Personal Blogs

 "We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. 

We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst."

C.S. Lewis:

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No One Rises for the Old Lady Anymore

This morning, I came across something that triggered a cascade of thoughts and connections. I’ll share more about that reading later.

In many respects, we seem to have forgotten what it means to be human. How did we arrive at this point? The explanation is both complex and straightforward. First came the Enlightenment, followed by the Industrial Revolution. Meanwhile, materialism and a naturalistic worldview took hold, glorifying the notion of the autonomous "I."

When I was young, it was unthinkable for an elderly person to stand on a train while younger people sat. That inherent sense of decency has eroded over time.

It doesn't take long for people in such an environment to dismiss the idea of a creator, which, though irrational, paves the way for a life free from divine accountability—at least in this life.

Yet, even as we dismantle every barrier to freedom, we behave as though we inhabit a planet designed with wisdom. Consider objective morality. If someone cuts in line at the supermarket, our instinct is to react vehemently. We might even recount the incident later, expressing outrage over the perceived injustice.

Or consider another scenario: you take an exam, confident in your performance, yet the teacher awards you only 5%. Outraged, you challenge the grade, only to hear, "I don't like you, so I marked you down." Anywhere in the world, this would be seen as an injustice—not because we decree it, but because we possess an innate sense of right and wrong.

Thus, through life, like trains on parallel tracks, runs a dual awareness: a sense of justice and a superficial belief in the absence of God.

Now, let us consider the consequences of this dichotomy. The Bible documents several eras similar to our own. This morning, as I read Isaiah 9, verses 17 and 18 struck a chord:

“Even now the Lord takes no joy in a single one, not even the young.

Mercy has run out for even those without power— the widows and orphans.

For every single person is at fault and behaves badly.

No one thinks or acts as God would have them do.

Every mouth utters foolishness like a wildfire, out of control.”

 (The Voice Bible).

These sobering words, penned eight centuries before the birth of Christ, remind us that throughout history, humanity has often descended to debased levels—and God has responded.

Scripture taken from The Voice™. Copyright © 2012 by Ecclesia Bible Society. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

"People want to be loved; failing that, admired...They want to evoke some sort of sentiment. 

The soul shudders before oblivion and seeks connection at any price."

— Hjalmar Söderberg, Doctor Glas

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I was hospitalized a while ago and there was a younger man in the bed opposite mine who often spoke on the phone, visibly distressed. At the heart of his issues was his frustration at not getting his own way. He desired more love and affection from those around him, despite being abusive towards them.

Considering this, I offered him a piece of wise verse. His immediate response was, “I’m going to share this.”

       “Whoa,” I said, “Why not reflect on it first?”

       “Sure, after,” he replied. But, he never did.

This got me thinking. He was putting himself in a self-contained loneliness because of the way he was treating others and now he was shifting to this instant sharing to find some human connection albeit artificial.

In this digital age, where social media reigns supreme, it’s all too easy to fall into the habit of sharing content rapidly for quick likes and fleeting interactions. This instant gratification, while exhilarating, often comes at the cost of deeper, more meaningful connections. I urge you, especially the younger generation, to consider a more enriching path—one that prioritizes genuine human contact over digital immediacy.

Social media platforms promise connectivity; indeed, they offer a kind of interaction that can feel immensely rewarding. Receiving likes, comments, and shares can seem like valid social exchanges, but these are often shallow substitutes for real conversation and connection. They provide a dopamine rush, a quick hit of pleasure, but they lack the staying power and emotional depth of face-to-face interactions. These digital interactions, though numerous, are fleeting and can leave us feeling empty and craving more substantive exchanges.

Contrast the quick interactions of social media with the profound satisfaction that comes from in-person conversations. Engaging with someone face-to-face allows for the expression of empathy, the reading of emotional cues, and the building of trust and understanding elements that are often lost in translation online. Real-world interactions also offer opportunities for deeper discussions that can challenge our thinking and stimulate personal growth.

Just think about the last time you were out with friends. Perhaps walking, stopping for lunch and enjoying an enriching day. Every time you think of that occasion, a film unpacks in your head giving you a warm glow; a hygge feeling. You don’t get that on social media.

