-07:002022-10-04T09:18:50.854-07:00Mosquito Memories (first half)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlg8dsZNDZL0GPvBstK4ybIcskr0Wx56Z3X_Au3SEIkLPpgrKPXCigBT3vB878VQCsixhKcrNSSXcOmIUiwvd2faqMIwtjikRUArnO5Mm8o2deieiPpQ4uOGEY-gZrRQExZ_TZTC6lZ3XfIoa6MgS8ulQkZ54Ttg5mmMGUmCI5hgUoB8Uql-ebO9xRA/s1175/Mosquito%20Memories%20001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1133" data-original-width="1175" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTlg8dsZNDZL0GPvBstK4ybIcskr0Wx56Z3X_Au3SEIkLPpgrKPXCigBT3vB878VQCsixhKcrNSSXcOmIUiwvd2faqMIwtjikRUArnO5Mm8o2deieiPpQ4uOGEY-gZrRQExZ_TZTC6lZ3XfIoa6MgS8ulQkZ54Ttg5mmMGUmCI5hgUoB8Uql-ebO9xRA/s320/Mosquito%20Memories%20001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“And why do you have that one? What is it?” The
young man asks, pointing at my model.</span> </p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“A Mosquito. They were used extensively in World
War Two, for reconnaissance especially.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>He looks at me askance. “You were in World War
Two?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Ha! No. Number Two had a 1941 date. The First
World War, as you may know, was during 1914. I was born in the early 1950’s.
But the plane in question signifies much to me, particularly since it was flown
by the husband of one of my very dearest friends, M’Lady Nancy Sinclair.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“A real Lady?” There is no artifice, nor
disbelief in him. “Was her husband a Lord Sinclair?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“No. But her father was Sir Arthur Street,
minister for Air Defense in Great Britain. So, Nancy, quite appropriately
methinks, got called M’Lady, by me.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Hm.” The fellow leans forward. He inspects the
camouflage and bomb-riggings of the model plane, set on its plinth. He is about
to turn away, but I persist. “So that particular plane means a lot to me, since
her husband, Denys, flew it, even though I never met him.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“And why is that? Did he die during the war?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“No. Thank goodness. He was shot down, over
Germany. He escaped his plane by parachute, but then was captured, and taken by
train to Stalagluft Three. It was a prison encampment for flying officers. Several
years later, and only after the famous Great Escape, in which he was not one of
the men selected to escape, thank goodness, he was at last set free. He found
Nancy, proposed some seven times over to her, and at last they were married.
They had five children, three girls, and two boys. Had I been one of their
children, I’d be their very youngest.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Hm. So, how’d you meet her then, this Lady
Syn…, this Nancy?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Denman Island.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>His hand lifts, and he points up the channel of
Canada’s Georgia Strait, about eight miles from where we now stand in my sea-view
den. “Denman? What were you two doing there?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“She came up from Down Under. Visited her
dearest cousin, a war bride from those olden days, whose husband had settled on
Denman. I was busy building my own house there, back then. It’s now nearly
thirty years ago. We met by chance, through a mutual friend. Took to each
other, right off. She came to Canada every three or four years, back in those
days, and we saw each other as much as possible. Then too, our correspondence
never let up. With the advent of emails becoming possible, she undertook to get
and to learn how to use a computer, back in 2012, despite her being ninety
years of age at the time. She still writes to me, to this day.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Still writes? Started emails at 90? Why, that
makes her over 100 years old? Really? Wow. So, what do you put her longevity
down to?”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Asking questions. Curiosity. Being interested
in everything and everybody. Like yourself. You might not have asked me about
that plane, and we’d both be poorer for bypassing that little Mosquito. Pesky
they may be, questions that is, but at least they produce answers.”</p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US"><o:p> </o:p></span>“Ha! Mosquitoes. Pesky. Still, if you don't ask, you'll not know.” Yet still, he asks no further. Still.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWD2QrcxTeK1gPZN1XniGlRI5WxMLNAG46B0uHfyOD-CFwfz87l416xtNmjCjEGTEbn92SSP0cY5DN6YnPhq6vzRaHho3iZ8p2qDSd-I5sf1dJxl-r8uxBWLgx7nCwM2jB93AhuJJiLOlHN68aDQA8H-Tv0G3HXkdrCSPc475_q8sCR2lrGYQB3hi7lA/s1697/Two's%20Company%20001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1697" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWD2QrcxTeK1gPZN1XniGlRI5WxMLNAG46B0uHfyOD-CFwfz87l416xtNmjCjEGTEbn92SSP0cY5DN6YnPhq6vzRaHho3iZ8p2qDSd-I5sf1dJxl-r8uxBWLgx7nCwM2jB93AhuJJiLOlHN68aDQA8H-Tv0G3HXkdrCSPc475_q8sCR2lrGYQB3hi7lA/s320/Two's%20Company%20001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-10678978008903899752022-09-22T08:58:00.001-07:002022-09-22T08:58:26.591-07:00Elemental Excavations<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilx8qaA6co02XY1rQvzh689RO8hde4v6yHV9jJKOm0715_RTdMXJ7zH7lGn6mai8mIYXvV-hlmtioQt2Kx3YDtsJBhiy8ivN9lk0kb5oAf3E_bD2ZVnK1Ha2_st-gnMr2LNo2zhqtlicrLf-6LW7Uu6SooJx9BVyQAsLU9qA3tHH5hzbmVcn2mTLA7PQ/s593/Evolutionary%20Enlightenment.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="593" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilx8qaA6co02XY1rQvzh689RO8hde4v6yHV9jJKOm0715_RTdMXJ7zH7lGn6mai8mIYXvV-hlmtioQt2Kx3YDtsJBhiy8ivN9lk0kb5oAf3E_bD2ZVnK1Ha2_st-gnMr2LNo2zhqtlicrLf-6LW7Uu6SooJx9BVyQAsLU9qA3tHH5hzbmVcn2mTLA7PQ/s320/Evolutionary%20Enlightenment.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Bull!”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“No, it’s true!”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Then how come you’re climbing down these steep
rocks, like a mountain goat? ‘Twelve years in a wheelchair? Hardly able to walk
five paces. Then decided to walk again’? I mean, really? You’re having me on,”
the younger man scoffed.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">Adam, at seventy years of age, fixed his eyes
steadily into the young fellow. “It is the years of self-discipline, inculcated
since childhood, that has helped. At boarding school, not wanting to be caned
instills self-discipline. At conscription into the army, not wanting to be
singled out, or to be responsible for the whole troop having to suffer, also
establishes self-discipline. And so, bred into the bone, as it were, it was
easier, six years ago, to make the decision to be mobile again.”</span> </p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">The young man stopped talking. He leaned back on
his huge and now silent yellow excavator. He puffed on his cigarette. His great
bare belly protruded above the beltline of his grease-smeared jeans. Adam
waited. The workman pulled out his palm-held very thin phone. He squinted at
the little screen. Then, smoke curling up from between his gorilla-like
fingers, he tapped with both blackened thumbs at the miniature keyboard.</span> </p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">Adam waited. At last, feeling somewhat
intrusive, Adam tried: “Our modern age, particularly in countries without real
strife, allows for persons to become reliant on something else to interest
them, to entertain them. Intrinsic reward is not much realized. Most of our
interests come from external things. We are easily bored if something doesn’t
make things interesting for us. It’d be better perpetually to practice making everything
interesting, from within oneself, yes?</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Uh-huh,” the disinterested rejoined. And
scrolled through something on his flat little machine.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Yup,” Adam continued. “We seldom ask the five
W’s of others anymore. The television has taught us to not have to question.
And curiosity is all but gone. Except for our phones. We always seem to want to
know exactly who is binging, or buzzing, or ringing us now.”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“Yup.” The young man’s energy perked up. “You
know, this device has more computing power than the first one that landed man
on the moon. Everything I want to know is in here. So… why should I learn
anything if I can get it instantly? Corrects my spelling. Gives me pictures.
