Personal Blogs

"Give me neither poverty nor riches" 

Proverbs 30:8 (KJV).

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"I felt once more how simple and frugal a thing is happiness: a glass of wine, 

a roast chestnut, a wretched little brazier, the sound of the sea. Nothing else."

Kazantzakis

Scotland has been hit by a devastating storm and my train to London was cancelled. We had to cancel time with friends and other arrangements. It's at times like this I am nostalgic for spring. 

 In the cool, quiet hours of spring dawn, the world reveals itself not through grand gestures but through humble offerings. On the shores of Loch Lomond, where the gentle lap of the water caresses the pebbles, happiness unfolds in its purest form. It isn’t clad in opulence nor dressed in the finery of wealth, but in the simple, earnest garb of nature’s own making. Proverbs remind us, "Give me neither poverty nor riches," a plea for the middle ground where life’s true essence is found—not in the excess of things but in their meaningfulness. The philosophy that happiness is a "frugal thing" is timeless, and on a quiet morning by Loch Lomond, it resonates with profound clarity. A cup of coffee, a humble meal of smoked bacon nestled in Greek flatbread—these are not mere sustenance, but the ingredients of a joyful simplicity.

The Swedish notion of gökotta—rising early to embrace the dawn—complements this meditative joy. It isn’t just the act of waking but the purpose behind it: to savour the stillness, to absorb the unfolding day, to celebrate the quiet majesty of life’s simple pleasures. Here, amidst the symphony of bird song, the world slumbers on, unaware of the spectacle of the sunrise, the aroma of fresh coffee, and the warmth of a small fire.

In this setting, we find a truth as old as time itself—that happiness does not demand conditions. It thrives under the open sky, grows in the cool breeze of the morning, and exists wherever we choose to notice it. The rich may travel the high roads, seeking happiness in noise and speed, but on the low road, by the soothing tides of Loch Lomond, happiness finds us, unbidden and genuine.

As we face each day, let us seek not the grandeur of the extraordinary, but the beauty of the ordinary. For in these moments, as Kazantzakis reminds us, lies the profound, frugal nature of happiness. Let us cherish the simple and the serene, for these are the true riches that life affords, free from the burdens of stress, anxiety, or pain.

"This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day.

Thou canst not then be false to any man."

William Shakespeare (from 'Hamlet'):

Whilst 100 km winds where causing havoc on Scotland's west coast this morning, my wife and I where reading the UCB word for today. We are not members of any religion but I like the thoughtful way the writer of the daily words get us thinking. We focused on the words, "a time to be silent and a time to speak" from Ecclesiastes 3:7. Sometimes in life we can be drowned out by the noise of family, workmates and friends and we become victims of some selfish pecking order. So, in these cases, there's a time to speak.

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Finding Your Voice: The Courage to Stand Alone

Imagine yourself in a room bustling with conversation, a tapestry of voices each weaving their own narrative. You're there too, holding a truth you yearn to voice, but hesitation clasps your words. This is a familiar scene for many, especially those who, like you, once found themselves within a community where conformity overshadowed personal conviction. It’s not just about speaking up; it’s about breaking free from the fear that silences your true self.

Your journey might remind you of Joshua from the Bible, who stood before choices laid by tradition and the unknown, and declared, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua 24:15). There's profound courage in choosing a path aligned with your deepest truths, especially when it means parting ways with the familiar. Like leaving a religion that no longer resonates with your understanding of the gospels, this decision can be both liberating and isolating. It requires you to assert who you are and what you stand for, even at the cost of losing friends, because living inauthentically is a price too steep to pay.

Assertiveness is not about dominating conversations or diminishing others but recognizing your own voice as valid and vital. Perhaps you were taught that being agreeable was the cornerstone of kindness, or maybe your opinions seemed less important when voiced, leading you to silence them to avoid discord. These experiences, though stifling, are not uncommon. They skew our perception, making us believe that to be assertive is to be confrontational. However, assertiveness is really about balance—honouring your feelings while respecting those of others.

Start small. Notice moments when discomfort stirs within you, signalling that your boundaries are being tested. If a friend’s words sting, resist the urge to gloss over your hurt. Instead, articulate your feelings with a simple, "That upset me," or "I disagree," allowing you to tread a new path of honesty and self-respect. It might feel like walking on a tightrope at first, wobbly and uncertain, but each step fortifies your resolve.