To shift away from the ephemeral nature of digital interactions, consider immersing yourself in activities that require your physical presence. Joining a night class or a workshop not only broadens your knowledge but also puts you in a room with like-minded individuals who share your interests. Whether it’s learning a new language, taking up pottery, or studying photography, these classes offer a dual benefit: acquiring a new skill and connecting with others on a meaningful level.

Similarly, participating in local clubs or community groups can foster a sense of belonging and provide a network of support that social media cannot replicate. From book clubs to hiking groups, the options are endless. These groups do more than just share hobbies; they share life experiences, support each other in times of need, and celebrate together in moments of joy.

Volunteering for a cause you are passionate about can be especially rewarding. It connects you with people across diverse backgrounds and generations, offering perspectives that might never crop up on your social media feed. These interactions not only help build a better community but also imbue your life with a sense of purpose and fulfilment that fleeting online interactions often fail to deliver.

Embracing more face-to-face interactions doesn’t mean you must abandon digital spaces entirely. Social media can be a powerful tool for staying connected with distant friends and family. However, balancing these digital interactions with substantial real-world engagements can lead to a more fulfilling life. This balance allows you to enjoy the benefits of technology without becoming dependent on it for social fulfilment.

As we navigate this digital world, let’s not forget the power and depth of real human connections. I encourage you to step beyond your digital comfort zone and explore the enriching experiences that real-world interactions can offer. In doing so, you may find that the deepest joys and most enduring satisfactions come from the people you meet and the relationships you nurture away from the glow of a screen.

However, there is something else you can do: ask God for help. The scripture reads "If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer.” Matthew 21:22 (BSB). After praying, work in harmony with the prayer. Get out there where God can open up some door for you.

"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.

"I swear to you gentlemen, that to be overly conscious

 is a sickness,  a real thorough sickness."      

        (Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment).

(The words of Raskolnikov, this line delves into the novel’s exploration of hyper-awareness and its psychological impacts, which Raskolnikov experiences acutely.)

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In the shadowed corners of our relationships, a peculiar pain surfaces when a friend, family member, or workmate consistently perceives us not as we are, but through a distorted, darkened lens. This recurring misjudgement can shake the very foundations of our self-image and rattle the windows of our social connections, leaving us bewildered and seeking solace and clarity. To navigate these turbulent waters, we can turn to the structured disciplines of science and the rich narratives of literature, each offering unique insights and pathways to understanding.

Psychologically, when someone always thinks the worst of us, it might reflect more about their mental processes than our actions or character. Cognitive biases and defence mechanisms, prevalent in human psychology, often twist our interactions in subtle yet profound ways. Negative bias, a cognitive skew where individuals disproportionately focus on adverse elements over positive ones, can paint interactions with strokes of pessimism and doubt. These biases colour their perception, leading them to expect failure, disappointment, or deceit, even without corroborative evidence.

Compounding this is the mechanism of projection. Projection is a psychological defence where individuals attribute their undesirable feelings, thoughts, or traits onto another person. For example, a workmate who frequently accuses others of dishonesty might be grappling with their own integrity issues. They project these fears and doubts onto those around them, unwittingly casting those in their circle as characters in the drama of their internal conflicts. Recognizing these patterns can be the first step toward addressing them, often requiring open dialogue and sometimes the guidance of a professional to untangle the roots of these perceptions.

The rich landscapes of literature offer profound insights into the human condition, illustrating how personal turmoil can distort one’s view of others. Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment provides a striking exploration of this phenomenon through the character of Raskolnikov. Plagued by paranoia and moral confusion, Raskolnikov embodies the extremities of psychological distress. His intense internal conflicts lead him to project his anxieties and guilt onto those around him, interpreting their actions through the murky filter of his suspicions. Like many of us, Raskolnikov's reality is filtered through layers of fear, doubt, and guilt, demonstrating how easily one can misinterpret others when grappling with inner turmoil.

