Ars Moriendi

THE SWAN (Rilke)

This drudgery of trudging through tasks

yet undone, heavily, as if bound,
is like the swan’s not fully created walking.

And dying, this no longer being able
to hold to the ground we stand on every day,
like the swan’s anxious letting himself down--:

into the waters, which gently accept him
and, as if happy and already in the past,
draw away under him, ripple upon ripple,
while he, now utterly quiet and sure
and ever more mature and regal
and composed, is pleased to glide.

Tragically, choosing the way in which one dies is a rarity. Instead, death seems to creep up on whoever,whenever, as if whimsically claiming any person by right. Death is the most natural thing and yet it feels like the most aberrant intrusion. Here's the story about the dead cyclist we found last weekend and the aforementioned tensions at work.

I’d never seen a dead body before. Not even the ultra-embalmed ones displayed in open-casket funerals. This one was real. Lying there, face down on the side of the road. We had been driving up and down the windy mountainous roads that lead back to Saint-Auban when we spotted him- his bicycle resting neatly at his feet; his helmet by his head. At first glance, Hannah thought he might be having a rest but to me he looked as if he were groaning in pain- the way he was laying on his elbows, face pressed against the ground, as if something were eating him up from within. I immediately pulled over and called out to him: “Monsieur, vous allez bien? Monsieur!” I knelt down by his faced and tapped him on the shoulder and cheek, still calling out, but I could tell he was dead. Blue. Empty. Still warm, but lifeless.

I pushed his shoulder up to turn him around and his zombie-like face let out a drool, then when I’d turned him enough that the pressure came off his lungs his body reacted by drawing in a big breath- which sounded like a violent gasp. I was so surprised I dropped him and his head fell heavily on the ground. His eyes stared up at the sky. I searched in vain for a pulse and called an ambulance from his cell-phone. Then, just as I was about to start CPR on his corpse, the pompiers (firemen/rescue team) arrived [They arrived as I was calling as they had already been dispatched- see next paragraph]. They could tell he was well gone but they started artificial respiration on him with all their gear. Next, a helicopter landed with medical experts who had a look at him but basically just diagnosed him as being dead.

Apparently, this guy in his late 40s had been cycling along when he felt pains and shortness of breath. He rested for 40 minutes before deciding to call a doctor. She suggested that they send the helicopter but the man didn't want to be a bother and decided to rest for a few more minutes. This didn’t feel right to her so she came in the helicopter anyway, but it arrived far too late. He must have been without oxygen for a good 20 minutes by the time I got there. Poor guy- he should have called for help straight away.

We carried on our way after the police finally arrived and asked some questions and for the rest of the evening my thoughts were constantly invaded with flashbacks of his face as I lifted it off the ground and his gasp as he looked up into the sky [I say ‘gasp; look; let out’ etc out of reverence for him but also because I don’t know how to talk about him as an inanimate object- lifeless as he was]. It was as if his soul were parting, upward into the void, as his body lay there, in those beautiful mountains. It felt natural in some way, but also wrong and perverse. I hated it.

I never thought I would pray for a dead man’s fate- but I prayed for God’s mercy on him that evening. In that moment, it still felt possible, as if he was still within the bounds of our space and time. They zipped up his corpse in a body bag but I couldn’t help but wonder where he was. And I imagined him, standing in front of his maker, and I wanted to defend him. I prayed for God to have mercy on him and grant him something solid, real and eternal; something to counter the abrupt and absurd end to his earthly existence.

I have no conclusion apart from- please, dear friend/whanau, whilst living in a healthy awareness of your own mortality, don't die (if you reach 90, i grant you permission). Thank you. Also, if you feel like something is fishy, call an ambulance (or fire services- as they arrive faster).

[+ buy some barriers (e.g. mouth piece). Hard work wanting to give mouth to mouth when their face is covered with blood or saliva]

Hurricanes

Being overseas has its advantages. Out of the reach of Sky Sport's tentacles, I was able, for a small fee, to watch the Super 14 online. This meant I got to watch most of the games played and all of the Hurricanes and Blues matches. I found the Hurricanes' season pretty exciting and I think they could've made it to the finals if a couple more things had gone their way. Here are some highlights I made to pay tribute to the joy they gave me as I watched them, drinking coffee after coffee on those quiet, relaxing Sunday mornings.