In asserting yourself, you’re not looking to win an argument but to represent your perspective with integrity. It’s not aggression but clarity you’re after, like when someone jumps the queue and you assert, "Excuse me, I was next." Such moments are exercises in self-advocacy, where your demeanour—your upright stance, steady gaze, and clear voice—speaks of newfound confidence.

This assertiveness extends to personal relationships, where the stakes often feel higher. Telling a friend, "Let’s check our schedules before making plans," or informing a relative, "I’m not comfortable with this," are ways of setting boundaries that protect your emotional space. These statements are acts of self-care, affirming that your needs are important and deserving of respect.

And remember, assertiveness is a skill honed through practice and persistence. You might falter, your voice might falter, but each attempt is a building block in constructing a self-assured you. The journey of finding your voice is fraught with challenges and discomfort, but each step forward is a declaration that you matter.

Your voice—tempered with kindness, strengthened by truth—can reshape your world. It’s not about volume but value; not about conflict but about establishing a presence that honours your individuality. As you continue to navigate the complexities of speaking your truth, take heart in knowing that each word spoken in authenticity is a testament to your growth.

So, the next time you find yourself hesitating, take a deep breath and embrace the power of your voice. Assertiveness isn't just about speaking; it’s about being heard. It's about transforming silence into dialogue, fear into courage, and isolation into a story of brave self-discovery. In the symphony of life, your voice has a crucial part to play. Let it sing with the fullness of who you are. Because indeed, you do matter.

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 "God is the first mover, Himself unmoved."

Thomas Aquinas 

Imagine you’re sitting in a park, watching someone roll a ball down a hill. You know that the ball didn’t start rolling by itself—someone had to give it a push. That’s a simple way to understand what Thomas Aquinas was talking about when he explained his idea of motion. He wasn’t just talking about things physically moving, though; he was talking about any kind of change, like how a fire makes a piece of wood hot or how a seed grows into a tree. In every case, something causes the change.

Aquinas believed that nothing could change or move by itself. For example, a stone won’t just decide to roll on its own, and a fire won’t just appear out of nowhere to heat a piece of wood. Everything in the world needs something else to get it going. But here’s the big question: if everything is moved or changed by something else, what started it all? If you keep tracing back through all the causes—like following a chain of dominoes—you eventually have to reach the beginning. If there wasn’t a first cause, then nothing would have started moving or changing in the first place.

This is where Aquinas said there must be something, or someone, who started everything but wasn’t started by anything else. He called this the “first mover,” and he believed this is God. God, he said, doesn’t need anyone or anything to make Him exist. He’s eternal, unchanging, and the reason why anything else exists at all. Without this first mover, the whole chain of causes and effects we see around us wouldn’t make sense.

Think of it like a line of falling dominoes. The last domino only falls because the one before it tipped over. And that one only tipped over because the one before it did. But if there was no one to push the very first domino, none of them would fall. For Aquinas, God is like that person who gives the first push—He gets everything started.

Now, some people don’t agree with this idea. They might say, “What if the chain of causes and effects has always existed? What if there’s no need for a first mover at all?” Others think that science, like the Big Bang theory, might explain how everything started without needing God. But Aquinas believed that no matter what science discovers, there still has to be something that explains why anything exists at all. For him, that something was God.

I think this is such an interesting idea to think about, especially when you look at the world and wonder why it’s here. For Aquinas, it all came back to God being the source of everything. He’s the one who set it all in motion, the one who keeps it all going, and the one who gives it meaning. It’s like looking at a beautiful painting—once you realize someone painted it, you can start to appreciate not just the painting but also the artist who made it. That’s what Aquinas wanted people to understand: the world is like a masterpiece, and God is the artist behind it all.

So, the next time you see something moving, growing, or changing, think about how it all started. It might just lead you to some big questions about life, the universe, and who made it all happen. And those are some of the best questions to ask.

"Where words fail, music speaks." — Hans Christian Andersen

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Desert Island Tracks Part One

I've never been a guest on the BBC's "Desert Island Discs," and unless I win the Nobel Prize for writing, it seems unlikely I will be. However, this is how it goes, Lauren Laverne, the Yorkshire lass with the sweet voice chats with famous writers, actors, scientists, and other luminaries. Each guest is asked to choose eight tracks of music, a book, and a luxury item, imagining their life marooned on a desert island. The music selections are particularly revealing, often tied deeply to the guest's personal story.

