musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

Morality, like Art, means drawing a line someplace.


Lately, I’ve been thinking about morality for some reason; not that I figure I’ve entered its purview or anything, you understand -I don’t make a habit of climbing a fence where I’m not sure of my welcome now that I’m old and creaky. I suppose that, having only a few leaves left on my branches nowadays, I’m more curious about what’s going on around me; what neighbours I should  get to know; and which ones to wave at, or at least acknowledge. When you run out of other things to do in retirement, you have to keep your neural circuits greased I think…

At any rate, there are times when, bored and a little depressed, I often search for some place to exercise my emotions. Frankly, morality, seemed to offer a rather bleak prospect: a barren field full of vexatious detritus lying fallow between other more welcoming houses in the neighbourhood. Not a place to wander unchaperoned, for sure. 

To tell the truth, it was not immediately clear to me what morality was all about -its constituent parts seemed mostly about doing the right thing to others even if I didn’t know or particularly like them at all. Far from an emotional attachment to them, morality was more of a nonjudgemental duty, a response to a demand made on me; it certainly did not necessitate love. In fact, love, unlike the demands of morality, seemed so… well, arbitrary, and at times even capricious. Unstable. I mean friendships, relationships, and even casual acquaintanceships balance like unflipped coins at times; the morality of the toss is seldom seriously questioned; love, after all, is unpredictable and whimsical… Isn’t it?

So, where does morality come into this? Is love a duty, or simply a happenstance? Surely, unlike love, morality demands impartiality in our dealings with others: no favourites with whom we interact for mutual advantage. I’m old and live alone now, so non-family love exists mainly in bruised memories, and opportunities lost.

For obvious reasons, I’m reminded of the late Dame Iris Murdoch, the novelist and philosopher who felt that Love was a central component of morality. In fact, though, she insisted that it wasn’t just Love, but attentive Love: how we act depends on how we see others -how we attend to them. And it is the manner of attending which, of necessity, subsumes morality -even if we don’t act on the thought.

It is, therefore attentive Love which enables us to see things about others which may otherwise be hidden; seeing things about them which enable us to treat them with respect; understanding that we, too, may at first appear unfavourable to them; realizing that both of us might benefit from reappraisal. First impressions needn’t be lasting impressions.

Other people, other things, are always interesting if we decide to see them that way -not necessarily in relation to us, but for their own sakes. Not to make too big a thing of calling for ‘attentive Love’, perhaps it is just a matter of learning that insightful nonjudgmental attention to something outside of ourselves allows us to see things more as they really are. Maybe that is what morality is really all about… It’s not about me at all.

I suppose in my crusty upper age, things, people, relationships can seem crusty as well: ‘With age comes wisdom; sometimes age comes alone’, as Oscar Wilde is reputed to have said. I don’t want to point to myself, or anything, but sometimes my age voices a thought which makes it to my mouth before I can censor it. Do thoughts count, or are they more like inner trial-balloons, sketches not yet fully conceived on a neural canvas? It worries me that I still need practice with other people…

Like when the elderly man who, with multiple empty benches to choose from under the trees, decided to sit beside me on mine. The sun had just come up, and with the wind was quite chilly; apart from some early walkers far away on the seawall, I seemed to be the only person occupying a bench. I was absorbed in a book though, so I suppose I didn’t really notice the cold.

I am suspicious of unkempt strangers who approach too closely; although I try not to show it, I am offended by the odour of unwashed clothes -or is it simply their lack of personal hygiene? I’m not entirely sure; but even if I am willing to offer help someone who seems poor or needy, I remain wary about whether any money I give them will be used for alcohol or drugs instead of food or sustenance…

So, if an approaching stranger smiles at me, I have to admit I usually search their face for the Duchenne lines -the crow’s feet wrinkles around their eyes which apparently only appear with genuine smiles. Hair also says a lot to me: if an attempt has been made to tidy it, to groom it, I feel reassured somehow; and eyes that twinkle say more to me than words -especially old eyes…

At first, as he approached me across the grass, I couldn’t help but feel that both I and my solitude were being violated. But as he got closer, I realized he had obviously made an attempt to look presentable; his black denim pants were clean, but because they were much too large for his height and weight, he’d rolled up the cuffs and tightened the belt around his waist; he wore a frayed, but clean grey sweat shirt tucked in at the waist. He smelled faded, somehow -not dirty, not unkempt, but more like the smell I remember of my grandfather when I was a child. And yes, Duchenne lines appeared like ladders beside his twinkling eyes when the man smiled at me.

The tiny treed area by the shore where I was sitting was empty, so I felt sure that he was about to ask me for some money after reassuring me with his smile before he sat, but he remained silent as he scanned the water in front of us. I could see him staring first at the tankers anchored in the bay while they awaited their invitation to be accompanied under the Lion’s Gate Bridge into a berth in the harbour. The wind was picking up as the day got underway and he smiled at the waves building in strength in the roiling waters in the narrows under the bridge.

“Such a wonderful place to sit, don’t you think?” Those were his first words after gazing with wonder on his face as the ocean gradually awakened with the tide. I wasn’t sure whether he was addressing me or the world, the day, or perhaps the standing waves as the increasing tide rolled under the bridge daring the opposing wind to stop them. “I like to come down here on windy days…” he said, as his eyes darted back and forth between Siwash Rock on the other shore and the growing spume under the bridge as the wind Venturied  through the narrows.

I put my book down when I noticed he was shivering on our exposed bench. “Yes, it’s a special place for me as well.” I tried not to embarrass him by staring at his lack of a jacket, or at least warmer clothes. “ My name is… well everybody just calls me G,” I said, extending my hand. “Do you come here often? I don’t remember seeing you before…”

“George,” he finished for me, shook my hand, then stared at his lap for a moment. “Sometimes things are…” He hesitated, unsure of how much of his life to disclose, I suppose. “Well, I come down here whenever I can. It’s not always easy…”

“Same for me,” I replied. But as I looked at him I could see he was shivering, so I broadened my smile. “It’s getting a bit chilly, don’t you think?”

He nodded and smiled back.

“I was just thinking of going for some breakfast… Interested?” I didn’t want to embarrass him, but I could see his expression change; he tried to disguise it though, I could tell. “I’m buying,” I added. “I hate eating alone; ever since my wife left I’ve had no choice, though…”

“I could use some breakfast,” he said, nodding again as the twinkle returned to his eyes. “Maybe we can compare notes, eh?”

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gozzter

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