Checks my email. Plays my music. Even does my banking. So… what’s your problem
with it?”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">“With it? Nothing. A great tool. But some of its
operators are not as deft with it as you are at handling this giant machine. Not
as sensitive at the controls. And while you are constantly having to assess the
possible consequences of each maneuver, and the damage it might do if you’re
not utterly careful, as isolated as you are in the cocoon of that iron cage
atop it, the rest of us can only watch, and listen to your cantankerous noise. Those
rocks you pluck out; they have not seen the light of day for perhaps millions
of years. And now too they shall have a renewed life, as it were, gathering new
dust, arranged according to our whim. Interesting, so to excavate old things to
a new light. So too for our habits, our thoughts, our history, our feelings,
and… Ha! But at least with it you are making progress. The earth moves.”</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">The chap looks up at Adam. “And while I must be
careful, moment for moment, so too do you, old man. A slip. A fall. It could
have serious consequences, not just for you. Your wife too.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">Adam smiles. “Yes. I admit it. Consequences. Ha!
Glad we dug into this little chat. Thanks.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqhMVmxYXviHT_LDuu3wsPMygeua1_tz6cUI7myI9Yg8D0Qvn-ruLUQgzB9CJ5yinMnMmslHukIpf82pT6RdnsKJOHkujaK2Hr_OLKsYQEugVld1HtlNHvt_t4xSf0NAbA6zZmNy3d0uqfW8m1a6nJJ_C8vTjSkm3OvbFJYcqDehObV1o1laWzMw1zA/s1087/THINKING.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1087" data-original-width="843" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqhMVmxYXviHT_LDuu3wsPMygeua1_tz6cUI7myI9Yg8D0Qvn-ruLUQgzB9CJ5yinMnMmslHukIpf82pT6RdnsKJOHkujaK2Hr_OLKsYQEugVld1HtlNHvt_t4xSf0NAbA6zZmNy3d0uqfW8m1a6nJJ_C8vTjSkm3OvbFJYcqDehObV1o1laWzMw1zA/s320/THINKING.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-4462407075413329032022-05-05T12:59:00.001-07:002022-05-05T12:59:24.098-07:00Subtle Self-Centricity<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEe0Tvc7bYY1tCTXCD0XbXPTit67je9aK6r0ElFsp4BsJwfHDyAqUBM_HUIgq7cnK-ts9nxD6thGIn1zUKdMzqJIK5vV57MeWsber1g5Fh53tHqlknn-GN0ULtB_nka9Hp7_v-f4u4TZbgK1R--YjUJ4MVe4_67MMFaNTV80j1x1nNWoyPDc-htBXog/s480/Makes%20My%20Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxEe0Tvc7bYY1tCTXCD0XbXPTit67je9aK6r0ElFsp4BsJwfHDyAqUBM_HUIgq7cnK-ts9nxD6thGIn1zUKdMzqJIK5vV57MeWsber1g5Fh53tHqlknn-GN0ULtB_nka9Hp7_v-f4u4TZbgK1R--YjUJ4MVe4_67MMFaNTV80j1x1nNWoyPDc-htBXog/s320/Makes%20My%20Day.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">This
is about you. And me too. We cannot help but see things from our own point of
view. Yet some of us are overtly, deeply, self-centric. We can stand in another’s
studio and prattle on about a relative of ours who also paints. We can stand among
another’s library of books and prattle about the book they have not yet read,
or worse, haven’t yet got. We can stand in a custom-built home and prattle
about the grand view to see from some other home. Our sense is about ourselves,
and how the world, elsewhere from the immediate, affects us.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">In
the immediate we are a paradox of being. We exist in the moment yet are full of
stories about the past, about other things, or about other people. Our own ideas
can be limited to a restructuring of what we know, have seen, or can interpret.
Naturally so. Yet often the lack of compassion, awareness, insight, or empathy
can speak volumes about ourselves, like it or not.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">To
advocate here for inculcating, as a habit, the 5 x W’s can appear didactic, or
patronizing. And yet it is remarkable how little we can practice it. Which of
us engages in another’s presence fully, consciously? When with another, how
much of that person’s life-story do we absorb, or easily recall? Why can there sometimes
be a sense of disconnect? Who among us is so much in ‘the now’ that we can sensibly
integrate the other with compassion? What is it that imbues our immediate interests:
the evidence before us, or some memory of the past? Where does it end?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Often,
during someone else’s speech, we interrupt easily, and draw attention back to
the self. We listen not to understand, but to interject with our point of view.
Worse, often in our own speech we speak on and on without pause for the other
to intervene, easily, with their response, interpretation, or intervention.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Self-centricity
is subtle. The ‘I’ in almost everything we apprehend deeply impels our lives.
It is a small-meme behaviour at best, but can also be a large-Meme attitude, to
our disadvantage. We like certain colours, music, food, fashions, and even
vehicles. These things can easily change over time. But not so easily changed
are the large Meme adoptions we’ve acquired. They are the ones of our culture,
political persuasions, religious affiliations, and sense of morality. At times
so very constrained by our childhood beliefs, we eschew the shift we can feel
toward having to enlarge, accept, integrate, absorb, or include yet something
other into the oeuvre of our own cherished contentions. And thus, evolution, in
all its tugs toward enlightenment, gives pause to one easily overcoming
oneself.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Self-centricity,
at its worst, tugs us away from the other. It tends to make everything directly
relatable to the self. It engages life in terms of how life itself affects the
self, with little genuine inclusion of the other, for the other’s sake. It can
bloat the self. It can diminish or negate the other.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And
so, in having read all these words, do they prattle on about you, or are they meant
as a subtle reflection on me? At the baseline is this: Do we predominantly give,
or do we chiefly take? (And in giving, do we indeed get to feel sufficiently
good about ourselves?)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Such
can be one’s not so subtle self-centricity.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCaTQgY6vTeRgO66OvXoOliGJ6Ye7bIm6RKafW1du23-LtVN3e5rZkybbKyyxMY3JdPsk-YEL_QQVp0PQW9hLFgUZtFzk5kfcn_DFY_ynk6BchQpaKZLoIV5D68cis1UO-B8cdhRf_tVN88uOfmfqoAQz_rUWj2meN0JlJJ2lxeEZRX8zzNSXHB0qbA/s900/EMPATHY%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwCaTQgY6vTeRgO66OvXoOliGJ6Ye7bIm6RKafW1du23-LtVN3e5rZkybbKyyxMY3JdPsk-YEL_QQVp0PQW9hLFgUZtFzk5kfcn_DFY_ynk6BchQpaKZLoIV5D68cis1UO-B8cdhRf_tVN88uOfmfqoAQz_rUWj2meN0JlJJ2lxeEZRX8zzNSXHB0qbA/s320/EMPATHY%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-11897250704252834072022-03-15T16:52:00.013-07:002022-03-15T17:10:29.619-07:00Doubting Dichotomies<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1P6sGB_rl5nU5H3ZPpSi1u0fLuY3TchES5ZDfsV16V14rvIRfN08RB2HzgaX4ToirgwkWiuyxwp7YZtGbAe7ytDDM8O6LGSkMhIIh1DHN6oOXJefue7x0dYb1gkmaVCLbyUar2XuiGvxrn4zwtYh0D8vhS0JAUVYV3aC6HmIxc9xFzCZmo4C0Y0VqzQ=s3100" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="3100" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1P6sGB_rl5nU5H3ZPpSi1u0fLuY3TchES5ZDfsV16V14rvIRfN08RB2HzgaX4ToirgwkWiuyxwp7YZtGbAe7ytDDM8O6LGSkMhIIh1DHN6oOXJefue7x0dYb1gkmaVCLbyUar2XuiGvxrn4zwtYh0D8vhS0JAUVYV3aC6HmIxc9xFzCZmo4C0Y0VqzQ=w624-h364" width="624" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> (<i>Passing Through Too, oils, 6ft by 3ft 6 ins, by the author</i>)</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Series
of threes consistently tug at us. Vacillations between the left and the right,
or the up and the down, are an awkward thing. Easier to make a stand. Growing
up, we mature somewhat easily; we make many choices throughout the seven ages
of life, from mewling infant to being big bellied to our arriving at sans sense
at all </span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">(1)</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">. But perpetually caught in the dichotomy of left or right choices,
we generally make Dabrowskian Level One Factor Two</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">decisions </span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">(2)</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">
and live quite happily within the moral, religious, and political contentions
of our ilk. It is in our indecisiveness with too many choices, or with too much
time spent in a quandary, that we can feel debilitated. What to do? Inaction can
lead to abstention. Without knowing all the facts; with our having too personal an
attachment to one side, or the other; or with being bombarded by contrary
dis-information; just how is one to decide? And so, ‘sitting on the fence’
becomes a balancing act. But for how long?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then
there is the sheer volume of one’s counterparts that can sway our choices. For whom
did you vote? Why? And how dare I be contrary? (That is, unless there be
sufficient counterweight to support my own contentions.) But how can we then dance to the
same tune?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">In
the current crisis of dis-information, of the threat of war growing yet more dastardly,
of the disappearance of freedom to speak, to protest, to promulgate and publish
truthfully, authentically, we are caught up in the fear of being ostracized,
jailed, penalized, and dismissed. How to contend ideas without the reprisals of
angry, hateful, and personalized projectiles? How to accept that out of 106 essays in the book of Our Stories the diverse participants mentioned The Torah, The Bible, Theory U, and The Blank Slate? (See images).Then again, how do
others get to share their views without being humiliated for still being immured by what </span>occurred<span style="font-size: 12pt;"> in
Grade Two?</span></span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> <a name="_Hlk98250355">(3)</a></sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">How to nurture maturation to the next Meme?</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> (4)</sup></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dichotomies,
which are in frequent symbolism as revealed in plant seeds, in the structure of
our brains, in the fact that we have left and right sides to our bodies, are
sometimes overlooked in their essence of being rendered together, in the first
place. The one side supports the other; the two sides are linked; the whole
makes for the life within. So too for the membrane that divides the whole; it
is a semi-permeable line allowing for osmotic</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">transitions </span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">(5)</sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">, and as such the division filters out that to which it cannot relate, but
certainly feeds off the very chemistry of the ‘opposing’ side. And therein rises
the riot; it is in the objectionable sensitivity to ‘the other.’ We eschew those who use big words.