This narrative mirror shows us that sometimes, the negativity we perceive from others is not a reflection of our reality but a shadow of their struggles and fears. It underscores the importance of empathy and understanding, suggesting that harsh judgments may stem from their battles, often hidden beneath the surface of everyday interactions.

Understanding these psychological and literary insights arms us with tools not only for personal resilience but for compassionate interaction. When we recognize that negative perceptions may be influenced by cognitive biases or personal distress, we can approach them with empathy rather than defensiveness. Initiating open, honest conversations can help clarify misunderstandings and lead them to reflect on their perceptions and consider seeking help if needed.

Moreover, setting boundaries is crucial. Someone once asked me why I distance myself from certain people and it is self preservation. While empathy is important, protecting one's mental and emotional health should not be overlooked. If the behaviour becomes toxic, it may be necessary to distance oneself or redefine the terms of the relationship.

In confronting the pain of being misjudged, we are invited not only to defend our truth but to delve into the deeper currents of human interaction, where understanding and compassion can illuminate the darkest of perceptions. This journey, though fraught with challenges, holds the promise of deeper wisdom and more authentic connections, both with others and with ourselves.

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." Ephesians 4:29 (NIV):

"Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, 

flight to the imagination, and life to everything."

Plato

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One of the joys that my wife and I share is lying in the dark listening to Classic FM. One of the pieces that takes me to a place I know not is Miserere by Gregorio Allegri. When I listen to, say, music from the seventies or eighties, it takes me to a place I know. I recall feeling low one Christmas Eve, sitting with a beer in Glasgow’s city centre after Christmas shopping when “If You Leave Me Now” came on the jukebox. Every time I hear it now; I’m back in that bar when I was seventeen.

One evening I couldn’t sleep; it was about four a.m. I turned the TV on and there they were, the Muppets singing “Shiny Happy People.” Now, when I hear it on the radio, it takes me back to that sleepless night.

But Miserere by Gregorio Allegri takes me to a mysterious place where there is happiness, contentment, and that mysterious duende. I wonder, dear reader, where does it take you?

Gregorio ALLEGRI - Miserere Mei, Deus (+ Lyrics / OXFORD, Choir of New College)

I can imagine that as the years pass on a desert island, immense loneliness could set in, and Miserere would transport me to that special place.

I was living in Stavanger, Norway, in 1999. My boss had given us a lovely two-bedroom cabin with panoramic windows overlooking the water. One evening, I was alone, and an other worldly piece of music came on the radio. If you could match the way I was feeling as the sun cast its golden-hour light on the water, this ethereal piece championed it: Enigma’s “Return to Innocence.” Every time I hear it; I’m alone in that cabin watching the sun go down.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk_sAHh9s08&t=5s

Who knows, I might never get home, but I would always want to remember my homeland as I sit there by my beach fire, old and grey, weathered by the sun. One piece that would always take me home is Highland Cathedral. Perhaps Lauren would allow me to have the video that accompanies the music to remind me of the paths I trod on those spring and summer days.

The piece was composed by two German composers. The tune symbolizes the historic and emotional ties between Scotland and those of Scottish heritage worldwide. The fact that it was composed by Germans adds a fascinating layer to its history, illustrating the universal appeal and adaptability of Celtic musical styles. This version is performed by the Highland Cathedral and when it hits the crescendo, it engenders hope—the hope of returning home one day.

Highland Cathedral Bagpipes HD

One of my favourite books as a child was Robinson Crusoe. I believe there is no other conclusion in a book that promises hope more. Here is the last paragraph from a public domain copy:

"As for myself, I returned to England, where, notwithstanding all the miseries I had suffered, I was still resolved not to go on board a ship again; but, like a true repenting prodigal, to settle at home and repent of all my follies; and, by a close application to trade and commerce, to get something honestly, and make a new score. And if ever I should be disposed to travel thither again, and to see the place where I first was cast on shore, and had made my abode for so many years without human society, or to seek after the poor remains of my unfortunate companions, I left directions with my successors, the Trustees of the Plantation, that the proper measures might be taken for it, and so I left it."

I remember reading this and feeling so happy for him that he managed to leave the desert island after 28 years.

