Tag Archives: William Ernest Henley

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Flowers are slow and weeds make haste

Sometimes it’s obvious that we all need to cope –In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced, nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed, in the immortal words of the poet William Ernest Henley. Those words have seen me through many of Life’s crises, but each time, it seemed as if I suffered alone; each time I needed encouragement to endure.

When my own personal needs had decreased, however -when I was less consumed with my own fate- I could understand that everyone suffers at one time or another; my own suffering  was far from unique. We all inhabit our own universes; each of us hides a solipsist under our clothes: my fate determines my universe -the only one I have ever experienced.

It should come as no surprise, then, that even in my own universe, other things also feel a need to survive, and when that is in doubt, they suffer. Of course I judge my own travails to be both paramount and likely more intense, but is that fair? I can feel my pain, experience my anguish, but no matter how much empathy I attempt, others are still remote from me; I cannot feel their pain -I must translate it into how I might perceive something similar: I must suffer by proxy, as it were.

Each living thing suffers, though; each living thing strives to correct the situation if it is able, or otherwise succumbs. It is simply not enough to posit that the degree of suffering varies in direct proportion to the complexity of its nervous system. How can we measure suffering?  Is it fair to attribute the gasping of a freshly caught fish -no doubt desperate for oxygen when dumped onto the deck of a fishing boat- merely to some mindless reflex reaction? Or that a common housefly, seeking freedom through a closed window, and buzzing desperately at it until it eventually tires and drops to the sill, feels some proto-anguish at the imprisonment it cannot understand?

The very act of avoidance suggests a need to prevent something undesired, but I realize that I have to be careful not to push the analogy too far. Most would exclude the Plant Kingdom, if not most of the Animal Kingdom -Homo sapiens is touchy about sharing the spoils of suffering. Still, we are a little more generous about other things, other words: awarding the ability to be resilient in the face of adversity to many and sundry things -even plants.

It’s a small victory for flowers, I suppose, but I chanced upon an article in Vox about accidents in flowers that reminded me of that stanza in the poem by Henley that I quoted above. https://www.vox.com/science-and-health/2020/4/14/21208857/pandemic-plants-evolution-beauty

It describe the efforts of some flowers which have been knocked down by wind, say, that try to right both themselves and the flowers on their stalks, and to rotate back, as best they can, into a position better suited for pollination. Not just to enable them to gather more sunlight for photosynthesis, mind you, but align themselves again both to attract, as well as to enable insects to access the pollen they need to propagate.

I guess that in the larger scheme of things, this is a trivial observation, and yet think about it.  How could a downed flower reorient itself and its leaves towards the sun to enable photosynthesis? Plants have no muscles -and even if they did, what would organize the response?

Scientists, of course, are curious, and not satisfied with merely a sense of wonder and awe at the determination of the little plant struggling to regain some semblance of the old order; botanists have discovered that a plant hormone –auxin– elongates the cells of the stem on the side that is farthest from the light, pushing the stem or the leaf towards the light. It’s called phototropism.

I know it’s always better to find explanations -mechanisms- for this sort of thing, but I have to confess that I am more amazed that a presumably mindless plant can act as if it had a brain striving to organize its responses. It’s one thing to explain turning towards the light with mechanical changes in cells that don’t receive enough, but another thing entirely to explain the seemingly purposive correction of the floral orientation to improve the likelihood of insect visitation and hence improve pollination. It’s not as simple as turning towards a light – first of all, the flower has to be seen by a bee, say, but the bee also has to be able to land on it properly to acquire the pollen. An upside down flower in the grass is unlikely able fulfil either of these conditions.

Somehow, the thought of a flower resisting death, and striving to correct its situation no matter the odds against it, is incredibly inspiring -touching, even. I wouldn’t want to suggest it suffers under these conditions -or at least not as we humans would envisage suffering, but I would point out that we tend to judge everything using only those rules which we have come to understand apply to us. As time and knowledge expand, however, our opinions change. There was a time, not so distant, when there was little concern about cruelty to animals -or cruelty to others of our own species, for that matter. Little thought was given to communication systems among animals, and even less to signals among plants. If they didn’t do it like us, then it wasn’t happening…

Times change, though, don’t they? Or maybe it’s not so much the times as our attitudes toward those things with which we interact. I am still thrilled at listening to a bird sing; I am soothed by the wind wandering slowly through the leaves of a tree, enchanted by the sound of water trickling over a rock in a swiftly flowing stream. I am happy for somebody else to work out the mechanisms and reduce them to mathematical modelling. For me, the experience is as important as the explanation.