One Year Anniversary

At my 19th birthday party (in the 70s)

One sweet year of marriage. Ah, what can I say. Hannah has been my rudder, my joy, my passion. She is my love guru, my gracious ear. She knows me, laughs at me, teaches me and carves me into a more authentic myself. She is a wondrously intelligent and strong person.

She pulls me away from my useless distractions

Back into the now- the present reality to be savoured, the little things to be enjoyed.

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One of the most profound texts I've ever come across is Hannah's vows. Her words haunt me to this day with their depth of thought, realism and utter Hannahness. Here they are (with her permission).

"I promise to trust God and seek to live in the life that Jesus gives to us- from that place I want to serve you; to honour, trust, respect and cherish you as a gift from God for however long he decides. It is a privilege to become your wife.

I want our marriage to be one that is steeped in grace. Because of this I will seek to live humbly before God, asking Him to guide me.

I desire to see you for yourself - not as an extension of myself or as an object that orbits around me.

I desire to listen to you when you speak; to hear what you are saying, not what i think you are saying.

I know our differences will sometimes drive us crazy, so I promise to remember how these differences endeared you to me and seek to celebrate them, not try to change you.

I want you to pursue your dreams, your goals, and your hopes. I promise to support you in these and your decisions and to challenge you at times if I don't agree.

I want to love you in the hard times and seek not to control you when life is difficult, but let those situations grow us.

I promise to stay true to myself and in doing so, be true to you.

I promise to work at staying open and honest with you; to let you in to the places within myself that I am scared to show.

I want to learn to see myself honestly, to listen to God and be defined by who I am in Him.

I desire to not demand or expect more from you than you can give, and to seek to find my wholeness in God.

I promise to hold you to what you promise me, and let you do the same - I promise to own when I am wrong and seek to live in an atmosphere of forgiveness with you.

I promise to keep laughing with you and at you, to keep having fun and going on adventures with you.

I promise to not become an adult who can't see a boa constrictor eating an elephant.

I look forward to making love with you and having children with you.

I desire to never leave you or betray you - you are the most important person in the world to me.

I promise to make my home with you wherever we are.

I know I will not live this perfectly but I seek for Christ to live this through me.

I want to grow in loving you and knowing you for the rest of our lives together,

Sam, I love you, and I give myself to you".

Yia!

The Power of Nightmares

Greetings loved ones,

Below is a three-part BBC documentary written and produced by Adam Curtis. Here's the abstract from our dearly beloved and highly unreliable source of information- wikiwiki:

'The films compare the rise of the Neo-Conservative movement in the United States and the radical Islamist movement, making comparisons on their origins and claiming similarities between the two. More controversially, it argues that the threat of radical Islamism as a massive, sinister organised force of destruction, specifically in the form of al-Qaeda, is a myth perpetrated by politicians in many countries—and particularly American Neo-Conservatives—in an attempt to unite and inspire their people following the failure of earlier, more utopian ideologies'. Tada!

So! If you're twiddling your thumbs, seeking to blossom into a knee-jerking lefty or simply looking for creative and instructional ways to spend the upcoming winter evenings, I recommend taking a peak at this compelling series from the man who gave us great docos such as The Century of the Self and The Trap.

Part 1: Baby it's Cold Outside

Part 2: The Phantom Victory

Part 3: The Shadows in the Cave

Thomas Manatoa Toulouse

On this day, 10 May 2010, Mr T. for Toulouse burst forth from the womb onto French soil. With a weight of over 4 kilograms and a height reaching 52.5 cm, it's safe to say we've witnessed the birth of a giant. A man-baby with Whiley genes who will probably develop Fordian themes but who was and is-born Toulouse.

Of Cats and Men

Bold has been added to the following post to cater for A.D.D and sneaky speed reading.

“What do you think is the essential difference between men and women?