We discard those who come across as too fancy. We vilify those whose reactions
are evidently immature, hateful, hurtful. We want to beat the bully; kill the
killer; and subject those who threaten us to go to their own jails of isolation, cut
off from our communication, and blocked at the passes.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Détente
appears to be lost. The restoration of friendly relations, the agreement,
compromise, and amity that might be forwarded, gets caught up in the division
between the dichotomies. East versus West. North versus South. Me, versus You.
How sad it is that we do not get on. And is it all because one of us is Liberal,
and the other Conservative? Or for that matter, Ukrainian, and not Russian? Or
is it because of the lumbering elephant in the room? It is this division-line itself that is the
third tug at us; are we not surely best to meet at its interrelationship
points, share in the transfer of our talents that it could afford?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">We
are at a crossroads. The choices</span><sup style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </sup><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">are no longer quite so clear, unless
they be to be kind, caring, compassionate, considerate, loving, gracious,
forgiving, accepting, and integrating. But then again, history has proven that
we simply cannot, collectively, do that. Well then, how about you and me; let’s
start with us. Hmm? (But then again, indeed, as the song goes, “It takes two to
tango!”)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">................................................................................................................</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">
<!--[endif]--><b><span style="background: white; color: #213e42; text-transform: uppercase;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; text-transform: uppercase;">( (1)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> Shakespeare's</span></span><span style="background: white; color: #213e42; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; text-transform: uppercase;"> AS YOU LIKE IT, ACT 2,
SCENE 7</span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (2)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Dabrowki
web: <span style="background: white; color: #0070c0;">https://positivepsychology.com/dabrowskis-positive-disintegration</span></span><span style="color: #0070c0;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><span style="background: white; color: #111111; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="background: white; color: #111111; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">The theory of positive
disintegration (TPD) by Kazimierz Dąbrowski is a</span><strong> theory of character development</strong>. Unlike some other theories of development such
as Erikson's stages of psychosocial development, it is not assumed that even a
majority of people progress through all levels.</p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (3)<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">See
Original Grade Theory: <a href="https://mrpswords.blogspot.com/2019/06/gradual-gradations.html">Mr. P's
Words: Gradual Gradations (mrpswords.blogspot.com)</a></span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -18pt;"> (4) </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -18pt;">See
Gravesian Memes: </span><a href="https://mrpswords.blogspot.com/2010/04/aspiraling-as-we-aspire.html" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -18pt;">Mr.
P's Words: Aspiraling as we Aspire (mrpswords.blogspot.com)</a></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l1 level1 lfo2; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> (5)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: -18pt;">Osmosis:</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">[äzˈmōsəs, äsˈmōsəs]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">NOUN<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48pt; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">1.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">biology</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">chemistry</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">a process by which molecules of a
solvent tend to pass through a semipermeable membrane from a less concentrated
solution into a more concentrated one, thus equalizing the concentrations on
each side of the membrane.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.5pt; margin-left: 48pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">synonyms:</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.5pt; margin-left: 48pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">soaking
up · sucking up · drawing up/in · taking
up/in · blotting up · mopping up · sponging
up · sopping up</span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48pt; text-indent: -18pt;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">2.<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">the process of gradual or
unconscious assimilation of ideas, knowledge, etc..<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 48pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">"what she knows of the blue-blood
set she learned not through birthright, not even through wealth, but through
osmosis"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgln2LjW6dwmStOgihAieZQqxVuKaryzNVQtN4yYsswjWd9XiDnH5CZA6le9YArGoHetJ_Q-JHWLa2UAQzYsmvQOkOYBZW3gfywrrUo9us6CtBO5rwNbNrHg3IVCPElOAF1xLlWQ7iAcW9BtaOhb5HuhFKAe0kbXB3xZ_c5s6AAeg6ui9IInGwYnd4ivw=s1169" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="855" data-original-width="1169" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgln2LjW6dwmStOgihAieZQqxVuKaryzNVQtN4yYsswjWd9XiDnH5CZA6le9YArGoHetJ_Q-JHWLa2UAQzYsmvQOkOYBZW3gfywrrUo9us6CtBO5rwNbNrHg3IVCPElOAF1xLlWQ7iAcW9BtaOhb5HuhFKAe0kbXB3xZ_c5s6AAeg6ui9IInGwYnd4ivw=w507-h370" width="507" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZvLxBFZd2PhOaAF2NVjvdG4mIf-O81YgrJtXJw8JfEws19lJMYByAQYzF30ICL6wloBafXynl0e_ZeUQ7A9s8uBvSIB-G3l_i1tjhKXNdfrs_DRLYKp_M-uEZvoPtVi-Lj0_sciub-Oiv2SRihR5ik_QzBmvcFpHresAJy7ZoqRLfXZkQcIqC_zi2UA=s695" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="695" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiZvLxBFZd2PhOaAF2NVjvdG4mIf-O81YgrJtXJw8JfEws19lJMYByAQYzF30ICL6wloBafXynl0e_ZeUQ7A9s8uBvSIB-G3l_i1tjhKXNdfrs_DRLYKp_M-uEZvoPtVi-Lj0_sciub-Oiv2SRihR5ik_QzBmvcFpHresAJy7ZoqRLfXZkQcIqC_zi2UA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-29585380638572700082022-02-17T08:16:00.002-08:002022-02-17T08:16:44.278-08:00Given Gaps<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRWZlYzf5tjV9V1t4d2xgS82K_YKEzJ7fvr_RYnM9z8ISQw25EHbFp1xUuKAfhJpoZnbwFddkYz05L2W5oCYmhGnMV8g1WUj_0ByrlU-IcqUMKB1-1xOKJ6BvU-e2xfCUkBIBIHKk8PND79hbxnFOuLlaOGEOacqm086VIPg-MUMQ5P2L48Olfqe4YJA=s1056" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="816" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhRWZlYzf5tjV9V1t4d2xgS82K_YKEzJ7fvr_RYnM9z8ISQw25EHbFp1xUuKAfhJpoZnbwFddkYz05L2W5oCYmhGnMV8g1WUj_0ByrlU-IcqUMKB1-1xOKJ6BvU-e2xfCUkBIBIHKk8PND79hbxnFOuLlaOGEOacqm086VIPg-MUMQ5P2L48Olfqe4YJA=s320" width="247" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>(Cover design by Justin Neway; painting by author.</i>)</div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Mind the gap!” Loudspeakers in London’s Tube Stations bark
out. Between concrete platforms and going elsewhere, one needs mindfulness. All
of history would have one aware of the gap between ‘then,’ and now. It is not
so much the voids as it is multiple periods of transitions; one is best to
practice caution, consideration, and consciousness.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap. So it is that five months of intense focus on a
project has separated thee from me. Or has it been even longer? Communicating
only occasionally, rarely seeing each other, we can feel these great gaps between
us. The minutiae of days smudges into months of ordinariness, unless some major
event occurs that might best be shared in the moment: Weddings; Funerals;
Birthdays; and significant happenstances. These are the milestones of our
lives. The rest can be m. o. t. s. (much of the same.) And the days churn into Time’s
gap between us; you do not write to me, nor I to you. Compassion for all is our
métier.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap. So it is that over one hundred Old Boys from The
Class of 1970 have each contributed a two-to-three-page essay about the last 50
years of their lives. Intending to encourage and inspire all youths who follow
us, the resultant book of Our Stories is to be published, next month, and all
proceeds and royalties that the book-sales make shall go as a gift to The
School, in perpetuity. And given the privilege of collecting, editing, and
formatting the works, as sent in from far-flung outreaches, it has been an