My thought with the BBC—shared by many, I presume—is that the show could also celebrate the unsung heroes among us. Imagine featuring the lad who sits outside Marks and Spencer’s, collecting coins for a hostel  bed for the night; or the elderly couple I met who visit Scotland from Arkansas every year and walk Scotland’s West Highland Way; or the Israeli doctor I met walking up  Goat Fell to camp under the stars with his family, or  the displaced family from Gaza who launched a thriving coffee shop on a Scottish isle. Their extraordinary stories deserve a platform too. If you agree, why not suggest to the BBC the inclusion of these inspiring, ordinary individuals with extraordinary stories?

If by some twist of fate, I were to be invited, rest assured, my music selections are already decided—prepared over many years of thoughtful consideration. For instance, during my undergraduate studies in English literature, we explored James Joyce's Dubliners. In the story "Eveline," she reminisces about the song "Marble Halls" from the opera The Bohemian Girl by Michael William Balfe, which symbolizes her dreams of escape and the poignancy of her past. Discovering Enya’s rendition on YouTube, the song immediately gave me goosebumps. After sharing it with a friend, who then forwarded it to his wife at work, she was moved to tears. Many on YouTube have echoed that it might be the most beautiful song ever crafted.

ENYA MARBLE HALLS

Years later, while listening to Paul Gambaccini on Radio 2, a familiar tune was introduced as a wonderful focal performance.  Sceptical yet intrigued, I gave it my full attention. It was Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush performing "Don’t Give Up." Once again, I was enveloped by the profound impact of the music, a lesson in how powerful a suggestion from a knowledgeable source can be.

Peter Gabriel - Don't Give Up (ft. Kate Bush)

Stranded on a desert island, one would inevitably experience both trials and joys. I envision the delight of watching a pod of dolphins leap and twirl against a backdrop of golden sands. Such a sight would stir my soul, compelling me to dance along the shoreline. And what better soundtrack for this scene than ABBA's "Chiquitita"? A song brimming with hope, it would be the perfect accompaniment to such a display of grace and freedom.

ABBA - Chiquitita (Official Music Video)

My wife is Filipino, so I would miss her if I was stranded, so here are a wonderful Filipino family doing a cover of the Abba song which would remind me of my wife waiting on some coastline hoping I would return,

CHIQUITITA_(abba) Acoustic Trio cover Father & Kids @FRANZRhythm

Some years ago, my sister was sightseeing in Scotland. She saw an old man wiping tears from his eyes.

Are you okay?" she asked.

"Not really," he replied, "I'm looking at all this beauty and realize I won't live much longer to enjoy it."

The man was experiencing an existential crisis, seemingly resigned to the notion that death is final.

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It’s a strange set of affairs; Like the tearful old man, I love  to walk and explore nature in the fine places in Scotland that keep me feeling young. I’m a bit overweight but healthy and full of joie de vivre. There are so many places yet undiscovered. I haven’t been to the Outer Hebrides or north of Inverness. I have visited the Island of Islay on Scotland’s west coast, but with recent DNA connections revealing ties there, I need to return with fresh eyes. Yet, the doors are closing.

just over a year ago, I underwent a series of medical tests. At the conclusion, I was invited in to discuss the results. I received unwelcome news: cells that had served me faithfully had turned rogue, causing a rebellion in my prostate, pancreas, and liver.

The consultant looked puzzled and said, "You seem very bravado about this?"

"Oh, I get all this," I replied. "But there’s a young man inside me who has walked with me all my life, I will still be around after I close my eyes"

I ask you, the reader—and I’m sure you know—but do you also feel that younger self with you throughout your life? This inner presence becomes more prominent as we age. May I share my thoughts on this?

Centuries ago, a wise man wrote the following:

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men words

The words are from Ecclesiastes 3:11 from The Berean Standard Bible and worded by  wise King Solomon speaks of a wisdom he received from God as a gift for faithfulness as a boy.

There are many theories out there I’m sure were the wise of this age speculate why I have a young man in my head and why eternity lives within, but no one, absolutely no one has any scientific evidence for why we have a rich inner lives dancing in our brains. Sure, they have unzipped the skull countless times, and they put it in jars and slice it like spam and study it under all their microscopic kits, but they only have theories, and theories come and go.

