Botswana and the Art of Harmony

I have become spiritual recently.

This is not the first time of course. There was that brief period after a Christian camp in Year Five where I used to write passages out of the Bible. That lasted three days until my sister asked me what they actually meant, at which I drew a blank. I thought one was meant to read passages from the Bible without knowing what they meant; from what I had seen that was the entire basis of Christianity.

There was also that time in high school when I went through my Lord of the Rings faze. I used to try to pray to Elvish gods and spirits. It makes me cringe to think of it now, but back then I guess I was just looking for something to believe in.

I have been feeling the need for spirituality for a while now. Everyone needs something to believe in – it’s what makes us human, as Terry Pratchett has pointed out. Without belief there is just chaos. We believe in things such as justice, morality, society - even though they are just concepts made up by humans to stop us descending into utter madness. Look at me; I haven’t believed in anything truly for years, and I’m as mad as a haddock.

                                                                      

There’s also the fact that I need inner peace. I stress and worry far too much, and get wound up easily. Especially at work. Ask my friend; I fire him at least twice a day.

I made some attempts last week to find peace by reading a large, hardback copy of a collection of writings by Kahil Gibran entitled The Art of Harmony. It’s deep, it’s poetic and, when the tranquillity fades, it can also be used to bludgeon people to death with. Inner peace, it seems, is pretty hard to come by – especially when you work in hospitality.

However, this week I have rediscovered someone who has always been able to speak straight to my heart and my soul. She is Mma Ramotswe; owner of Botswana’s first Ladies Detective agency, and the fictional creation of Scottish writer Alexander McCall Smith.

The brilliant thing about her is that (despite the fact she is fictional) she is human. She tries to see the good in human nature, the beauty in the world around her and the joy in everyday experiences. But she also knows that sometimes to be human is to think bad things about people you don’t like, or get impatient or feel generally negative. As long as these thoughts don’t overwhelm your life it is possible to be a happy, peaceful person yet still be human.

To be fair, Christianity and the little I have seen of Islam espouses the same principals. The whole notion of forgiveness and atonement acknowledges that to err is human, although the Church in reality is a little less forgiving. And Kahil Gibran states that just because someone is not always good or kind it doesn’t make them bad, and you cannot have joy without sorrow or sorrow without joy.

It’s new religions and ideologies – Buddhism, Zen, etc. – which make life a bit harder.

I tried to become Buddhist this year. I wanted to think good thoughts about my fellow man. I wanted to view them with compassion and understanding. I really did. But thinking nice things about your fellow man is harder than it seems, especially when your fellow man cuts you off when you’re trying to merge, or talks loudly on their phones while you’re on the train, or rings you just as you sit down to dinner in order to offer you ‘an exciting business opportunity’. Let’s face it; there is nothing more annoying than our fellow man. So reasonably, how can Buddhists expect us to look upon others with calmness and love all the time? Buddha may have taken these annoyances in his stride, but at least God partook in a good smiting once in a while.

That’s why I love Mma Ramotswe. There are people she can’t stand. There are people who annoy her, who she thinks are rude. But she treats them with the same respect as she would any other human being. That, I think, is a more realistic model for harmony; there are people on this planet who are just plain bad or horrible or at the very least irritating. But at the end of the day we’re all human and we all have to live on the same planet so it’s worth making allowances for each other’s faults.

But furthermore, she enjoys the simple pleasures in life. The long awaited rains which bring life to Africa. Blue skies and gentle birds. Slowing down and taking time to notice the things around you. Sitting on her veranda drinking red bush tea. For, as she often says of anything life throws at us:

“Tea, of course, made the problem seem smaller.”

Amen to that.

Conversation

We’re not that different, you and I.

You don’t have much money? I have a little. There are people who have none. Money is not a measure of worth. Those who have little are sometimes happier than those with much. But you need food? Eat some of mine. You need shelter? Come into my house. We’re much the same after all; your needs are neither greater nor less than mine.

