Buddhist weekend

Doorway inside museum, Ronda, November 2016

It's been ages since I returned from my time away with dad. Since then I've taken a trip north, played three badminton matches (2 draws, 1 win), my huge television and sound bar were delivered, I have had dinner with an old friend, spent a day engaged in the pastime of Quilling alongside Lola II and some other friends, switched broadband supplier, and I've been away on a Buddhist retreat.

Buddhist retreats usually take place in a residential centre in a rural location, and take you well outside your normal routine to allow full immersion (or some would say confinement) into the spirit as well as the text of the retreat topic. I've been on a couple of single study days already, but I recently tried out a weekend retreat. It wasn't the usual rural immersion type because during the day we were in the Buddhist Centre in Shrewsbury, and bed and breakfast was provided by some of the local community - in my case, the old friend who got me involved in Buddhism in the first place. We'll call him VP.

The retreat leader was a chap who has written quite a few books exploring different aspects of Buddhism, the next of which will focus on Time, so this was our topic for the weekend. There were about 50 people there, about half being locals, but VP was the only person I knew beforehand. There was lots of waffle, some pleasant chatting, and I came away with a few nuggets that seem worth pondering. Discussion drew upon Buddhist teachings rather than neurological research, for example about the way that time seems elastic and sometimes appears to drag or fly by depending on whether you're waiting for a late train or enjoying a pleasant or engaging activity.

There was an interesting discussion about what exactly is 'Now', or the present moment, and I drew a comparison between the mind constructing sound from waves interacting with the ear drum, the mind constructing colour from light interacting with the retina, and the mind constructing the sensation of 'Now' from 'existence' or 'reality' or 'matter' interacting with consciousness. Our perception of time ceases when we are asleep or unconscious, and almost disappears when we are so absorbed that our consciousness narrows to a point of focus. I can work along with all the spiritual guff when it isn't at odds with my scientific viewpoint. None of it is of any practical use, except we are told that exercising the brain can stave off dementia, and also a change is as good as a rest.

Outside the formal sessions it was very easy to talk to people in the breaks, and after our vegan curry on Saturday night I found myself sitting next to someone who teaches creative writing. I have been thinking about this ever since reading my old school books, and even made a little sortie onto the Internet to look for local courses. It felt a lot like when my kitchen designer was the first person I met on my first Meetup walk. Sadly, most of the Meetup walks happen during the week now - I think the organisers are now retired so they don't have to limit themselves to weekends.

Just before I went home, VP just happened to mention that it would be good if I could put together something about nutrition for people who are thinking about becoming vegan. Of course I haven't got any time for this at the moment, but VP knows me too well and I've been thinking about it ever since. The idea has found its way into my Book of Lists, so it may happen at some point.

Another short story

Self portrait, 1970

This is from the same treasure trove of school reports and toddler artwork as the previous story, but was written a few years earlier, when I was 6 or 7. Again I am copying verbatim - spelling and punctuation left entirely unchanged, although I have substituted my blog name for my real name.

If a magician gave me one wish I would say "I will save it untill I went to have a holiday and I would try to be famous and I would ask for a pair of wings that will never never break and I would fly over the town and everybody would look up at me and say "look who is that up in the clouds. and I would shout It is me [Lola Blogger] with wings to fly with. Oh it is lovely up here. "I wish we were up there." the people will say.

I suppose I'm still trying to be famous, although in my world 'famous' means appearing on Radio 4 rather than being recognised in the street. And, of course, I still want to be able to fly.

Short story

Still life, 1971

While I was being Nurse Rosenberg I took all sorts of things from home to occupy myself, and one of these was a plastic bag full of my history - music exam certificates, school reports, some of my childhood art, a letter I wrote to my American cousins. A treasure trove.

Here is something I wrote for an English lesson when I was 12, in 1976 or 77. I have copied it verbatim without changing so much as a comma.

My Visit to the Past

It is now 1960. The weather is very gloomy and everyone around me is running. There is a shrill noise.

Everyone had gone by. A solitary woman was left, coming out of a shop door.

"That was better than usual," she remarked.

"What happened?" I asked.

"You got caught in the rush hour," she said. "You ought to know by now to head for the nearest doorway."

"Oh."

I carried on my way. The streets were now deserted, apart from a few early morning shoppers. I looked into a shop. It was a stationers. I wondered if the goods would tell me what time of year it was. Nothing. Not a firework. No Christmas cards. No Valentine cards. Not an Easter bunny in sight. This wasn't getting me very far.

A lady was standing admiring some notepaper. I asked her for the date. June 6th.

I started down a sideroad. Everything around me seemed much quieter. There were no babies crying out of 3rd floor flat windows. Then I realised what was really nagging me. The difference in our clothes. They were wearing two piece garments, at least, the men were. The women were sometimes in one piece dresses or dresses in two pieces. I wondered how they managed to get them on. Now, I was wearing the normal amount of jewelry, with all my rings, and a 5-piece suit, and it looked very advanced beside the primitive clothing of these people.

I heard another shrill whistle. Expecting another mad rush of people, I pressed back into a doorway, but I could only see one man coming towards me, dressed all in blue, with a tall hat, and brandishing what appeared to be a large metal or wooden stick. In his mouth was a little silver thing that was making the noise. He looked extremely fierce, and I just turned and ran, right back to my machine. Seconds later, I was safe again, back in my own time.

It's very strange to read your own composition more than 40 years later, but I find this so interesting. The story isn't much in itself, but the first four paragraphs hook the reader, make you want to know what's next. The rhythm of the writing - sentences, phrases, paragraphs, even the direct speech - I thought it was really cool that it was written by my 12 year old self.