-Madame, I cannot conceive”

Ah yes, I forget who said that. Probably one of the great masters of wit: Rowan Atkinson*; David Lange*, or Andrew Finlay perhaps. Hannah insists that "it’s not that funny", but my standards have lowered considerably over the last couple of years. I find myself giggling at just about anything. Slowly, I make my way into the ranks of the nerdy or elderly who are found grinning and muttering to themselves in a forgotten corner. What’s more, I’ve been running around with some kind of chest infection, causing me to cough and splutter like a creepy old emphysemic drunkard. Uncle Sam, here I come.

Katy is almost ready to burst, but the baby is awaiting the arrival of its grandmother- Joanne- to get the proceedings under way. Granny Jo (neither boxer nor blues artist, despite the catchy name) is arriving mid-way through the week and will be welcomed by Huzzah!s and Hurrah!s- simply because she is one who inspires such jubilation. Katy and Jean-Michel’s neighbours, a British couple, are lending us their house while mum is here. The catch is that we will have to look after the pool during the times we are not swimming in it. Oh the hardship!

Cats- are a delightful alternative to children. Hannah is crazy about them and I’m beginning to understand why. They are like little furry drunks- alternating between the over-energetic chasing of inanimate objects to curling up in complete comatose after scoffing down a bowl of food from the packet. Slothful, greedy and yet noble and hygienic; entertaining both indoors and outdoors; low maintenance; conveying an illusion of love and even replaceable!

I cannot but admire the brutally honest and self-satisfying relationship between cat and human-

HUMAN- I want to pat the cat, I find its purr relaxing. I feel wanted.

CAT- I want to be caressed, fed and then have a snooze. I feel safe. I feel excited.

HUMAN- The cat is now bothering me. I put the cat outside.

A wonderfully-weaved interaction.

This is not new to you of course, but it is to me. My daddy always told me that cats were lazy and useless and my only experience of them growing up was of burying the ones that had suffered under the jaws of our faithful German Shepherd Max.

Max had been viciously attacked by a wild cat as a puppy and later in life dealt with his fears by always striking first. But let us not judge his killer-instinct too readily. Max confronted his deepest phobias head-on, and for that he must be commended. Below is a summary of the usual sequence of events.

Cat runs through garden, Mad-Max attacks, 9 year-old Sam gets a shovel, digs a cat sized hole, and buries all evidence before distraught neighbours start asking questions. Sunday lunch continues.

Speaking of lunch, I may have mislead you in earlier posts into thinking that we always stop for a big three course meal everyday but this was, in fact, only true of our first week. We actually stay up in the orchard and have a simple picnic under the cherry trees. Rugby has also changed. Last weekend’s game was all class. Nice pitch, stadium and crowd. Relatively free flowing game which we won 20-17. The ugly side showed its head off the field this time- the opposition filed a complaint after the match, saying that our captain had played the game despite a suspension and they stripped the victory and away from us. It’s all a bit political and nasty. They’ll go before the rugby federation and my team will win but it’ll mean there will have been no final. Blablabla, anyway it looks like the season’s over.

News from the fields- I have been getting an earful from my new orchard companions: French Radio hosts, David Pawson, Podcasts and now even Audiobooks. Audiobooks! Who would have thought! Classics read by BBC-Granddad-Attenborough types, neatly fitting onto Hannah’s miniature ipod. Oh! The well of information available to aural learners! Prune away my lad, and learn the secrets once confined to dusty books. Prune and laugh at the ramblings of the learned academics, as they breathlessly share their lifework in little one-hour slots. Prune and consider that without pruning you would never take time out to listen. Oh, how delightful! I cannot conceive, but I can multitask.

She can conceive AND multitask... *respect*

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*Atkinson: http://www.moviesoundclips.net/tv1/blackadder2/pencil.wav

Lange: was hosting a reception at Vogel House for the Chinese politician Hu Yao Bang when the lights went out. Lange immediately asked all the guests to raise their hands because "many hands make light work." The audience complied, and to their amazement the lights immediately came back on. Lange was invited to visit China.

Source: Dominion, 23 March 1992, p. 6.