I am more entranced by the sound of geese flying high above me in a mountain fog, than curious as to their destination. In the words of the poet Kahlil Gibran:

Beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
But you are life and you are the veil.
Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.

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Sheep in Wolf Clothing

I suppose it has always happened -there’s very little that’s really new around; I still wonder why it’s necessary, though. Even through the lens of my white male privilege –my through-a-glass-darkly upbringing- I continue to wonder about these things. Why, for example, do I even have a lens? Was it necessary simply because in the chromosomal lottery, I got the Y? Or is it rather because others lack one? Others? There’s a difference, I guess: one side brings children -even the Y’s- into the world, and nourishes them until they are old enough to be independent; the other side… what, fears  that ability, despite experiencing it themselves? I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Call me naïve, but does that not make us interdependent? Partners in survival?

Anyway, despite my anguished jeremiad, and notwithstanding my somewhat childish credulity, I love it that people have always pressed against boundaries. Crossed borders. Transcended gender constraints. Limits which have been arbitrarily imposed have been challenges from time immemorial.

Until we searched, records of past successes were unfortunately few in number -hidden, or at least difficult to access- not necessarily because they failed, but more often I would suspect because history is written by the dominant. Controlled by those who commanded the prevailing power structure and had greater access to whatever educational resources were available at the time. Military and church, after all, were predominately unisexual, so it seemed rare to read about females that stood out for things other than pandering to male needs, or gaining fame as consorts to royalty.

A few exceptions proved the rule, of course. To pick only a few of my favourites of the many historical examples we were once offered: the fourth century Greek mathematician and philosopher, Hypatia; Lady Li, an artist in tenth century China; the twelfth century polymath Hildegard von Bingen. She was not only a Benedictine abbess, but also a philosopher, natural historian and writer -and she first came to my attention for her musical compositions; Fanny Mendelssohn, a composer and pianist, the talented sister of the more well-known Felix. And then there was the nineteenth century novelist Georges Sand, albeit perhaps more famous for her association with Chopin (and other famous men of the time) than her writings.

The list has recently become much, much longer -and growing- as we begin to delve into historical documents more thoroughly. It would seem that our knowledge of the past is directly proportional to the prevailing ethos –the effort expended… There have always been women who’ve excelled, but there have not always been people who wanted to hear about it…

I do, though; I’m always inspired by anyone who is able to critically assess that which represses them, and come up with a solution. I suppose most of the answers are variations on the same methodology, and yet they still make me want to cheer. An article I found in the BBC news was particularly heartening I think –especially its little twist: http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-39705424

It’s the story of a woman in Tanzania who ran away from an abusive husband and ended up in the ‘small Tanzanian town of Mererani, in the foothills of Africa’s highest mountain, Kilimanjaro – the only place in the world where mining for a rare, violet-blue gemstone called tanzanite takes place.’

Only men were allowed in the mine so, like in a fairy story, she disguised herself as a man and went to work. She called herself ‘Uncle Hussein’. ‘”I acted like a gorilla,” she says, “I could fight, my language was bad, I could carry a big knife like a Maasai [warrior]. Nobody knew I was a woman because everything I was doing I was doing like a man.”’

And, just like in a real fairy story, ‘after about a year, she struck it rich, uncovering two massive clusters of tanzanite stones. With the money that she made she built new homes for her father, mother and twin sister, bought herself more tools, and began employing miners to work for her.’

But, as in all parables like this, ‘her cover was so convincing that it took an extraordinary set of circumstances for her true identity to finally be revealed. A local woman had reported that she’d been raped by some of the miners and Pili [Uncle Hussein’s real name] was arrested as a suspect.’