intense five months of correspondence, and computer-based focus, and the
re-integration of others into our collective lives. The 106 stories are
humbling, fascinating, engaging, and challenging too. The gap years between
1970 and now, for each, have proven a trial of searching, encountering, attainments,
and enduring. Some essays are profoundly vulnerable. <i>En route</i> the proponents
have achieved a sense of enlightenment, wisdom, insight, and peace. For some. For
most. Then too, some are still struggling. Living is not equitable. The gaps we
mind, for each, vary by degree. Our lives are indeed lessons in the making.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap. As differentiated as we are, as long as Time drags
between our seeing each other again, between our sharing news, between giving
each other a hug, we each have had our days and energy focussed on doing, on being,
and on living within the scope of our various interests. And in the background,
however subliminally, we’ve been aware of others, been aware of each other,
been aware.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap. Yes, you’ve been in mind, however ‘now and
then’ such mindfulness may be construed. Like leaping from rock to rock in a
stream, or turning from day to day in a calendar, the gaps between are vitally
important, however minimally we may attend to them, breath for breath, or even
in memory.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap. Between grade levels, between paradigm shifts,
between stages of enlightenment, between you and me there exists the gaps that
make for the transition from the concrete discussions about things and people, to
the exploration of ideas and hypotheses. That’s where the mind lies, where it
creates, in the gaps!</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap! Distances can be deceptive. Between my shore
and that ship, or raft, or the other coast, an ocean of meaning and intent,
even as yet unrealized, lies between. It is a gap into which one could drown,
or metaphorically, keep swimming. Mindfulness is all. Who?; Where?; What?; When?;
are each interesting; but it is the Why? that really intrigues.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Mind the gap! What lies between is the now for now for now.
And as we move we are indeed best to appreciate not just where we are going,
but how we get there. Step for step. Breath for breath. Gap for gap. Keep
caring.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhguhcWRtOIS_T9BiZtuwbMhMjTsA1zxlHIBNAw_iaR4YRO9QjM86lJIFWS1X2ksataUNjW71hm04zlU03pVjrQiV-p4f6RukPpQO1SVziWL2gNv7Ngqc1ZER2FpnkxlJaqfLPETxxYUmCG9lJ6o9UJhfAAf35SOy9KsrWhdMnhpS9DlpzXEWLkHCyIRw=s808" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="624" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhguhcWRtOIS_T9BiZtuwbMhMjTsA1zxlHIBNAw_iaR4YRO9QjM86lJIFWS1X2ksataUNjW71hm04zlU03pVjrQiV-p4f6RukPpQO1SVziWL2gNv7Ngqc1ZER2FpnkxlJaqfLPETxxYUmCG9lJ6o9UJhfAAf35SOy9KsrWhdMnhpS9DlpzXEWLkHCyIRw=s320" width="247" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-73719685868046528752021-11-03T09:11:00.000-07:002021-11-03T09:11:19.046-07:00Selfies And Such<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdKe8gzjJ_cS5JtCabnjg2_H9jy82vqXiIti7rg34iI-GojU7ZxaoQ827lS7SRNSwxJCrfvei07UZh3ncYGQSl69hcCJrLxf04dra4zdS3lWoqLkXehsNYS_krvUJm0V4GF0e9UXCaFEP/s336/Monks+at+Mandala+making.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="336" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmdKe8gzjJ_cS5JtCabnjg2_H9jy82vqXiIti7rg34iI-GojU7ZxaoQ827lS7SRNSwxJCrfvei07UZh3ncYGQSl69hcCJrLxf04dra4zdS3lWoqLkXehsNYS_krvUJm0V4GF0e9UXCaFEP/s320/Monks+at+Mandala+making.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Each keystroke matters. We too easily make mistakes. It is
too bad. When in too much of a hurry to write, between the two of us, we can
get too sloppy. It’s its own reward. And a lot depends on our knowing the allotted
homonym differences, sure, but somehow, nosing in among the typos, a sense that
our standards are slipping, builds. We grow careless. We grow carefree. We grow
inordinately causal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Buddhist monks, somewhere, make these beautifully
wrought mandalas, pebble for pebble. Each piece is carefully handpicked, methodically,
and patiently, added to the whole. It’s a meticulous exercise of being aware of
the now. And when all over, in historical times, they forbade a capture of the
result by camera, and swept the thing over, giving the product but a momentary
and brief conclusion. Life is in the moments. It is not a product as much as it
is a journey. Thought for thought. Choice for choice. Word for word. Action by
action. But nowadays, for whatever reason, the monks not only allow pictures
taken of their final product, but some even pose for ‘selfies.’ Indeed, one
needs not take oneself too seriously.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Selfies’. Is it not interesting how language grows? Even a
word like ‘interface’ was not known when I was a boy, let alone ‘internet’. And
so too shall communication be affected, such that the effect will be that new
coinage and new nomenclature and new syntax and grammar and spelling all meld
into what might eventually become the new Esperanto. Back in the 1960’s there
was an actual Esperanto school syllabus, and at the time it was no silly-bus
for a boy to take a ride on. (Or does my attempt at humour but elicit a hmm
from you?) Thing is, like taking selfies, we are nowadays so very
self-referenced, and unless we’ve had a direct relationship with something,
like having been there, or seen it, we easily are distracted away from the unfamiliar,
yet do seek the sensationally new. Old things; old stories; old ideas;
historical lessons; these are like old language: stiff and formal and demanding
and rigorous and up-tight.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Editing others’ work brings with it a host of compositional
and structural rules, yes, but the individual idiosyncrasies of matters of
choice are best to prevail. After all, the ancient Egyptians likely imposed a
very strictly controlled depiction of human representation in their art. (The
song, “Walk Like an Egyptian,” resonates.) But it is difficult to conceive of
not one Egyptian, not once, in over three thousand years, being able to render
a person as anything other than one dimensional. Nowadays one fortunately has
very much leeway. We have sped up individual evolution to absorb, assimilate,
include, accept, and have understanding for the very many differences among us,
let alone the variegations of speech, spelling, and our inept tapping away at a
keyboard. (Predictive spelling can prove quite embarrassing!)</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But it is of a larger picture that I write. It is of the
differentiation between the fluidity of a generalized acceptance, and the
awareness of a preference for precision. Might one be better off to take one’s time to dot one’s
I’s and cross one’s T’s? Might one be better off to pause and re-read, before
sending, before posting, before implying, before negating, before arguing, before
contending, before averring, before bruiting abroad one’s private and heartfelt
sentiments, (or even, hereby, proffering one’s pretentious intellectualisms?) In other
words, is there a better selfie to be taken, before showing the world one’s
mental picture?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Vanity would have us overly aware of what someone else is
seeing. We wish to impress. And we do need to feel pride in ourselves. Security
allows us, by contrast, not to worry overmuch about a bad-hair day. In the
casualness of every-day living, it matters not really what we look like when
going out. Nor does it matter, overmuch, what we type like, in messages, and in
email, and communication with others, particularly if they are firm friends, or
family, or people we instinctually know will not judge us.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But when we leave a picture for posterity, it might be best
to have shown off our best, in the first place.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7wnWXR1TTsGI8QFsJ5F7TDp4WLHBc4C0MkTbHCyTo69vEl-PPwGZc5FDrrjMLXQ8FY4sSCG9SpL1M8_1nBNZMMZe9Kw1gFR12XWbrmGj03KsKaffjUlCrvaBzYSXf9ONU95lvPbj4FGM/s400/Monks+at+Mandala+Mutilating.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix7wnWXR1TTsGI8QFsJ5F7TDp4WLHBc4C0MkTbHCyTo69vEl-PPwGZc5FDrrjMLXQ8FY4sSCG9SpL1M8_1nBNZMMZe9Kw1gFR12XWbrmGj03KsKaffjUlCrvaBzYSXf9ONU95lvPbj4FGM/s320/Monks+at+Mandala+Mutilating.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-58172509236415933342021-10-18T13:49:00.002-07:002021-10-18T13:49:54.652-07:00Musings Over Marbles<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHl59sVXeanTOTIkREuSckqarHWzrDwnAymDlYlRIzCshooKeMr3dM3L-HRGGLIKCwbOugbqSkL5xf2vrjJtvROds-qjkPXkuGPVsNmT4J4yZqwAJgjjHi1Tx7dQ_ptEO47NBitPCgoif5/s1024/gettyimages-sb10067865h-001-1024x1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHl59sVXeanTOTIkREuSckqarHWzrDwnAymDlYlRIzCshooKeMr3dM3L-HRGGLIKCwbOugbqSkL5xf2vrjJtvROds-qjkPXkuGPVsNmT4J4yZqwAJgjjHi1Tx7dQ_ptEO47NBitPCgoif5/s320/gettyimages-sb10067865h-001-1024x1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">We each are not free. Not entirely. All around us there are