We have rich inner lives because we were built for eternity.

That morning, I was going to see the consultant, my wife and I, read Psalm 91:1,

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High

will abide in the shadow of the Almighty.”

After reading it, I said to my wife, “We are going to receive bad news today.” God was forewarning me before I got the results.

God has always spoke to us, but at certain times, there is that special voice that cannot be coincidence. No, there are 31,000 verses in the Bible, what’s the chances of opening the scriptures and that verse is staring at you? No, God spoke to us personally.

When Jesus said, You will be with me in Paradise, will it be better than the landscape I see before me in Scotland? Surely, without a shadow of a doubt.

"If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the assembly. 

If he refuses to hear the assembly also, 

let him be to you as a Gentile or a tax collector."

Matthew 18:17 (WEB).

"If he refuses to hear them, appeal to the Church; 

and if he refuses to hear even the Church, 

regard him just as you regard a Gentile or a tax-gatherer."

Matthew 18:17 (Weymouth New Testament).

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Chemla and Compassion: Rediscovering Mercy in Modern Christianity

We have come a long way in Christian congregations in dealing with sin, or, have we?  In reflecting on mercy, the Aramaic word Chemla provides a beautiful foundation. This ancient term from Talmudic texts embodies a compassionate kindness that flows not from obligation but from pure benevolence. It’s mercy extended not based on merit but as a gift, a gesture rooted in a generosity that goes beyond what is earned. In a world quick to judge and condemn, Chemla reminds us of the value in sparing judgment and offering kindness to those who may not “deserve” it. This sense of undeserved compassion finds its echo in the teachings of Jesus, especially in Matthew 18, where he lays out a path for dealing with interpersonal offenses—a path that focuses not on retribution but on restoration.

Matthew 18 emphasizes the unique worth of each person, particularly when they are in a vulnerable position. Jesus begins by stressing a deep responsibility to protect others from harm. In verse 6, he warns of the gravity of causing someone to stumble, illustrating the serious duty we hold to uphold one another’s well-being. This responsibility extends not only to protecting others from physical harm but from the emotional and spiritual damage that harsh treatment or judgment can inflict.

When Jesus addresses how to handle wrongdoing, he diverges sharply from the “cancel culture” or public humiliation we often see today in the press and media. Rather than exposing faults in a public forum, Jesus teaches us to approach the individual privately in verse 15. This private meeting is an act of compassion; it respects the person’s dignity and offers them a chance for redemption without the weight of public disgrace. It’s a step grounded in mercy, meant to open the door for healing and reconciliation.

If this first private attempt fails to bring understanding, Jesus offers a next step that is, again, full of gentleness: involving one or two other people. This approach is not intended to coerce or shame but to bring supportive witnesses, creating a space where understanding can grow without escalating tension or fostering resentment. The goal remains restoration, with all parties working together to preserve the individual’s dignity and support them in finding their way back. This approach stands in stark contrast to religious practices that employ harsh, procedural punishments. 

There’s something uniquely powerful in this way of handling sin that resists judgmental tendencies. Unlike religious methods that may rely on public penance or social isolation to correct, the pathway Jesus outlines is marked by patience and a commitment to mercy. Forgiveness, he reminds us, is not to be limited. In his conversation with Peter, he illustrates the boundless nature of mercy with his “seventy times seven” response, a call to forgive endlessly with no "question of the person's repentance " . Mercy, in this sense, becomes an ongoing commitment to view others through a lens of compassion, seeing their worth rather than their faults.

Even when efforts to reach reconciliation fail, Jesus does not abandon the path of mercy. Only after every attempt has been made does he suggest involving the larger community, the congregation,  and even then, not as a means to ostracize or condemn. Instead, the community’s involvement serves as a final collective effort to restore the individual. Rather than casting someone out, this step is a last, loving appeal unlike the formal stool-of-repentance- type of judgement. 

Matthew 18 offers us a different kind of road map for addressing wrongs. It’s a path steeped in the spirit of Chemla, that divine compassion that doesn’t judge but offers undeserved kindness. How different our communities could be if we followed this example, holding onto mercy as our guide, letting compassion outweigh condemnation, and valuing each person’s dignity even in their lowest moments. It’s a vision of mercy, not just as a response to sin, but as a way of life.