Of course, the truth was soon revealed and she was released. ‘But even after that her fellow miners found it hard to believe they had been duped for so long. […] Pili has built a successful career and today owns her own mining company with 70 employees. Three of her employees are women, but they work as cooks not as miners. Pili says that although there are more women in the mining industry than when she started out, even today very few actually work in the mines. “Some [women] wash the stones, some are brokers, some are cooking,” she says, “but they’re not going down in to the mines, it’s not easy to get women to do what I did.”

She has married again, although ‘Finding a husband when everyone is accustomed to regarding you as a man is not easy, Pili found, though eventually she succeeded. “The question in his mind was always, ‘Is she really a woman?'” she recalls. “It took five years for him to come closer to me.”’

‘Pili’s success has enabled her to pay for the education of more than 30 nieces, nephews and grandchildren. But despite this she says she wouldn’t encourage her own daughter to follow in her footsteps. “I’m proud of what I did – it has made me rich, but it was hard for me,” she says. “I want to make sure that my daughter goes to school, she gets an education and then she is able to run her life in a very different way, far away from what I experienced.”’

I love the kind of story of someone encountering and then overcoming seemingly overwhelming odds. I suppose we all do –it’s a classic fable, isn’t it? A veni, vidi, vici episode to be sure. But I am still saddened that it has to be like this. Not that there have to be challenges, you understand –it would be a boring world that offered none- nor even that only a few manage to see it as an opportunity, a fence that needs climbing. No, I’m sad that after all this time, whether out of fear or mistrust, there are still walls like this.

And yet, I remember lines from a poem by William Ernest Henley –‘Invictus’: ‘In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed’. And, more especially, the last stanza: ‘It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’

Let us all hope so…

 

 

 

 

 

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Miasmatics

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.  This may be how we choose to think about ourselves as we screw our courage to the sticking place. And yet, much as we hate to admit it, there is something a little frightening about things that surround us which we cannot see. Clouds that, had we not been made aware of them, would have drifted as unseen and unregarded as smoke on a moonless night.

Bacteria, at least in popular culture, have usually been associated with filth, contamination, and especially, illness. The Germ Theory, which postulates that some diseases are caused by agents (microorganisms), was first proposed in the mid-1500s and later substantiated with the advent of microscopes and public sanitation advances. The recognition of microorganisms as causes of disease supplanted the previously held disease theory of Miasma –bad air- as propounded by Galen, a Greek physician and philosopher in the mid second century CE Roman empire.

As counter intuitive as it might sound nowadays, new discoveries have lately suggested that he may well have been on to something: http://www.bbc.com/news/health-34314065. I suppose this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise, though. As the news article observes: ‘Studies have already shown that our microbiome – the collection of bacteria, viruses and fungi that live on our skin and in our bodies – outnumbers our own cells 10 to one. These can be spread through direct contact, airborne emissions and shed skin cells in dust.’ Or, perhaps more disturbing, ‘Walk through someone else’s cloud, and it will “rain” bacteria on your skin and be breathed into your lungs.’ The study, from scientists at the University of Oregon, was published in the Sept. 2015 edition of Peer J: https://peerj.com/articles/1258/ -a fascinating read, to be sure.

I suppose I found this article a timely reminder that we all approach the idea of ‘cleanliness’ in different ways, and to different degrees. Not everybody who pays attention to it has OCD.

Lisa was a good example, I think. A beautifully coiffed, tall woman in an almost obsessively ironed white, frilly blouse and perfectly pleated black skirt, she sat primly, but in isolation in the fully packed waiting room. Trying not to seem rude, she had managed to negotiate the chaos of hyperactive children and their large-tummied mothers, by contracting herself into the smallest possible dimensions in a corner. She wasn’t obvious about it, nor did she seem at all uncomfortable –just careful to avoid undue and unnecessary contact. As if everyone around her had the flu –or something else of which they might not even be aware. Yet.