the laws of gravity, of nature, of others, and then too, even of our own
individual making. We can find ourselves cauterized, curtailed, and cut off
from further perceptions by the very fences we refuse to, or simply cannot,
overcome. As Tevye, in ‘Fiddler On The Roof,’ put it: “If I bend that far, I
will break!”</p><p class="MsoNormal">Paradigm shifts can be both individual, and collective. A
group of us, like the One Hundred Monkey Syndrome, may feel some instinctual
and collective sympatico, somewhat simultaneously, and begin a cultural shift
of adherence to a new habituation, often by disavowal of a previously held
perception. Such is the very course of history. We are creatures of habit. We
acquire acculturations from our parents, our immediate others, and then from
the group at large. We generally can easily identify Nationalities by such
idiosyncrasies. Accents alone are not the only give-away. As such, “A Scots, an
Italian, and a Russian…” quite easily conjures up a joke.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But being burdened and beleaguered by others, or worse, by
the self, is not funny. One needs to feel ‘worthy’, no matter one’s age. We can
spend much time in pain while shuffling off the mortal coil of shame and
insecurity. As the sages have urged, “Why hide your light?” Comparisons to
others, always, will only show that there are differences. We each need allow
for our own story, our own right of existence.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Graduating from the collective identity of High School, we
all burst away, like dropped marbles, from the collection bag. Some of us stay
close, but many scatter far afield. And decades later, ten, forty, and even fifty
years on, gathering us together for a Reunion, or even a full collective of the
participants in one’s past, is tantamount to recalling the memories and all the
people you too have known in your own history.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But staying burdened and beleaguered becomes quite a bit a
matter of choice. We are people, each of us, who journey. And a journey, by
definition, denotes movement, and is not a product, except for point by point.
So too for enlightenment. So too for Integration. Despite Tevye’s
pronouncement, he capitulates, overcomes, grows larger, more inclusive, and
changes his world paradigm. So too, may we.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within the programming of our childhood, and especially our
adulthood, we are free ‘to think’. And thinking about our thinking gives us, if
not license to change, at least the inner reserves of endurance and fortitude
and resilience to wait things out, until, like metamorphosis itself, we can
change from the cocoon that enwraps us, or the cage of acculturation that is
imposed by others, or the traditions of the elders, for which we have no
present reality. To be ‘truly’ individual there is so much more to be attained
than simply eschewing one’s past; one needs to include it, assimilate it,
understand it, and absorb it into one’s being, and be larger than its
entrapment, however sordid, disdainful, horrid, or enslaving it might have
been. One needs to be able to breathe in the NOW. We each reflect on the past,
in the natural way of being a human being, but the pains of it may become but
steppingstones, chapters, in the very story that is making up one’s own
biography. And the greater the personal freedom, the greater one’s
responsibility to others.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Psychologists do much to unburden us. Digging out the inner
child, and attending to its unfulfilled needs, can be a pathway to much
enlightenment. So too for those of us who write a Memoir, or those of us called
upon to reflect upon the past, and to give our story a meaning, a significance,
and a relevance for others yet to come. Bitterness can accompany past brutality.
Pain can prevent present recall. Insecurity, shame, and worthiness are
watchwords, for each of us, that so easily trip one up in the progress of
maturation.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And now to be called upon to participate in a collective
endeavour, such as the gathering of the marbles for a 50<sup>th</sup> Reunion,
or other, and to be asked to tell one’s story, can prove a tremendous
challenge, indeed. How to make the passage of one’s life be an inspiration to
others? Or is one, sadly, not yet, readily ‘free’?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhKl5kp5jeJNAej2ym7AvDfVxDayPCZEuk1dHEBb-CyLTh0Iv8uooypopEityfmUmibqR_6iSP5qj7kiXeztbaC4tPfS1uJURPhDGoTKX8UZmcs_sDlqIHE00A8oAyeaYf-Uw5bDGN5ge/s825/Tree+planting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="825" data-original-width="660" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKhKl5kp5jeJNAej2ym7AvDfVxDayPCZEuk1dHEBb-CyLTh0Iv8uooypopEityfmUmibqR_6iSP5qj7kiXeztbaC4tPfS1uJURPhDGoTKX8UZmcs_sDlqIHE00A8oAyeaYf-Uw5bDGN5ge/s320/Tree+planting.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-74462887587459171072021-07-19T11:03:00.004-07:002021-07-20T10:48:34.789-07:00Dangerous Disparities<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivoezbyoMmswRmswE6BMOHUbgKlIRYmZ_kOV_guxv6HjJ7dIKgSpq_ylwSbwGOsFmYLtHHEMBOPdh7WjQOG8W800oihtMrXNEkrn99IaGfQkVB32upVh3KD7hCOPvRvH3FLsAo7yJ4AtAE/s640/Grand+Defi+by+Nicolas+Laverenne%252C+Cote+d%2527azure%252C+French+Riviera..jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivoezbyoMmswRmswE6BMOHUbgKlIRYmZ_kOV_guxv6HjJ7dIKgSpq_ylwSbwGOsFmYLtHHEMBOPdh7WjQOG8W800oihtMrXNEkrn99IaGfQkVB32upVh3KD7hCOPvRvH3FLsAo7yJ4AtAE/s320/Grand+Defi+by+Nicolas+Laverenne%252C+Cote+d%2527azure%252C+French+Riviera..jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The haves and the have-nots continue to suffer. The Memes need
to exist side by side, and the privileged may wrestle with guilt, while the
impoverished may wrestle with envy. Either way, the dividing line is more
pronounced when in direct conflict for space, the air we breathe, the water we
drink, the food we eat, or nowadays, the health we try to secure. To vaccinate
or not becomes a matter of deep division. The contentions on either side are
formidable. Science and Fear and Practicality and Ethics and Sensibility and
Expectations are societal conventions thrust around in the battlefield of
reasons for and against. And one can lose friends, contacts, and even family
members in more ways than one because of it all. Covid and its varieties has
most of us enmeshed in Old World problems during New World Times. Those without
the required vaccination may as well wear bells and declare themselves
‘unclean.’ Those who’ve had their double-shots may as well (and do) wear badges
that give evidence of the owner’s responsibility to society.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Responsibility comes in many guises. Back when I was a
schoolboy, the Housemaster one unforgettable Prep Time intoned to all of us:
“The more freedom you have, the more responsibility you have toward others.” It
was a lesson that struck at my core. Perhaps it is the foundation of ethical
behaviour; to try to consider one’s impact on others. Even my old Odham’s
Children’s Encyclopaedia, given to me in 1960, at the bottom of page 58,
states: “And that is what ‘character’ really implies – behaving toward other
people as we would like them to behave toward us.” And so, one wonders, does
one simply hope that all people will protect themselves from the Virus, from
Leprosy, from Tuberculosis, from Chickenpox, from the Common Cold, and
therewith protect oneself too? Or does one gain a shield, a mask, an isolation
cubicle, a lance, an old-world glaive, or halberd, or God forbid, even a gun! Arm-twisting
with shame or guilt, hurts.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Tryin’ Times,” sings Donny Hathaway. “The riots and
ghettoes. A whole lotta things that’s going down.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We are linked; like it or not. Interdependent, we need each
other for supply chains other than just food; we need each other for the
vitality of connection. Many of us are quite content with long periods of being
alone. Many have sufficient (inner) resources to survive without dependence on
others. But most of us are more gregarious than that, and so, despite our
disparities, we will step across the party lines, o’ereach the old barriers, dive
into the sea, and take off our masks. Yet some still will never show their true
selves.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Have you been vaccinated?” becomes the intrusive question.