It was Emily Dickenson who wrote a phrase in her poem that read "Hope is the thing with feathers" The poem describes hope as a bird that perches in the soul and sings continuously, never asking for anything even in the hardest times. Crusoe was like that bird. He recognised God in his dilemma albeit fiction. But his attitude impressed me albeit it was the writer, Daniel Defoe. And hope would define me as a sat on that beach sure I would arrive home one day.

What song would define that arrival? I had been a Runrig fan from my youth. For some reason although a lowlander, I felt a pull to the Highlands, particularly the Western Isles. That puzzle intrigued me throughout life. These years I had my DNA heritage analysed and discovered my roots are firmly in the Celtic grounds and my father’s line takes me to The Island of Islay on Scotland’s west coast. Perhaps some strand in my DNA was calling me.

In 1988 Runrig recorded Going Home. No other song would welcome me back home that the words and emotion that the songwriters and musicians embedded in that song. I’m home.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tltFlmca-U&t=42s

Recently, while conversing with a contractor working in my home, we discovered a poignant commonality: both of us had lost our parents during our teenage years. As we shared our stories, it became evident that the impact of such loss deepens with age.

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This exchange transported me back to a chilly evening in the mid-90s on the Princess of Scandinavia, sailing from Newcastle to Gothenburg. To clear my head from the evening's vodka, I ascended to the top deck. The northern sky, a clear vault peppered with stars, offered a silent spectacle just for me—a view never to be replicated. In that vast, quiet expanse, I felt a kinship with Ingmar Bergman, who described in The Magic Lantern his own battles with inner demons. Overwhelmed and feeling eternally trapped, I thought of my adopted father, lost to me at age twelve. My heart whispered a verse:

Meet me amidst the ocean,

Under my Northern sky,

To the light of constellations,

As our restless stars pass by.

This reflective moment underscores why I cherish the Swedish concept of 'sambovikt'—a term that captures the essence of human connection. It highlights a stark reality: too many children grow up in the shadow of an absent parent. I hold deep empathy for the pain these children endure and will continue to face.

True happiness, I've come to realize, stems from stable, long-term, trusting relationships. This foundation is crucial not just for couples, but profoundly affects the children they raise. A father's closure of eyes when I was just twelve left a void of guidance, of bedtime stories that spark the imagination—stories like David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, and Pinocchio. While many single parents admirably juggle the dual burdens of household and heartache, the absence of a parental figure often leaves children grappling with a pervasive loneliness and a sense that something integral is missing from their lives.

Children flourish under the praise of both parents, just as they grow from constructive feedback. Without this balanced presence, they often carry a burden of unresolved yearning.

In pondering 'sambovikt,' I am reminded that our quest for meaning and connection is deeply tied to these foundational relationships. It is in these bonds that we find the deepest echoes of what it means to be human.

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I've often struggled with feeling at ease in my own skin when younger. Why not , when I know I am far from perfect? I don't strive to impress anyone; instead, I try to live authentically, even if it means facing criticism. In those moments, I find solace in prayer, seeking forgiveness for perhaps occupying too much space in someone's mind.

Identity is a complex dance of perception—how we see ourselves and how others choose to see us, often shaped by their limited understandings. This challenge is particularly stark when encountering uninformed or prejudiced views. For those individuals, I offer prayers, hoping for enlightenment and understanding on their path as well as mine.

Perfection is not something I claim. Who among us can? Over the years, as I've aged, I've become acutely aware of my flaws and the times I've fallen short. Memories of moments when I've hurt others—some as far back as fifty years ago—haunt me occasionally. Just recently, I remembered someone I wronged decades ago. Unable to make amends personally, I asked a mutual friend to convey my apologies. That act, coupled with prayers for forgiveness, is how I attempt to make peace with my past errors within this imperfect body.

Life continually throws curveballs, yet I find a way to accept them, learning to be comfortable with the imperfections that define my human experience. This acceptance reminds me of a parable about two men praying at a wall. One boasted of his virtues— a trait often found in religious people. viewing others as lesser beings. 

The other, recognizing his own failings, simply asked for mercy for his sins. The contrast between the two—the self-satisfied and the self-aware—illustrates the peace that comes from embracing one's imperfections rather than denying them.

