Posts Tagged ‘Hope’

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Why can’t I be a casual observer upon the world, a pragmatist rather than an idealist, is it within me to make this radical change and if I could, would I want to be a social and political pedestrian, would my life be devalued, and would it matter?   

Am I dispassionate to the emotional despair and hardships of those I physically associate with, and if so, do I interrupt my own psychological suffering as superior, when compared to theirs, are my prejudices unrecognised by me but yet deeply hurtful to those who seek my compassion and empathy?

By concentrating on the anguish of strangers who live far beyond my physical reach, through impersonal charitable and political actions, am I protecting myself from the truth, that my personal influence within my own social circles is insignificant?

Is writing a form of egotistical therapy, a distraction from the perceived hopelessness of my human existence; a self-propagating delusion so as to allow me to believe I am more that just flesh and bone?

Is friendship a wise distraction from my path of self-examination, by involving myself more in other people’s lives; would I be confronted by the realism of my own drastic circumstance, is solitude an mechanism to avert my critical eye from our own imperfections, responsibly and guilt and would my life be more satisfying or simply intolerable if I was more receptive to the approaches of strangers, friends and family?

There is not peace in my soul; am I travelling the wrong road and asking the wrong questions, or is this the right road and am I asking the right questions because there is no peace in my soul?

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© Paul Nichol.  July 2014

 

 

Finding this letter this morning was like finding spiritual gold, who could have thought a poor Indian child could give such a thing to his materialistically wealthy yet emotionally deprived western sponsor.

Action Aid

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Shipwreck.

Smashed against rocks.

Sanctuary fragments.

Splinters of life reincarnate.

Survive.

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©  Paul Nichol.  Jun 2014

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This lunchtime I took my two eldest sons to the Pub for a pint.   J was recently eighteen and O is home from University for a few days of eating, drinking and washing.

This was an important time for me, a ‘rite of passage’ in my relationship with J, for he too is an introvert.   J seldom asks us for things and he is intensely caring and reserved, but when he is the focus of our love and attention, he shines as a beckon of joy that fills our bruised hearts.

As I sat with J in the Pub, talking, and watching him play pool with his brother, I could not help but reflect on my own life aged eighteen, how, by then I was already lost to such family bonding experiences.   My own Father had died just before my seventeenth birthday so I never experienced this kind of physical transition into adulthood and the emotional significances such moments generate.  My relationship with my own Father was torrid and unpleasant and I have few memories which are worthy of recall.    I expect the disappointments he saw reflected in me blinded him form recognising my better qualities, for he saw only his own disabling failings revealing themselves in my adolescent character, and therefore, he disliked me almost as much as I suspect he disliked himself.

How significant can going to the Pub with your Dad be, when measured against all the other emotional and physical dilemmas’ confronting an adolescent youth?    How pleased would I have been to share a pint with my Father if he had lived, not very, I suspect, alcohol was neither his friend nor mine.   However, that was then and I am not my Father, I know am better than him.  Fatherhood is more than a social trophy with which to beat those under your protection with, either psychologically, emotionally or physically.   Fatherhood is an honour.  Fatherhood is the greatest challenge any man can face in his lifetime, a Father must challenge his own failings and correct any damaging behaviours before they are transferred to his child, he must encourage, affirm, love unconditional, share himself without prejudice of favour, listen, laugh, cry, but most importantly he must be there; for a disengaged Father is no Father at all.

I pity my Father because he failed me, and as a consequence, I failed him, and so the spiral of mistrust, anger and bitterness grew every stronger.  He was the adult and should have taken responsibility for our crumbling relationship and taken steps to rectify or to at least stop our collapsing bond.   I know now what a difficult task that would have been; for I was that angry young man, mature beyond my years, disaffected and fiercely stubborn, touching the point of self-destruction., but still a child.

As I look upon my own children, who exhibit qualities of emotional and social maturity which I never processed at their age, I consider whether I should finally acknowledge my achievement as their Father.   For all my sons must carry the same flawed character traits that plagued my early years and those of my kin, and it would be naive of me not to acknowledge the potential for them to erupt once more in any of us:  And I can only hope that through the love, time and commitment I have given my children, those destructive character traits have been permanently transformed into qualities, strong and virtuous.

I have inevitably made mistakes as a Father and now it is up to my sons to recognise them and know not repeat them.  My children give me pure joy; my own Father never experienced this powerful sensation, he never knew my possibilities.

How significant can going to the Pub with your Dad be?   Isn’t it obvious……………Cheers.

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© Paul Nichol.  April 2014

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Plant,

unblemished seed.

Trust in the good of man,

to flower only righteousness.

Grow self.

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©  Paul Nichol.  March 2014

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I will be famous, I will have wealth beyond my wildest dreams

the worlds my oyster, I’ll have many beautiful lovers

bathe in fragranced adulation, sporting envy

as I sculpture my destiny with ease

carve my name on history

in skies beyond you

for I am special

unique

 

Normally

I sit alone, everyday

in my bedsit, watching MTV

one street east from my birth place

the poorest, wildest gaff in town, destructive

where dreams of men have no place to linger safely

the soul putrefies, visions fail, the ugliness of realism lingers

strengthening the sweated broken backs of the grateful gravediggers

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© Paul Nichol 2013

Fallen

© Paul Nichol 2013