If your congregation is not handling sin un the compassionate way Jesus prescribed , your in the wrong place.

"Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission."

"Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching." — C.S. Lewis 

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A friend's daughter some time ago embarked on a school assignment that left a lasting impression on me. She titled it, "My Father Never Lies." This phrase resonates deeply, serving as a poignant reminder of the legacy of integrity and credibility one can leave behind—a true testament to one’s character.

The Swedish word Trovärdighet captures this essence beautifully. It’s a term that signifies an internal consistency between one’s actions and character, a steadfastness that others can rely upon without doubt. This concept of reliability and trustworthiness is crucial in understanding what it means to be human.

Reflecting on this, I recall rekindling a friendship with someone I went to school with. We occasionally walk across to the Island of Bute, where we both spent our childhood summers. Over these walks, it’s fascinating to observe how we have evolved over the decades. One trait that makes him stand out is his trustworthiness. Confiding in him comes with an assurance that my words remain safe, a quality that epitomizes Trovärdighet.

In the last 24 hours, about 3,000 visitors logged onto my blog, and it comforts me to think that many of us share this path. In a world often driven by deceit for personal gain, finding solace in the company of those we can trust is a rare comfort. It reassures us, provides peace, and sets a standard for how relationships should be.

This brings us to a critical question—can our children, partners, or friends confidently say that we are people who never lie? Do they see us as embodiments of Trovärdighet? Whether it’s in the context of family, friendships, or even professional relationships, the quality of being trustworthy is fundamental.

The Biblical proverb, "The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy" (Proverbs 12:22), encapsulates the divine appreciation for integrity. It is a principle that guides us, urging us to live lives that others can rely on, just as they would rely on a compass for direction.

In our quest to leave a meaningful legacy, let us strive to be remembered for our truthfulness and reliability—qualities that not only define us but also enrich the lives of those around us.

Note: 

In Swedish culture, as in many others, the importance of trust and credibility can be seen in social norms, business practices, and even in the legal system. Sweden is often noted for its high levels of trust in government and institutions, which is a testament to the cultural value placed on "trovärdighet."

In literature, credibility plays a crucial role in storytelling. A narrator's credibility, for instance, can significantly affect the interpretation of a story. Swedish literature, like that of many cultures, often explores themes of trust and deceit, and the credibility of characters can be a central theme.

The first dug walker says proudly,
     “My dug is so clever! Every morning when I wake up, he goes doonstairs, collects the post and newspapers, and brings them right up to my bedside.”

The second dug walker replies,
     “Aye, I know.”

     “How come?” the first asks.

     “My dug telt me.”

Translation

The first dog walker says proudly,
     “My dog is so clever! Every morning when I wake up, he goes downstairs, collects the post and newspapers, and brings them straight to my bedside.”

The second dog walker replies,
     “I know.”

     “How could you possibly know that?” the first asks.

     “My dog told me.”

Lagom: The Balance We've Forgotten or Need to Learn

There’s a quiet wisdom in the Swedish word Lagom. It means “not too much, not too little—just the right amount.” It’s not a flashy word. It doesn’t demand attention or trumpet moral superiority. It simply sits in the middle, content, steady, and sufficient.

The older I get, the more I believe that this modest idea holds the key to many of the world’s problems.

We live in a time of grotesque excess and tragic scarcity. One man buys a second yacht for prestige; another man dies of dehydration beneath a cracked sky. Supermarkets throw out tonnes of food while mothers queue at food banks. We hear it every day—and we grow numb to it. But the problem isn’t the earth. The problem is people.

I’m not an economist. I’ve never studied graphs or economic theory. But it doesn’t take a degree to see that the planet has enough to go around—if only we lived with Lagom in mind. Enough land. Enough food. Enough energy. The imbalance is not in resources; it is in the human heart.

The unwillingness to part with wealth lies at one end. We cling, hoard, defend, justify. Accumulation becomes a virtue. And at the other end of the spectrum lies the inability to steward wealth wisely when it is given. We squander. We chase appearance. We mimic the rich with no deeper sense of purpose or restraint. And the pendulum swings wildly, never quite settling at centre.