What I've been reading

Death in Holy Orders
by P. D. James

"At St. Anselm's - an embattled, isolated theological college on England's windswept East Anglian coast - when the body of seminarian Ronald Treeves is literally unearthed from a suffocating pile of sand, a coroner's jury turns in a verdict of accidental death. Arms manufacturer Sir Alred Treeves, Ronald's adoptive father, questions the verdict and arranges to have Dalgliesh reinvestigate the boy's death."

Pretty good holiday reading. A short review today.

Clarity for Lawyers
by Mark Adler and Daphne Perry

"This unique book debunks the myth that legalese is precise. Using many before-and-after examples, this book explains how you can increase your efficiency, profits and client approval while making your documents more readable and reliable."

I have to declare an interest - this edition was co-written by Sister D. Despite this, or more likely because of it, I thought it was excellent. Of course it would be a great disappointment if a book about clear language was not well written, but I learned a few things even though I'm not a lawyer and know hardly anything about the law. The things I learned include how astonishingly convoluted legal language can be even when it is written clearly, but also the five (five!) different meanings of the simple phrase 'Time flies like an arrow'. Highly recommended to all, although probably most interesting to lawyers and sisters.

The Honorary Consul
by Graham Greene

"In a provincial Argentinian town a group of revolutionaries kidnap the wrong man. Their victim - Charley Fortnum, the 'Honorary Consul' - is sixty-one years old, living on whisky and his disputed status as British consul."

He is very earnest, old Graham Greene. You can feel the pain of his conflict with the Catholic Church in this novel, and the penultimate chapter is very fine indeed. But I'm still giving myself worthy books to read and I really should go for something more entertaining for a change.

Love Among the Chickens
by P. G. Wodehouse

narrated by B. J. Harrison

"The irrepressible scrounger Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge and his jolly new wife Molly have identified Dorset as an ideal place to set up a chicken farm. They take with them the author Jeremy Garnet, who plans to swim and play golf alongside his writing, but finds life more complicated than he expected."

An early book in the author's career, but pretty successful as far as I'm concerned. I downloaded it in six weekly podcast instalments, and first it amused me that the American narrator pronounced 'Featherstonehaugh' as 'feather stone huff. Why on earth should he know about this ridiculous and archaic quirk of the English language? Then it amused me that by episode 6 he was correctly saying 'fan shaw'. How did he find out? Will he now go back and correct the early episodes too?

Writing for Pleasure and Profit
by Michael Legat

"Brimming with useful advice and tips, this guide to writing warns against common pitfalls and teaches you how to adopt a professional attitude towards your work."

Written in 1986, which is when I first thought about writing for a living. How times have changed! No need to pay a typist, or wait for a publisher's reply to come in the post, or hope that your bundle of paper will be returned so you don't have to type it again from the carbon in order to submit it to another publisher. No need to write to the BBC to ask for a copy of their guide 'Writing for the BBC' to be sent in the post. It would be interesting to discover how authors approach publishers and submit their work for scrutiny these days.

Nurse Rosenberg

Setenil de las Bodegas, Spain, November 2016

For the last few days Sister D and I have been standing in for mum at the parental manse, while she goes off to visit her brother in Seattle and then, of all places, Las Vegas. Lola II has gone with her, while Sister D and I have a full list of instructions that is seven pages long. So far, nobody has been murdered.

The campaign started when I arrived the night before the flight to find that mum needed help packing while dad reported a horrible dream about the plane being shot down by the King of Jordan and everyone dying in the resulting explosion. Over the next 12 hours the dream acquired the status of a premonition, and we all regularly had to withstand dad's heartfelt pleas for mum and Lola II to change their flight plans.

On the day of the flight I accompanied mum to the airport, which was not without its own stresses as we could find absolutely nowhere to park at the tube station and we were delayed by about 20 minutes while I drove about looking for a space. The train we boarded then changed its destination half way, but all's well that ends well and we got there in three hours. I returned by exactly the same route in less than two hours. Mum and Lola II were delayed three hours on the tarmac as someone on the plane was ill, but no mid-air explosions ensued. Since dad's premonition was been revealed to be false, he declared that he will no longer believe or tell us about any of his dreams. This resolution lasted less than 24 hours.

My responsibilities are few - I have to admit the carers in the morning and evening, admit the cleaner and do the laundry on Friday, supply meals and medications, and deal with any parental emergencies that arise. No emergencies have arisen, thank goodness, because I am supremely confident of my skills in opening the front door, the pill box and the fridge and working the cooker and microwave, but much less confident about dealing with emergencies. The main change I have instituted is to force dad to make his own breakfast, which he is perfectly able to do.

I also have a list of things mum would quite like done before she gets back, and a list of boring jobs that I would quite like to do before they get back (you know - insurance renewals, utility contracts, reviewing all the fancy multimedia hardware that Mr MHX specified last weekend) and altogether there isn't as much free time as I had anticipated. I have brought many toys, games, books and DVDs, and the fabric for the dress I promised Lola II about two years ago. When I spread it out on the table ready to go I discovered that and not enough had been supplied. I really should have checked at the time, but it's obviously much too late now to make a fuss. It will make a lovely top.

So I have spray painted the copper pipes to the new boiler in the kitchen, gone for a run (the first for at least a year), met two different school friends for coffee and hosted Sunday lunch with Sister D and Cousin Y. I had a look at the fan heater that had stopped working, squeezed into the cupboard under the stairs to have check the fuse box and discovered it was the old type and entirely unlabelled. So I went back to the fan heater to turn it on so I could tell from the light whether the power was off, and it spontaneously came back to life. Result. Next day the carer said yes, it works intermittently, so no result after all.