At some venues one is turned away. At airports one may find oneself having to
declare. It was so for malaria vaccinations. It was so for childhood smallpox
vaccinations. And if wanting to travel, or to be safe, then taking such
time-tested medications became the norm. Now, even a new ‘meet the neighbours’
block-party can prove itself exclusionary.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“But now,” as an astute friend poses it, “what long-term
studies are there to prove the Moderna, Pfizer, or AstraZeneca vaccines are safe?”
And in one’s ignorance, or under the wealth of so very much contradictory
information, many of us may baulk. Doctors who gainsay the vaccinations are stripped
of their posts; we learn. Health professionals who dissuade the public are
given fewer and fewer platforms. Alternative drugs, like Ivermectin, are
prohibited except by prescription, and: “Find me a doctor willing to go ahead
and prescribe that!” declares my friend.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Being shamed into falling into, or being disliked for taking
a stance for either Camp, gets progressively sad. History shows how entire
societies have suffered from ostracization; the larger group (mostly) gets to
predominate. And in the meantime, we can lose friends, family members, those we
love, and those we know, in more ways than one. To be, or not to be? That,
indeed, is the question!</p><p class="MsoNormal">Stay safe. Be well.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4r1BB9_QFGgt5CE6d1gIZJBrXhLi26poVCEzaoBrnlr1DFs2EfQjmOhl_ZqMCKsLfdq414rea5pmb5gE67mEKhn3hyXI6Wc5M9aIG2bv0lS4hTp0MIOgX1QJy8WlWn3jfpcG3PqkHfZ0/s700/WhatsApp+Image+2021-07-20+at+10.44.27.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB4r1BB9_QFGgt5CE6d1gIZJBrXhLi26poVCEzaoBrnlr1DFs2EfQjmOhl_ZqMCKsLfdq414rea5pmb5gE67mEKhn3hyXI6Wc5M9aIG2bv0lS4hTp0MIOgX1QJy8WlWn3jfpcG3PqkHfZ0/s320/WhatsApp+Image+2021-07-20+at+10.44.27.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyjsGbINMcLHoz1KSvjqEutbQZZ-CiPuVw0Tay1R4WQReqKXtUfMWFUjdmJZnY-8l5uE15p3l_eK3DfiIvrxlq7MmFiV1nTPWnlC4EUVW0vXaIbJ1NWioiWGt25OuPX4w19RML6I-HgSD/s720/IMG_0835.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghyjsGbINMcLHoz1KSvjqEutbQZZ-CiPuVw0Tay1R4WQReqKXtUfMWFUjdmJZnY-8l5uE15p3l_eK3DfiIvrxlq7MmFiV1nTPWnlC4EUVW0vXaIbJ1NWioiWGt25OuPX4w19RML6I-HgSD/s320/IMG_0835.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-34737468089927006192021-05-19T09:15:00.000-07:002021-05-19T09:15:06.183-07:00Beyond Bubbles<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ_Yfcnw_Nda-4rjEY01of7-dzX9ONmAan1xC2EYVnOoKaxsDInPqwExhF2dr6SHCu_LTJsFBaub8DuQ7k0RBuu4L4uCZpMxH8MRKf0GT2536cUln3dJvXJU9qSHRrGRdw5gOderbJjg7/s327/IMG_1549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQ_Yfcnw_Nda-4rjEY01of7-dzX9ONmAan1xC2EYVnOoKaxsDInPqwExhF2dr6SHCu_LTJsFBaub8DuQ7k0RBuu4L4uCZpMxH8MRKf0GT2536cUln3dJvXJU9qSHRrGRdw5gOderbJjg7/s320/IMG_1549.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I miss you. I think of you, often. It would be good to see
you again. We could catch up with ‘this and that.’ You could tell me the ‘who,
what, where, when, and even the why’ of your life. And you might also speak of
the dead, the dying, the ill, the hurt, the malcontent, and the impoverished.
Then again, you may speak of the fortunate, the enlightened, the survivors,
those who endure, and those who succeed at making of our collective
circumstances a smorgasbord of constant choice. Our communication may well do
all that much, and even more. We could ‘conspire’ (as sung ‘by the fire,’ in
the old-fashioned way). Yes, we could indeed breathe together, masked, or not.
Or at least, write?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Shall I tell you of the many sad deaths, recent and old, imbuing
me, haunting, plucking at my consciousness, giving grief its constant refrain?
There be so very many that one loves, on and on, despite their having so sorely
departed. So too for you? And condolences we can share, since the inevitability
of losing others in our lives, especially the closely known, and dearly loved,
is life’s conundrum, sans surcease. We are richer for loving. We are hurt and
heartsore and bereft by their going, but love is rich.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Shall I tell you of the dragons of fire that attend sickness
and pain and ill health and inability? We each have had the problems of
surmounting the vicissitudes of fate. We can attain much of health over very
many months, and then some slight mishap, some fall, some trip, some wrench and
pull and tug and upending, can, with brutal immediacy, yank the proverbial rug.
And often the instinct is to let others know, for then might come the
well-wishes and prayers and support. But often, too, one is aware that the
passage from downstairs to upstairs is a necessary foot by foot progress, alone;
it essentially needs to be accomplished, alone, so that one may again indeed be
well. Alone. One’s nurses, one’s partners, one’s friends can all help, but to
do so they need be close at hand. And self-reliance is our chief aim,
physically.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Covid precludes the presence of most. It cauterizes the flow
of friendships. We cannot gather, visit, share afternoons of tea and scones,
share evenings of supper and wine. We may phone, but then again, not all of us can
easily chat over the ether. Then too, many, like me, do not favor virtual
contact. It appears stiff. It feels at a disconnect. It suits me not. And the
chit-chat can leave me unsettled, rather than connected. For me, it is the
physical presence that exudes from the other that conspires to engender an
ongoing sense of connection. And since few that I know make much of frequent phoning,
or even writing, my own world shrinks to the island of my being. Contact with
the remaining roster of my immediate company, the family connections, and the
handful of constant correspondents, continues. But my ‘bubble’ shrinks.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Generic contact does something to say, ‘I’m thinking of
you.’ It avoids (historical) particularities. In the old days (before the
internet,) a letter between countries might take months to be answered. To ask
after a cold last April, in July; or to congratulate for a February baby, by
June’s end; or graver, to have the glory of last summer given credence, just
before Christmas; is hardly to conspire. We used to be so very out of touch. And
now? Even now, a dear one’s death is given but a few sentences. Our bubbles
tear, and tear.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Beyond touch, (or even with it,) the bubbles of our
existence remain, by inference, so very fragile. How easily we can lose one
another. How fearful we are that our bubble may burst. How cloistered and
clustered and caved we are, each in our world, no thanks to Covid. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Faced with the trebuchets of outrageous fortune, we are
bombarded with disparate realities. There is too much of fear. Out of the
proverbial blue, death, and illness, and struggles with the pestilence,
envelops us. There is universal loss and grief. We do clam up. We do withdraw.