In acknowledging my flaws and seeking forgiveness, not only from others but from God, I find true comfort in my own skin, not because I am flawless, but because I am earnest in my journey towards betterment.

“Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector.  The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like the other men—swindlers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and pay tithes of all that I acquire.’

But the tax collector stood at a distance, unwilling even to lift up his eyes to heaven. Instead, he beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner!’  I tell you, this man, rather than the Pharisee, went home justified. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Luke 18: 9-14.

 "The more I examine the universe and the details of its architecture, 

the more evidence I find that the universe in some sense

 must have known we were coming."

Freeman Dyson

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Raison d'être

I often walk and engage people in discussions. Sometimes general, more often existential.  During one discussion, I formed a solid friendship with one man, who asked me about the reason for life and existence. I asked him what he thought, and he said “reincarnation.”

“But don’t you think the Creator would have a more noble reason for man’s existence?” I asked. “Consider that we spend our entire lives gaining knowledge and wisdom. Consciousness is a miraculous construction that science still holds as one of life's great mysteries. Our thoughts, memories, and loves would all end if we were reincarnated back as a cockroach or some higher being. We would lose our identity?"

From my perspective, I fully believe our reason for living is indirectly explained by Jesus. When someone asked Him what the greatest commandment was, He replied:

“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments.” (Matthew 22:37-40, BSB)

Consider that we live in an environment where love for God and neighbour is practiced by a minority. Many people’s reasons for living are to exploit others, gain wealth, have as much sex as possible, and look after themselves. But does this make people happy? True happiness comes from a life focused on God and neighbour. This was a theory fully explored by the Pew Research Centre in 2019: Are Religious People Happier, Healthier? Our New Global Study Explores This Question.

Are religious people happier, healthier? | Pew Research Center

Surely, we all want to be happy. We can spend the rest of our life going up purposeless paths or heed the Apostle Peter’s advice,

“God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us.  ‘For in Him we live and move and have our being.” Acts 17: 27, 28. BSB.

Is it time to bow our heads and speak with the creator with a sincere heart rather than walking up empty lanes.

"La vraie compassion, c’est d’aimer ce qui est inachevé en l’autre."

French Proverb

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In the realm of British football, there exists a notable player who remarkably navigated an extensive career without ever receiving a red card—a symbol of immediate dismissal typically reserved for foul play. This anecdote serves as a metaphor for life, where we find ourselves on a level playing field dotted with both clean and dirty players. This morning, I found myself contemplating the latter and was reminded of the French expression "esprit de l'escalier," or staircase wit. This phrase captures the peculiar frustration of thinking of the perfect witty retort only after the moment has passed, hinting, perhaps, at an underlying selfish motive.

Recently, a seemingly mundane interaction at the supermarket brought this concept to life in a different light. As I chatted with the young cashier processing my groceries, I was oblivious to the kind old woman in line behind me, who was observing our exchange with a smile of approval. It wasn't until I had completed my transaction and was leaving that I noticed her expression. After all, we are all damaged good and scars from dirty players, and we all need compassion.

This encounter lingered in my mind for days, her compassionate smile replaying like a comforting melody. It struck me then that I had missed an opportunity to extend my kindness to her as well. In that moment, I coined my own phrase: "compassion de l'escalier"—the realization of a missed opportunity to offer a kind word, coming to me only as I metaphorically descended the stairs of the moment.

From this reflective experience, I learned the importance of proactively offering kindness, whether through words or even a simple smile to a stranger. Life, much like a bustling supermarket, is filled with fleeting moments where kindness can be a beacon of encouragement. It's crucial to seize these opportunities before it’s too late, ensuring that our days are marked not by missed chances but by moments of shared humanity.

Note: The French proverb translated is  "True compassion is to love what is unfinished in the other person." It’s a beautiful sentiment about accepting and loving others for who they are, including their imperfections and unfinished aspects. Instead of only loving people for their strengths or their completeness, this quote emphasizes finding compassion for the parts of them that are still growing and evolving.