The Bible, in its practical brilliance, gave us something worth remembering: the Year of Jubilee. Every fifty years, land was to be returned, debts forgiven, and slaves released. It was a divine reset—a rebalancing of the scale to prevent generational injustice and runaway inequality. Can you imagine the courage it would take to actually do that now? But perhaps Jubilee wasn’t just a social policy. It was a heart policy. A call to Lagom. To learn how to have enough—and let others have enough too.

That’s the trouble, isn’t it? The very idea of “enough” is a threat to those whose identity is tied to more. We fear Lagom will lead to lack. But in truth, it’s the path to peace.

I don’t believe in enforced equality—the kind that flattens character and erases individuality. But I do believe in chosen balance. I believe in the spiritual discipline of contentment. I believe in the holy rhythm of restraint. And I believe, deeply, that we would heal much of the world if we stopped asking how much we could have and started asking how much we really need.

Nature teaches us this. It grows in cycles. It rests. It renews. It yields just enough—until greed disturbs it. The earth is not unkind. It’s generous. But it expects us to live in rhythm with it, not against it.

Lagom is not mediocrity. It’s maturity. It’s what happens when we see the world not as a competition, but as a shared inheritance. When we live not for the temporary thrill of abundance, but for the quiet joy of sufficiency.

If there is any hope for society, it will be found not in another revolution, nor in another market correction—but in men and women who learn how to say, “This is enough. And I will share.”

"We lose ourselves in books. We find ourselves there too." — Anonymous

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Finding Warmth in Stories: A Comfort for the Soul

In a world that often feels fragmented and hurried, stories can offer sanctuary—a place to rest, reflect, and reconnect with humanity. The power of literature lies not only in its ability to entertain but also in its capacity to reveal the profound warmth of human connection. Each of us craves this reassurance, and sometimes, it’s in the pages of a book that we find it most deeply.

Take, for instance, the whimsical wisdom of Precious Ramotswe, Botswana’s first female detective in The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith. Precious approaches every case with compassion and an unwavering belief in the goodness of people, reminding us that even in the most tangled of mysteries, kindness can bring clarity. Her story nudges us to look at our own lives and relationships with more grace, offering solutions not just through intellect, but through love.

Then there’s the delightful Cold Comfort Farm by Stella Gibbons, where Flora Poste, an unflappable young woman, brings light and order to the chaotic lives of her eccentric rural relatives. Through humour and tenacity, Flora shows that even the most dysfunctional family dynamics can be softened by persistence and warmth. Her journey reassures us that no matter how messy life gets, we can find beauty and purpose in the midst of chaos.

In Rachel Joyce’s Miss Benson’s Beetle, two unlikely companions embark on a seemingly improbable quest to find a rare beetle, only to uncover something much greater: the richness of friendship and the power of self-discovery. Their story is a testament to the idea that adventure isn’t about grand destinations but about the people who walk beside us along the way. In a world where we often feel pressured to "achieve," this tale whispers that connection and growth are the truest measures of success.

For those who find joy in humour, The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole Aged 13¾ by Sue Townsend offers a charming glimpse into the life of a teenage boy navigating the absurdities of adolescence. Adrian’s earnest reflections and comedic struggles remind us of our shared humanity, bringing a light-hearted touch to even the heaviest of days. His youthful optimism teaches us to laugh at our own missteps and embrace the imperfections of life.

And then there’s The House in the Cerulean Sea by TJ Klune, a modern fable about a caseworker tasked with evaluating a magical orphanage. Within its pages lies a world of acceptance and understanding, where even the most misunderstood individuals find love and belonging. This enchanting story speaks to the universal desire to be seen and valued, encouraging us to extend that same compassion to ourselves and others.

These books share a common thread: they celebrate the quiet, transformative power of human connection. They remind us that kindness, whether it’s shared with family, strangers, or ourselves, has the capacity to reshape our lives. In a time when division and isolation often dominate the headlines, these stories stand as beacons of hope, guiding us back to the heart of what it means to be human.

When life feels overwhelming, we can turn to these characters and their journeys. They remind us that warmth exists in the smallest acts—a gentle word, a helping hand, or even the bravery to simply be there for someone. Through their stories, we are encouraged to carry this warmth into our own lives, becoming the light that others might need.

