On revisiting the story of David Copperfield recently, I was reminded of the character of Mr Dick. When she doesn't know what to do, Miss Betsy Trotwood simply instructs Mr Dick to tell her. Mr Dick, in his amiable fashion, thinks of something. Whilst he may think of something much in the way that Winnie the Pooh might Think of Something in a bumbling, haphazard way, both, it seems, come about wisdom or the truth of the matter, without quite realising it.
We all need a Mr Dick in our lives. To turn to when, try as we might, having looked at it from every angle, we still simply don't know what to do.
"Mr Dick," I would say. "Tell me what to do!"
And Mr Dick would have a bit of a think, screw his face up in a pondering sort of way, and then he would tell me what to do. Simply, cleanly, sparingly. Thank you Mr Dick, I would say.
The mother of a close friend of mine used to advise her to make her decision before going to bed, and then see how she felt when she woke in the morning. If the feeling was good, she had made the right decision, the feeling bad or uneasy and she still had time to change it before it took effect in the waking world.
I tried it once or twice, but I could never quite fool myself into believing I had made my decision, when I knew I might revise it in the morning. It never felt serious or substantial enough to be a true decision.
Some would say there are no right or wrong decisions, just different paths. I am sympathetic to what they mean, but it is spectacularly irritating to be told this when one nevertheless has to decide something one way or another.
Of course, a Mr Dick abdicates our responsibility, and we are no longer children. As helpful and easy as it might be, do we really want someone else to be making our decisions for us?
So, off into the New Year for all of us. Decisions to make, people to see, places to go, things to do. Be proud that you guide yourself, that you are your own guide, arbiter and lover. And, to share the advice my father gave to me many years ago before a (musical) performance... If you are going to make a mistake, do it loudly, and as if you meant to make it!
Happy New Year
Friday, 31 December 2010
Friday, 17 December 2010
A comment on my last post by Not a notting hill mum raises a very important question about culpability. The example in question was an extra-marital affair. My point was that if the person considering or actually having the affair knew that the knowledge of it would hurt their pre-existing partner, then they were guilty of behaving in an un-loving manner towards their partner, whether the partner did in fact know or not. By saying this, I am clearly claiming that there is another element to the act, not just the exhibited behaviour itself, upon which it should be judged.
I understand that in a court of law the intention behind a resulting event is considered, as well as the nitty-gritty of what actually took place. But I am no lawyer, and indeed what interests me here is not how things are judged in a court of law, but in our own everyday moral court. The court of our conscience. The court of our own innate sense of what is right and wrong, loving and un-loving. Some might say these are not the same thing, but for this argument's sake, let us assume they are.
On what should an action be judged? Only on what actually happens as a result? Only on what was intended and the motivation behind it? Or a combination of all of these? It is possible to say that if no one is hurt (emotionally or physically) by an action, then how can it be wrong? But this sits ill with me. If the 'do-er' knows it could hurt, how can their conscience be clear? Conversely, if someone is hurt by an action, but the 'do-er' had no intention of that, not even any idea it was possible, and their motivation was good and loving, can one condemn the 'do-er' for their accidental hurt? Ignorance is poor defence, but what of the complete accident? An action is not just a random event in space and time, it is motivation, intention and thought, and all must be weighed in the balance.
Sunday, 12 December 2010
When does a friendship between a man and a woman (or two men or two women of homosexual orientation) cross the line? When does the relationship become something that would not be acceptable to a spouse of either man or woman? As a married friend said to me the other day, referring to a new female friend of his: 'It is difficult about enjoying another woman's company isn't it? If it's good, then you wonder if it's bad. I wonder when it crosses a line... Of course if she were a bloke, or I female, it wouldn't be bad.' So, using this example, what is the added ingredient that makes two equally enjoyable and rewarding friendships, judged 'good' if with a man, but 'bad' if with a woman?
The obvious line people always cite is sleeping with someone, but I don't think it's actually that clear cut. I suspect it is possible to be emotionally/heart unfaithful without anything physical happening, and it is possible to sleep with someone and yet not be unfaithful to the emotional relationship with your spouse or partner. And it is different from couple to couple, whose conditions and requirements of their intimate relationship vary. Which on the one hand doesn't seem to help at all, and indicates that each new couple discuss and stipulate what they personally would see as a transgression, a violation, of their intimacy.
Or, do we think, that bar the usual exceptions in particular, individual couples who stray from the norm, that there are general, objective standards of decent, 'faithful' behaviour? Or is it actually that the rule of thumb is the basic one by which to guide all our actions? That is: is my act loving or un-loving, both to myself and to all touched by the act? The 'to myself' and not just others is crucial.
Monday, 6 December 2010
When I say 'pain', what do you think of? Physical pain? Emotional pain? Mental pain? How do you distinguish between these? Can you? Or is pain just pain? Pain does not just have behavioural consequences, there is something 'it is like' to be in pain. If the feeling is absent, you cannot claim to be in pain. It is not possible to imagine a pain, it is a thing of a moment. You can remember that you were 'in' pain, but you can't summon back the what 'it is like' of that pain from memory, you are either in pain in a particular moment or not.
Physical pain seems straightforward: bring affliction to a part of the body, and pain will be felt by that person in that part of their body. Awkward that it has been reported by some amputees that they can still feel pain and other sensations in the limb that the doctor knows has now been removed. And can you expect two people with exactly the same injury, to feel exactly the same pain? How do we know? Can you describe your pain to someone, as is sometimes asked? When people say they can 'feel your pain', can they?
What of emotional pain? That searing pain in the chest or gut apparently caused by tremendous upset, hurt or grief. Mental pain? The head or brain aches associated with concentrating hard on difficult intellectual problems. In that we apparently still feel both emotional and mental pains in specific areas of the body, perhaps all pain is actually physical? Or all in fact mental? What is clear, is that you ought to be very careful before ever making a judgement about anybody else's pain, of whatever kind. Being in pain is to be feeling in pain, and you cannot feel theirs, only your own. It might be the same, but you don't know.
Friday, 3 December 2010
So now, this country that we call the United Kingdom, is covered in snow. Pristine, white, beautiful snow. Cleansing snow that wipes the slate clean, and gives off a magnificent light. White, innocent and child-like in one way, dangerous and menacing in another. Boughs and branches bend with its weight, roofs of outbuildings cave in, it stops the traffic, it blocks the flow of people's lives. Not so friendly and magical now. When it melts, all will be worse. Mud, slush, mess, debris and damage await us.
But early this morning I was out walking with my dog. He gambolled, sniffed and played, and I looked out over the fields. White as far as I could see, barely a mark blotting the surface of the landscape. I stared too long and for a moment I was blinded by the bright, white light. It reminded me of the light that those who have narrowly escaped death, talk of having been invited into, but from which they turned and withdrew at the last minute.
I blinked and looked at the fields again, and thought of the crops and plants in stasis beneath. Was the snow bringing us a moment of death? In grinding our daily lives to a halt, in hiding our world under a beautiful shroud or blanket, just as we cover the faces of people in death, in reducing us to carefully putting our feet one in front of the other lest we fall over, it is stopping us in our tracks. Hello, it says, this is not All There Is. For look, it says, how can it be so important, look how easily it disappears.