Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Quirky Quarrels - Wisdom Writes

How we see things is very much up to us and no one else. The photo above almost looks as if I've taken a snap of a dead leaf in mid-air. Not so. No photo trickery here... this time. "It is, what it is." Often when I take a picture I don't notice what is before my own eyes until I look again in more detail. That's quite some metaphor for life. Our perception changes with time, with stress and above all with what others are bombarding us with information wise. Sometimes it really is a question of just pausing to reflect in peace and quiet before deciding upon what information I want to help me do what I most longed to do... in my case... be an artist but a largely private one. I'm happy to inspire when I want to, or sell things when I want to, but not otherwise.

Unlike many I find money and flash titles a chore and a bit of a bore, but we all need to function and for that it's about as fair as it ever was in this old democracy that I live in. All is therefore, and logically quite normal except for our perception of things which has made things tense and frightening. The solution is to not do that in such a public way on such a global scale. The solution is to calm down, slow down and take time but the scuff of the neck and say 'Oi, I'm in control of it for MY life and just you remember that'. Except of course for all those annoying practicalities, but even there life starts to become far more manageable when we pace ourselves better.

A couple more poetic scribbles for you then, for those briefest of moments that are just yours and yours alone. The first is by me and the second... by a rellie of mine who died at the age of 39. He had a few poems published when he was alive, I'm not sure if this was among them. Mainly he specialised in mathematics when not helping others in need. Amazing what we can do by just helping each other out in the smallest of ways. Little and often from everyone can avert traumas and disasters as well as ensure those who suffer such horrors can and do recover. Oh yeah... a poem...

The little quirks once so attractive have become 

Your worst qualities.
Was it you or I to change?
Was it then, or is it now that I am so perceptive? 

If that isn't a call to stop and think then quite simply I never breathed a word. I wrote that one when a teenager long before I got smitten by any one let alone caught the romantic love bug which also tends to make us see the world in rosier than is prudent vision... sometimes. I recall that when I wrote it, I was reflecting on the theme of troubles generally and probably because of the damage caused to my own family due to the long standing quarrels between the English and Irish. It was always tough to reconcile things in a family with both nationalities but out of it came a resolve to somehow get through by negotiating and helping others be calm enough to do so too.

A cousin in Canada recently said the Irish mob in our family tree got all the brains and all the talent. I instantly disagreed for if we had, we would have not got into such a pickle in the first place. There are many ways of being clever and many ways of being stupid but only one way to become wise... it's by learning from mistakes and admitting that we've made them ourselves until it hurts to do so. Hurting need never mean it will kill us though.

Prompted as ever by my amazing relatives both past and present including my immediate family recently, I remembered this one. I have to thank Bobbie and Verna most for that reminder... who are among many of my family's genealogists so that no one of our family ever gets forgotten. This one was penned in the last century and seems to have become a family favourite. It is attributed to a Robert William Wilde... as far as I know. I will dedicate it though to Mark and Stanley et al still alive in Ireland today mainly cos there's another birthday looming large over there! July is choka blog with them for me.

Cad, tar éis an tsaoil, obair mo peann?
An bhfuil scríofa agam líne amháin fiú an léamh arís?
An bhfuil bualadh mé mona amháin leis an luí na cairde?
Agus an gleam de réalta ón áit heavenly?
As an gairdín an amhrán a thug mé e'en bhláth amháin?
An bhfuil tógtha mé e'en cuimhne amháin a aoibh gháire ar mo tuama?

I like to think everyone does this just by being true to the best of themselves...Oh it., translates into English as...

What, after all, is the work of my pen?
Have I written one line worth the reading again?
Have I minted one coin with the impress of grace?
And the gleam of a star from the heavenly place?
From the garden of song have I brought e’en one bloom?
Have I built e’en one memory to smile on my tomb?

(whispers) Thanks Robert, I should say you most definitely have!

Top tip... become a wordsmith... it can help you out of many a sticky pickled knitty knot! 

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