We do eschew physical contact, do not travel, and eventually, do stop up much
of connection. Sharing becomes more and more difficult. Our introverted shells may
well crack to let yet more light inside, but whose bubble might we not burst
were we to compare? (To speak only of joy and wellness and wealth can hurt
too.) Suffice it to say, I miss you?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlfgBRdsAEaJQAL0uYP6-ASAg3ksKkzq0NmeqyOJEb4LeLwdvFHEsITeEO9b6V3kphMkGHbFAwP0iK264m7AKMp6gHK1BJm10nTmHHHRPYrboNB2geRaTyNluGz2wjaYYd2lg5GXTAoCx/s427/Masked+Madonna.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVlfgBRdsAEaJQAL0uYP6-ASAg3ksKkzq0NmeqyOJEb4LeLwdvFHEsITeEO9b6V3kphMkGHbFAwP0iK264m7AKMp6gHK1BJm10nTmHHHRPYrboNB2geRaTyNluGz2wjaYYd2lg5GXTAoCx/s320/Masked+Madonna.JPG" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-72890293929472148012021-03-18T17:15:00.000-07:002021-03-18T17:15:58.170-07:00The March of Memories<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE39qfezWP8Kt7lnshkA4ImyYM51XkObvhDeuWeKKxUliVPF7ZUdFjgwT5cdS6vrB762sv7w66tws7UiYcaCm3-z9RB06DKpoDe8FwzitpX73aQq6k34Zwm4HisffzzRPsVgTy5XWP0x5h/s720/HOLONS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE39qfezWP8Kt7lnshkA4ImyYM51XkObvhDeuWeKKxUliVPF7ZUdFjgwT5cdS6vrB762sv7w66tws7UiYcaCm3-z9RB06DKpoDe8FwzitpX73aQq6k34Zwm4HisffzzRPsVgTy5XWP0x5h/s320/HOLONS.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt;">Your
name is here! You are not (entirely) overlooked, forgotten, or uncared
about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We each process through so many
people. And some of us move, relocate, and move again. We meet so very many
persons; we can be forgiven for not remembering all. Affection aside, it still
can be difficult to recall when, or where? After all, a face changes in the intervening
years. Like impermeable mental membranes, walls among memories make much of a
miasma of the past. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Robert
Frost had it right: ‘Something there is that does not love a wall.’ Yet still,
‘good fences make good neighbours.’ We do not necessarily call across our
familial boundaries. We do not easily write. We do not share personal
information. We do not persist with contact. Yet still, feelings of ‘connection’
can be continual. Fondness, love, care, and interest can again be engendered.
But often we then do needs move on; there are so very many others to meet.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Oh,
yes, your name. It is A...; B...; C...; D…; E...; F...; G...; H...; I...; J...;
K...; L...; M...; N...; O...; P...; Q...; R...; S...; T...; U...; V...; W...;
X...; Y...; Z....</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Found
it? Yes, you are recalled. (For every letter, we may know others too.)</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Sometimes,
a letter about the past arrives, most unexpectedly, and it can revive an almost
forgotten time, giving yet more wealth to the dimming memories.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">But
is it our sharing intimate details that makes for ongoing friendship? Is it only
due to our past? Can a chemistry of accord once between us survive all the
years? Do the present details of our lives make that much of a matter? Or can
we delve into ideas? Wait, you are now married. You have children. You have a
cat. Another has a dog. You are successful. At some time or other you were not
fortunate. And so, the details about what, when, who, how, and even the why may
enliven our reconnection. Certainly, they are interesting. We share. For a
while. And then?</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Perhaps
hardest of all is receiving a letter that declares a difference of direction so
strong that it disavows the friendship, terminates it with harsh phrases, cuts
the cord. (Certainly, of all the people I have known in over six decades of
living, such a letter has resonated in my sad feelings far longer than had that
person simply gone away, and effectively merely lost contact.)</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Family
members can give one feelings of guilt. Particularly with very large families.
Just how many nieces and nephews does one have? And just how is one to be
expected to keep up with all the events in each child’s life? Especially if one
is geographically remote. And especially if the years and years go by, without
effort on either part, their parents, or oneself, or themselves, to foster a
relationship. Still, guilt goes with being the adult. Connecting is up to the
one with the most responsibility for showing an interest.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I
stand guilty. My nieces and nephews, when you are adult, I shall entertain
sharing time with you, should you care to. Ideas. Interests. Queries. Should
you not reciprocate, well, there shall be no love lost, in any case. Yet I do
surmise that we both are the poorer for it.</span></p>
<p class="Body"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">So
too for the very many friends and acquaintances made along the pathways of
life. We may no longer be in touch. We may be under too many constraints. But
certainly, there are multiples of memories. And central to such memories are
feelings of warmth, and blessings to you. Always.</span></p><p class="Body"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3DtTmUf81nZfBMg60-lr-Sj5uRt_qUz2bAQJkRR-myPrsb3MPj9KM-E5-svTlWwFlMA5vbkxFbtE1-hYL5e5haLpqA1oljxORf8cr4NCpS2wsi0sWH6kPjOwYXqJuqbRMRrWa-NC5Akd/s800/Always+With+You.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3DtTmUf81nZfBMg60-lr-Sj5uRt_qUz2bAQJkRR-myPrsb3MPj9KM-E5-svTlWwFlMA5vbkxFbtE1-hYL5e5haLpqA1oljxORf8cr4NCpS2wsi0sWH6kPjOwYXqJuqbRMRrWa-NC5Akd/s320/Always+With+You.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-8960855198981897652021-02-10T09:06:00.002-08:002021-02-10T09:06:57.437-08:00Peace In The Present<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0BENjV_B3Lx8BEwr1zCBfraXymMNQhHtBlkqYHo1fiy31-sI3s7AwVdLzMsUDRuLXjNB8-up4CdyIHgXD695EzETH9QeT2xiM4zlFMOK91jcq90yhh8TRaaxne3msNJlm1e9xqzz4Jjv/s1039/120965102_10218649521857436_3457715333932733286_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV0BENjV_B3Lx8BEwr1zCBfraXymMNQhHtBlkqYHo1fiy31-sI3s7AwVdLzMsUDRuLXjNB8-up4CdyIHgXD695EzETH9QeT2xiM4zlFMOK91jcq90yhh8TRaaxne3msNJlm1e9xqzz4Jjv/s320/120965102_10218649521857436_3457715333932733286_o.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">Mayhap the old ways were better. Yet our history
certainly does not show it to be so. The struggle to get here, now, for each of
us, through the long lineage of our ancestry, is replete with hardship and
strife. But there was also love. And there was happiness. All of it was felt,
somehow, in however small a measure. Still, it is, however, the now, for now,
that is at issue.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body">Sunlight. Rain. A bird. A deer. An insect. A
dust bunny. A dry leaf. A blossom. Each little thing can be fascinating. If
catharsis be a release from the self, as well as a connection with a greater
whole, then our focus on each little thing, now for now, is a release from the
very struggle of chronic pain, chronic worry, chronic unfairness, chronic
grief. We might else but smudge every precious remaining moment of life into dearth
and despair, were we not to practice this little delight of finding pleasure,
release, gratitude, or joy in the daily diurnal of our very existence.</p>
<p class="Body">Existing everywhere, holons are micro and macro
realizations of matter, concept, and recognition. Not seeing atoms, we yet are
given to understand their existence. So too for molecules. So too for quarks
and quirks. So too for fractals. (And yet, once fractals are noticed, like someone
pointing out a particular beetle, they are everywhere). So too for the
life-gleaned theories of others that delineate our existence, that hold
fascination: A rubric; a pentacle of virtues; a theory of positive
disintegration; a theory of spiral dynamics; a theory of four agreements; an eight-part
template of moral choices; an enneagram of personality and character; and one has
choice. In a comprehensive integral theory, we comprise parts of all and everything;
at issue is what our differentiating degree of habituations are. What are our
small meme choices, let alone our Large Meme cohesions? In this last measure,
we do indeed curtail or advance our enlightenment. It can take much courage and
conviction afore one can readily commit to a new paradigm. For some, a
conversion can be virtually instantaneous; a rebirth, as it were. But given
that we are purported to be parts of the whole, we might deny our own entirety
at the risk of misunderstanding our own role of become progressively integrative,
altogether.</p>
<p class="Body">Which part of Everything, is not? It is an age-old
question. And the societies of yore (even the smallest of groups before the
Sumerians,) had slowly but surely to incorporate a larger and larger world as the
inevitable amalgamation of the inclusion of others spread and spread across the
globe. Yes, war and strife and opposition and genocide and horrors and
travesties and mans’ inhumanity to man grew and grew. We do not easily give in
to the usurper. We do not easily give in to the heretic. We do not easily give
in to the despoiler. We do not easily change. We do not easily give up our
gods. We do not easily go beyond our beliefs.</p>
<p class="Body">Yet in each moment of all that went before,
there too was sunlight, rain, birds, beetles, creatures, and insects. And there
was love. We best trust that our own lineage was not necessarily just the
product of rape and despoilment and despair and devolution. We can conceive
that there was passion and love and care and delight and hope and a sense of
progress and purpose. It all brought us to this moment, this very now in which
these words reach you. Yes, you. And as you look up from the page, or focus
your eyes away from listening to this missive, might you not see even a dust
mite, wafting in air, to be as integral a part of our universe as is some
distant star?</p>
<p class="Body">Peace is in moments. Machines snarling; dogs
barking; traffic; people arguing; worldly atrocities; and perpetual problems interfere.