Time Travel

“Christmas to a child is the first terrible proof that to travel hopefully is better than to arrive”
Stephen Fry

Little Iceland farts in the face of Europe*, causing planes to be grounded and passengers stranded. This of course has raised a number of issues, but for the traveller it brings about a worthwhile reassessment of the way we travel and INDEED its purpose. The excerpt below, whilst written before the volcanic eruption, does just that. Replace the word ‘vacation’ with ‘holiday’ and I think you’ll find you identify with what the writer is saying.

"Look! A total plane eclipse!"

Feeling stagnant and in search of adventure, Slate contributor Seth Stevenson and his girlfriend (and trusty navigatrix), Rebecca, put their jobs on hold, ditched their possessions, and set out to circumnavigate the globe without stepping into an aircraft. They soon found themselves riding on cargo freighters, trains, ferries, buses, bicycles, one high-speed catamaran, and several rickshaws. Excerpts from Stevenson's book about the voyage, Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World.

'Fifty years ago, an American tourist on vacation might well have taken a ship to get to Europe. Fifty years before that, it was not unusual to ride in a stagecoach. For someone growing up in the first half of the twentieth century—watching the automobile and the airplane evolve into everyday conveniences—it must have seemed that humankind's advances in the field of transport were only just getting started.
But then, sometime around the mid-1960s, the progress stopped. Air travel had its golden age in that era, and since then flying really hasn't improved. With notable exceptions like the now-defunct Concorde, the jets never got much faster. Meanwhile, they did get a whole lot less comfortable, as airlines crammed in more seats and cut out the amenities.
Whatever romance may have existed up there in the clouds, once upon a time, it's long gone now. These days, the experience is relentlessly drab. Still, there's no puzzle as to why people continue to fly. Airplanes equal convenience. They get us places faster—orders of magnitude faster.
I wouldn't want to deny people the option of flight. At the same time, I think it's fair to acknowledge that progress comes with tradeoffs. Yes, we've gained convenience. But along the way we've deprived ourselves of some extremely wonderful things. The starry skies of an Atlantic Ocean crossing. The bleak beauty of an old Russian train chugging its way through Siberia. The jaunty freedom of a road trip with a carful of friends.
And there's no going back. Along with the ability to cross an ocean or a continent in six hours comes a societal expectation that you'll do so. Your two weeks of summer vacation time are predicated on the assumption that you'll fly to Italy for your honeymoon—not take a full week to float there, look around for an hour, and then take another week to float back.
As a result, when people think about travel these days they think purely of destinations. They barely give a nod to the actual ... traveling. The problem with this isn't just that we lose out on the pleasures of trains, ships, bicycles, and all those other terrific modes of rationally paced, ground-level transport. I think we also dim our experience of the destinations themselves. We've forgotten the benefit of surface travel: It forces you to feel, deep in your bones, the distance you've covered; and it gradually eases you into a new context that exists not just outside your body, but also inside your head. (It eliminates travel sicknesses, too: Rebecca and I never once got ill as we moved slowly and steadily between clusters of regional bacteria.)
Teleporting from airport to airport doesn't allow for the same kind of spiritual transformation you undergo whenever you make an overland trip. When you take a seven-day vacation bookended by flights, I would in fact argue that your soul never completely leaves home. You've experienced it, I'm sure: Your airplane has landed in Quito, but your heart and mind are still stuck back in Boston. The sudden, radical change in your surroundings sparks a glitch in your processor. You know you're physically standing in Ecuador, yet the sensation is more like watching a really immersive television documentary about Ecuador. And then, at last, when you begin to feel whole again, your feet firmly planted in the foreign soil (no longer some hollow seedcase that's been dropped, weightless, into an alien world), it's time to teleport straight back to the comfortable familiarity of home.
I acknowledge that for most of us, it's no longer feasible to take an ocean liner to South America on our summer holiday. But that doesn't mean we wouldn't have a better, richer experience if we did. So my advice to you is this: The next time you want to travel—I mean really travel, not just take a vacation—please consider getting wherever you want to go without taking a plane.
I promise you will look at that globe on the shelf in your study in a whole new light. You will run your finger along the curve of the sphere and think: I know what this distance feels like. What this ocean looks like. What it means to trace the surface of this earth'.

http://www.slate.com/id/2249547/
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*Only in French but very good- http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xd0gy0_les-islandais-sont-des-casse-couill_fun?start=38