Your God is the one true God? So is the God of my neighbour. Who cares if they’re not the same? Let each person believe what they choose. It does no one any harm. I believe in no God. Yet my heart and your heart and my neighbour’s heart are neither more nor less pure for what we believe. It is our actions rather than our words which show the merit of our soul. We could all learn from each other’s gods – for is not the love and humanity which all religions teach the same? Why squabble over labels and words when the soul is the same?

You like men? So do I! So what that you’re female and I’m male. Love is love. The bond between two people, between two hearts, between two souls, is always a beautiful thing. Who cares where it comes from? If we have been given the gift of love, why not share it?

We have our differences. From that we can learn. We view the world through different eyes. But it is the same world. Perhaps if we looked through each other’s eyes from time to time we would see so much more.

We’re not that different, you and I. Not where it counts.

It’s like ‘Revenge of the Nerds’ but with more phlegm.

It has been a long time between posts.

There are several reasons for this:

a)      I have spent almost two months in Europe, which was one of the best experiences of my life.

b)      I have an extremely short attention span.

c)       I have far too many hobbies.

d)      Writing this blog requires much concentration and brain power, most of which is burnt up in undertaking said hobbies.

One such hobby, which has been occupying most of my brain, is a passion for learning languages. Most recently I’ve been trying my hand at Middle Welsh. That’s right; not only am I learning a language which is barely even spoken by its own people, but I am also learning a form of it which hasn’t been used since at least the 1600’s. It’s not easy either. There are several sounds in Welsh which have no real English equivalents, such as ‘rh’ which sounds like you’re trying to breathe through your tongue, ‘ch’ which sounds like you’re chocking on phlegm and ‘ll’ which is a cross between an average ‘l’ and the sound of an irate cat.

Why do I do such things to myself? Is it pure boredom? The fact I have finished my degree and have far too much spare time on my hands? Have I been forced into such measures by the flood of new digital television stations which have ensured there is even less on T.V. than ever before?

Or is it, as I have long feared, that I am a nerd?

I was always called a nerd at school. And I went to a selective high school – that should tell you something. For those of you who don’t know, (which is probably none of you seeing as I currently have a readership of 8), a selective school is a school for academic achievers who undertake a test to be accepted, and who are forced to do Advanced English. It’s the sort of school where playground bullies can simultaneously beat you up and correct your grammar. As if this wasn’t enough to brand me a nerd for life, I have always seemed to have an interest in highly obscure and useless things which no one else seems to care about.

Picture this. We are driving through the Scottish countryside. I am telling Dad excitedly about all the things I have been learning about Celtic languages.

“There are two branches,” I say. “One is Gaelic, which is Irish, Scottish and Manx, and the other is British, which is Welsh, Cornish and Breton.”

Dad nods politely. Mum is sitting in the back, and has nodded off to sleep some time previously.

“But there are still similarities,” I continue eagerly. “For example, Welsh has mutations; after a certain word the first letter of the next word changes. In Irish they have lenitions and eclipses which are much the same thing. Now, in Irish you add an ‘h’ after an ‘m’, and mh is pronounced as ‘v’. In Welsh you change an ‘m’ into an ‘f’ which is also pronounced ‘v’. Similarly…”

At which point my Dad interrupts.

“Sam. I love you very much. But I really don’t care.”

So there you go. I am totally, utterly absorbed and excited by such things. It’s often a shock when no one else shares my enthusiasm.

“What?” I say. “You don’t care that Welsh words have some recognisable Latin roots? Or that Tolkein basically lifted half the language and grammar to create Elvish? You don’t want to listen to my analysis of spelling differences between Modern and Middle Welsh? Or the indefinite particle?”

Really, they don’t know what they’re missing out on.

For years I have defended myself against claims of nerdy-ness. “I am just bored,” I would say, or “I’m very curious.” But no more. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, merched a dynion; it is time to come out proud and strong in the name of all nerd-dom and say; “Yes! I am a nerd!”

But I don’t do Dungeons and Dragons.

That’s just weird.