So, as you turn the pages of these books, let their lessons seep into your heart. Let their characters remind you of the beauty that exists in connection and the courage it takes to embrace life’s messiness. And above all, let their warmth inspire you to pass it on. After all, we are all part of one grand, interconnected story—one where even the smallest act of kindness can make all the difference.

 "Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people."

Eleanor Roosevelt

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In The Wonderful Adventures of Nils by Selma Lagerlöf that I read well... way back in 1995, a compelling idea is presented: “The more things that come into your head, the more room there is for others.” 

This suggests that our minds grow with every new thought and idea we encounter, especially through reading. Reflecting on this, I recognize a pattern in my own life: the most challenging relationships I've had were often with people who do not read regularly.

My experiences have taught me that reading does more than fill our heads with information; it expands our ability to think and feel. Those who read often seem to understand others better and communicate more effectively. Their thoughts are like branches that reach out, connecting ideas and emotions in complex ways.

Conversely, I’ve noticed that people I've had the most difficulty relating to, don't read much tend to have a harder time dealing with complex ideas or understanding different viewpoints. But that's entirely my experience. Their conversations might lack depth, and sometimes, it seems the ones I have known  struggle to empathize with others. Empathy, after all, is something that reading nurtures quite well. Books put us into the shoes of characters across different worlds and times, teaching us to understand and share the feelings of others.

It’s as if not reading limits their mental landscape—like a garden that’s never been fully cultivated. This can lead to misunderstandings and conflicts because it's harder for them to see beyond their immediate perspective.

Considering all this, I’ve come to see reading as essential—not just for knowledge, but for developing the skills to think deeply and empathize widely. Each book adds new layers to our understanding, helping us become better listeners and more thoughtful speakers.

As I continue to meet people who read and those who don't, I advocate more and more for reading's vital role in personal growth. I hope more people will pick up a book, not just to learn something new, but to better understand the world and the people around them. This way, we might all become like those expansive minds in Lagerlöf's tale, forever growing and making more room for others.

Note: May I take this opportunity to thank The quarter of a million visitors for gracing these pages in the past two years. I sure would like to know why you came. Drop an anonymous note in the reply box if you wish. It sure is lonely here.

"Dragonfly catcher,

how far have you gone today

in your wandering?"

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Chiyo-ni's haiku about a child catching dragonflies isn't just an image of playful innocence; it also captures a poignant moment tinged with personal loss. This poem opens a window into the delicate balance between the fleeting and the eternal, a theme deeply embedded in the tradition of haiku. Such poems, often rooted in the cycles of nature, serve as a lens through which we view life's ephemeral beauty and inevitable decline.

Matsuo Bashō, in his final haiku, writes from a place of illness and contemplation:

"On a journey, ill,
my dream goes wandering
over withered fields."

Here, Bashō contemplates the end of life with a serene acceptance, portraying his spirit's journey across a landscape both literal and metaphorical. His "withered fields" not only signify the end of life's Vigor but also suggest a passage into a new form of existence, a theme that resonates deeply with those of us contemplating what lies beyond this earthly sojourn.

Yosa Buson's reflection on mortality is juxtaposed against a backdrop of natural beauty:

"The end of it all,
and weeping, in the midst of
the flowers blooming."

Buson captures the paradox of experiencing grief amidst life’s ongoing beauty, emphasizing the profound sadness of loss alongside the persistence of life's cycles. This tension between joy and sorrow, creation and decay, challenges us to find meaning and perhaps hope in the enduring rhythms of nature.

Kobayashi Issa, who experienced significant personal tragedy, often explored the fragility of existence:

"This world of dew
is a world of dew—
and yet, and yet..."

Issa's repeated "and yet" serves as a powerful counter to the acceptance of life's transience. It suggests a defiance or a hope beyond the apparent finality of the "dew," a metaphor for the fleeting moments of life.

Santōka Taneda’s haiku reflects a meditative acceptance of life’s offerings:

"My begging bowl—
accepts the falling leaves
of this life."

"Truly, truly, I say to you that an hour is coming, and now is, 

when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God, 

and those having heard will live.

John 5:28,20. BSB.

"And so, we keep seeking happiness—not because we are naïve, 

but because it is written into the fabric of who we are."