As I led her down the corridor to my office I noticed she stopped at the front desk for a quick dab of alcohol hand rub from the dispenser the secretaries had placed there, probably for their own protection. Good, I thought, she’s getting her hands ready so she won’t contaminate me when we shake. Then it occurred to me in kind of uncomfortable shiver, that we had already shaken hands. So, to make her feel that it was indeed an appropriate thing to do after touching, I helped myself to a dollop from the same container. I don’t think she noticed; she was too engaged in straightening the sleeves of her blouse and then making sure no hair was out of place to ruin the effect. I put it down to nervousness.

Once she had settled into the chair across from my desk and examined my office with what seemed like polite curiosity, I asked her why she had been sent to see me in consultation. Her expression immediately changed. Her initially benign and neutral face suddenly wrinkled suspiciously, and her eyes wandered over my face for a moment searching for a safe place to stand. Or were they looking for reasons –any excuse- to terminate the visit and seek help elsewhere?

I thought I’d make it easier for her. “Well, your family doctor seems to feel you have… issues in the vaginal area that he can’t resolve. Would you like to tell me about them..?”

Her face gradually hardened. “I told him I wanted to see a female gynaecologist! But he never listens. He’s too busy to listen, I think.” She stared at a painting on the wall beside her, for a moment. “And your waiting room looks even fuller than his, I have to say.” Her eyes migrated slowly around the room stopping to feed on the eclectic tidbits I had scattered almost randomly throughout: the wooden statue of an Ethiopian woman holding a child and seeming to hide behind a plant on my desk; the terracotta woman sitting on a flimsy oak table holding a begging bowel filled with shiny coins that require constant vigilance from every mother who visits with her children; the jade apple on my desk; the multicoloured painting of a peasant woman leading a horse…

Interestingly, it was to the painting that her eyes continually returned. “But he never had pictures on his wall. Nothing at all interesting about his office except a window with a tree right outside it…” She lowered her eyes for a moment and then they flew back to my face and settled there. “So, what did you want me to tell you?”

“Dr. Grossac seemed concerned about your vaginal issues, as he put it.” I couldn’t suppress a smile at his turn of phrase and she noticed it.

“He just got fed up with not finding anything. He seemed to be a one-trick-pony: if his swabs and cultures didn’t show anything abnormal, then of course nothing was abnormal. A standoff.

“There is an odour, however –but like describing the taste of wine, words sometimes fail to capture it -or validate it… I don’t expect most family doctors will have a gas chromatograph in their offices, but I do think most noses are able to detect differences, don’t you? I mean, isn’t that what they’re for?”

She had a point.

She hesitated a moment, and then continued with a guilty expression. “I don’t mean to imply that Dr. Grossac doesn’t know his medicine -he told me he could smell something, but he didn’t know what. I guess he thought you would…”

“What have you tried so far?”

“I’ve tried scented oils in the bathwater; I’ve tried different laundry soaps, different personal products, but they only seem to help for an hour or two…”

“How long has this been going on, Lisa?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know –maybe a couple of weeks now.”

“And has this ever happened to you before?”

She shook her head, thought better of it, and then looked at me with caged eyes. “I suppose maybe something similar when I was a teenager…” She stopped, no doubt hoping I wouldn’t demand a fuller description. Sometimes you’re just not supposed to ask.

I smiled expectantly. “Oh, and what did your doctor find then?”

She blushed and looked at the horse painting once again. “Actually, I found it…”

I pretended to look at something on my desk. “And what did you find?” Sometimes I’m merciless.

She looked down at her lap, embarrassed beyond words. “I… I left something inside.” Her head snapped back upright and she unleashed her eyes on my face, daring me to pursue it. “I mean I was really young –just starting my periods, really…” Her voice trailed off in distress. This was a woman’s issue after all; she didn’t really expect me to understand.

“And this time?”

“Nope,” she mumbled to her knees. “Couldn’t find anything…”

“And your doctor?

“He never really looked in there…”

I tried not to show surprise. “Do you mind if I look?”

She shook her head –with relief, I think.

After I’d examined her and dealt with the issue, she came back into the office with an awkward smile on her face. “So,” she said, “Where there’s smoke there’s fire, eh?”

I had to smile again. “Ever heard of the Miasma Theory?”

She returned my smile. “Galen?”

I nodded. “He wasn’t entirely wrong was he?”