" But when you host a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, 

and the blind, and you will be blessed. Since they cannot repay you,

 you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”

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In the calm of a Filipino evening, my wife and I were dining quietly when a scene unfolded before us that brought to life the teachings of Christ in a most vivid manner. A group of women and children, accompanied by two men clad in the pristine traditional barong, arrived at the venue. One of these gentlemen made his way to us and introduced himself. As our conversation briefly continued, it was revealed that they were part of an evangelical group, and these kind souls had taken it upon themselves to provide a special evening for single parents and their children.

This gesture struck a chord deep within me, echoing the words of Jesus from Luke 14:12-14 about the blessing of offering hospitality not for reciprocation from the wealthy or familial, but from a selfless heart to those who cannot repay: the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. These words champion the Christian virtues of compassion and humility, urging us to extend kindness to the least among us, ensuring they are not forgotten or overlooked.

Consider the blind, navigating a world designed for the sighted, their day-to-day resilience transforming ordinary tasks into triumphs of the human spirit. Or the poor, whose struggles with economic hardship are not just about financial deprivation but a fight for dignity against societal indifference. And the physically disabled, who face a world rife with barriers yet often surpass them with a strength and grace that redefine what is possible.

These encounters are not just about understanding different life challenges but are profoundly spiritual, deepening our empathy and forging a real connection with the essence of gospel teachings. By inviting and embracing those who face such adversities, we not only provide practical support but also weave a fabric of community that uplifts everyone involved, reflecting the core of what it means to live out one’s faith.

In the end, our experience that evening was a reminder of the powerful impact of witnessing selfless acts of kindness, as advocated by Christ. It challenges us to live beyond our comfort zones and reach out to those in need, thereby enriching our spiritual journey and deepening our human experience. This is the true essence of Christian living, a vivid illustration of faith in action, where the simple act of dining together becomes a profound lesson in humanity and humility.

"Amy Dunne in Gillian Flynn’s "Gone Girl" represents a different kind of victimhood. 

She's a fabricator, using the guise of the victim to manipulate everyone around her."

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The Many Faces of Victimhood

Victimhood in literature isn't black and white—it's painted in shades of Gray. Characters may be victims of society, circumstance, or their own choices. These portrayals make us think critically about blame, responsibility, and resilience.

Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" provides a clear window into the life of Tom Robinson, a man crushed under the weight of racial injustice. This story isn't just about Tom’s suffering; it’s a mirror showing the ugly truths of societal discrimination. It makes us ask: How many real-life Toms have we overlooked in our own world?

Contrastingly, Amy Dunne in Gillian Flynn’s "Gone Girl" represents a different kind of victimhood. She's a fabricator, using the guise of the victim to manipulate everyone around her. Her story makes us wary of the power of media and public perception, highlighting how easily truth can be twisted.

Literature provides a safe space to explore our reactions to victimhood. For instance, Shakespeare’s Shylock from "The Merchant of Venice" straddles the lines between victim and villain. His portrayal asks us to empathize with his suffering while condemning his vengefulness, offering a complex study of how victimhood can affect a person's choices.

But stories of victimhood aren't just cautionary tales or sad stories; they also show us the potential for growth and change.

In "The Color Purple" by Alice Walker, Celie transforms from a passive victim to an active protagonist who takes control of her life narrative. Her story is a powerful testament to human resilience and the ability to reclaim one’s voice against all odds. It shows readers that victimhood, while defining, doesn’t have to be permanent

In our current social climate, discussions around victimhood are more prominent than ever. Literature acts as a conversation starter, providing perspectives that might be too challenging to confront directly in real life. These stories foster a deeper understanding of societal structures, personal responsibility, and the complexities of human emotions.

Books that explore themes of victimhood don’t just entertain us; they educate and transform us. They help us understand the balance between empathy and critical thinking, between recognizing genuine suffering and questioning manipulative narratives. As we navigate through these stories, we learn more about humanity and, ultimately, about ourselves. Literature doesn’t just reflect what it means to be human; it challenges us to think deeper about the lives we observe and the choices we make. In the end, these books make us more human.

"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."

Image generated with the assistance of Microsoft Word

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).