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Searching for a movie that did not feature, sex, violence and occult, we came across the refreshing  Indian film Bajrangi Bhaijaan last night. In it, we witness a heart-warming tale of humanity triumphing over borders and prejudice. The story follows Pawan, a kind-hearted Indian man, as he embarks on a perilous journey to return Shahida, a mute Pakistani girl stranded in India, to her family. The narrative takes the audience through moments of intense struggle and emotional depth, culminating in a deeply satisfying and joyous resolution. The final scene, where Shahida miraculously regains her voice to call out to Pawan, solidifies the film’s happy ending—a celebration of love, kindness, and unity triumphing over adversity.

Yet, as the credits roll and the emotions linger, one might wonder why such stories resonate so universally. Why do we crave happy endings, not only in films like Bajrangi Bhaijaan but also in the books we read and the tales we pass down through generations? This universal longing for happiness raises profound existential questions. Are these narratives merely escapism, or do they reveal something deeper about our human nature? C.S. Lewis, the Christian apologist and author, offered a compelling answer: perhaps our longing for happiness points to a reality beyond this life.

From birth, humans gravitate toward joy. As infants, we cry to have our needs met, smiling instinctively when we are comforted. This innate drive doesn’t diminish with age; it evolves. We seek happiness in relationships, careers, art, and faith. Even our consumption of stories, whether in books or films, reflects this longing. We resonate with characters who struggle and yearn for resolution, just as we do in our own lives. Their triumphs reassure us that happiness is attainable.

Yet, reality often tells a different story. Suffering, failure, and loss are woven into the human experience. Life does not always tie itself into neat conclusions. Tragedy strikes unexpectedly, and unresolved pain lingers. In this tension between our longing for happiness and the harshness of life, a profound existential question emerges: why are we so drawn to happiness if it is so fleeting?

C.S. Lewis observed that humans possess desires that no earthly experience can fully satisfy. We crave happiness, permanence, and fulfilment, yet everything in this life is transient. Lewis argued that this incongruity suggests we were not made for this world alone. As he famously wrote, “If I find in myself desires which nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.”

This perspective aligns with many religious and philosophical traditions that view earthly life as a precursor to something greater. The Bible speaks of a future where God will wipe away every tear, and pain and sorrow will cease (Revelation 21:4). In this view, our yearning for happiness is not a flaw but a clue—a whisper of eternity embedded in our souls.

Stories like Bajrangi Bhaijaan, with their happy endings, play a vital role in reminding us of this deeper reality. They echo the structure of hope and redemption central to human experience. When we see the hero overcome adversity or love conquer hate, we are reminded of the possibility that our own struggles might not be in vain. Stories offer a glimpse of what Lewis called the "far-off country," the eternal joy for which we are made.

Even tragedies, which do not end happily, serve this purpose in a different way. They evoke a longing for justice, reconciliation, or healing that was left unfulfilled. This dissatisfaction points us beyond the here and now, awakening in us the desire for a world where such wrongs are made right.

Why are we programmed for happiness? Evolutionary psychology might argue that our pursuit of joy ensures survival and reproduction, while philosophy might suggest that happiness is the highest good, as Aristotle believed. But these explanations, while helpful, fail to address the profound depth of human longing.

Our programming for happiness seems spiritual in nature, tied to our capacity for love, creativity, and transcendence. It is not mere instinct; it is the signature of a Creator who designed us with eternity in mind. As Augustine of Hippo wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.

While happy endings in stories offer comfort, real life is rarely so tidy. Yet this does not diminish the importance of our longing for happiness. Instead, it invites us to see life as a journey—a story still being written. Just as a novel’s climax often follows its darkest moments, our struggles may be preparing us for a resolution beyond this life.

Whether one believes in an eternal future or not, the human longing for happiness remains a profound and universal truth. It drives our stories, shapes our choices, and gives meaning to our lives. If Lewis was right, and our desires point us toward another world, then every happy ending we encounter is a signpost, urging us to lift our gaze beyond the temporary to the eternal.

And so, we keep seeking happiness—not because we are naïve, but because it is written into the fabric of who we are. Perhaps, as Lewis suggested, this quest is not merely for happiness but for the source of all joy itself. For in the end, every story is a reflection of the greatest story: a journey from longing to fulfilment, from brokenness to redemption, and from time into eternity.

“And Jesus said to him, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with Me in Paradise"  Luke 23:43 (BSB).