Censure hurts. Yet discord and distraction are but integral parts of the whole;
our greater and larger sense of acceptance and inclusion can become an
integration that will enlighten our days; give peace to our nights. And so, chronic
despair, unrelenting pain, or great grief finds not necessarily a surcease, as
much as a relevant particularization within a larger whole. And paradoxically,
the smallest of things, even a bug, can indeed put one in the larger picture. Peace
with the now, and our changing, or not, becomes us.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEetmRjhym7bPr2FnZBq53aoOOmu6mzrSWeM87ImwI2-s3ugbVOcg3D55Dv_AOFADYmQIoFe31tK4QTUcK9BdfUoNsgYv_a3fFEXDcAD5VebaHnt9gGhmU7Hi2y81n-YP60QVU7iSVkYj4/s615/BUGS+on+the+2020+windscreen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEetmRjhym7bPr2FnZBq53aoOOmu6mzrSWeM87ImwI2-s3ugbVOcg3D55Dv_AOFADYmQIoFe31tK4QTUcK9BdfUoNsgYv_a3fFEXDcAD5VebaHnt9gGhmU7Hi2y81n-YP60QVU7iSVkYj4/s320/BUGS+on+the+2020+windscreen.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8480504152009112915.post-60563769351503093412021-01-26T15:07:00.002-08:002021-01-26T15:07:51.713-08:00Opposing Forces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AfRBqAT_6Bl3d82JBzHxhc4DZLehUI92OfGEB5WmHZjHBmwEuPI7B0cqHDNjR2q-P_L5tuLTdjygVR6cUS3mrhKwak-rTqgWp2vcH4GOEjCMwALvHkX8UkZvCIj9CdSzPyB4-JeypoK_/s2048/20190803_134353.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-AfRBqAT_6Bl3d82JBzHxhc4DZLehUI92OfGEB5WmHZjHBmwEuPI7B0cqHDNjR2q-P_L5tuLTdjygVR6cUS3mrhKwak-rTqgWp2vcH4GOEjCMwALvHkX8UkZvCIj9CdSzPyB4-JeypoK_/s320/20190803_134353.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="Body"><span lang="EN-US">The screw would not budge. Four inches long, its
counterpart had come out, twist by twist, grudgingly, giving up its deep grip on
the wood. But this screw, now, despite all the force I could muster, came out
only half an inch. Ironic; to pull something out one must push so forcefully.
As well, it was necessary to have the correct tool, so that purchase in the
grooves of the screw-head would not slip, or worse, would not strip the flanges
of the thing, altogether. One pushes to pull. One turns to back out straight.
One aches to gain. Had I not wished or needed to use the same screw hole over
again, I might just have hack-sawed the thing. But one pays one’s price.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="Body">It is in opposition that we find our true metal.
Cursing and acting out is not so much ‘out of character,’ as it can be in our
character. Deep down. To get something, we can be like children, behaving with
some atavistic variant of yelling with deep frustration to get what we want.
One strives for significance. But not all efforts are equal. There is little
equanimity of reward for struggle. We each must find our measure in all the
doing, the undoing, as well as the re-doing that goes along with our progress,
in life. The marriage of the right moment, the right tools, and the right
energy needs all meet, serendipitously, for one to have easy success.</p>
<p class="Body">The 2021 USA inauguration, this January 20th, needed
much counterforce to unscrew the incumbent from his cherished position.
Unyielding, recalcitrant, the inevitability of circumstance and event, time,
and date, had old POTUS meeting with forces beyond his control, and petulant as
he was, a new order took place. At issue is the time it takes for things to
change. Throughout history we have witnessed the great onslaught of revolutions
and upsets and plagues and pestilences. We have endured. But in the collective
‘we’ of that endurance millions along the way have given their lives. At
Capitol Hill, with its dire insurrection preceding the Presidential changeover,
five people gave up theirs. Each was there for a reason.</p>
<p class="Body">Reason would have us working with something,
rather than against it. Reason would have us negotiating, and influencing, and
urging, and even manipulating the course of events to have the sensibility of
our impetus recognized, and acted upon. But history proves that we do not easily
or readily resort to reason. Brute force is the habitual recourse. The one with
the biggest bark, the biggest following, the greatest amount of strength, tends
to prevail, even if only for a while.</p>
<p class="Body">Peace. Ease. Such is the stuff dreams may give
us. We can cry in our dream with the begging of forgiveness; we can meet with
the circumstances of yore. And by facing into them, like facing into pain, or
to fear, or to regret, we can gain purchase on the slippery grip of our
contentions, and by dint of supreme effort, or care, or consideration, we might
well find our surcease. But it takes pursuing our course of action with an
intentionality borne not so much out of desperation, as of unswerving
attention.</p>
<p class="Body">Opposing forces create pearls; the piston stroke
of engines; sporting events; and dramatic action. Themes of conflict stretch most
yarns to a climactic breaking point. Tension for too long, becomes humorous. In
short bursts, tension becomes an irritant. But stretched just long enough,
opposing forces can yield a product that demands our attentive measures of
application to task. And our reward.</p>
<p class="Body">Eventually, the screw came out. Using the
thinnest drill-bit down beside it gave it room. Yes, we do well with assistance.
Words, love, care, smiles, hugs; these are the salve of our lives. Yet where
the real work of life is done (if one is not always to be screwed up, ha!) is encountered
alone; where having the right tools, the right templates, the right rubrics,
and even the right stuff, becomes not so much a by-product of our experiences,
as a way of pursuing life.</p>
<p class="Body">Facing into one’s reserves of resilience,
fortitude, endurance, and going beyond one’s habits, that is the stuff of
paradigm shifts. (Or is it just that one wants not, ineluctably, ‘to be screwed’?)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPjMs1e6v9TuH0Ctz6LYzYsLTnvNhZOIbfdA4ZzE9xm68zVL_qiHRxR3IRGmhlJxiWHMf2nLqB_NuBHF0YAnMSM-6WhQDqCkihyVSWjhI2ZV08DWHciYNTZ_meDuYZJ4LMWL4Uz7KVp4e/s450/Sleepy+Blue+Canvas+setting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="395" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKPjMs1e6v9TuH0Ctz6LYzYsLTnvNhZOIbfdA4ZzE9xm68zVL_qiHRxR3IRGmhlJxiWHMf2nLqB_NuBHF0YAnMSM-6WhQDqCkihyVSWjhI2ZV08DWHciYNTZ_meDuYZJ4LMWL4Uz7KVp4e/s320/Sleepy+Blue+Canvas+setting.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="Body"><br /></p>rfpentelburyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00476382509255963929noreply@blogger.com0