There’s nothing like a good thrashing from a genius

Dear Theo,

As an occasional critical and analytical thinker, I continue to be puzzled by the idea of God. I remember once asking my father how he, as an extremely well educated, scientific, intelligent man, could adhere to his strong convictions about faith. I don't remember his response. It must not have been satisfactory.

I received what I regard as an excellent classical education - both formal and informal, through the help of a combination of my parents, siblings, a few ex-military teachers, Dominican nuns and the Jesuits. I was taught to memorise, analyse, symbolise, organise, re-organise, immortalise, and to do it all creatively.

You see I came from one of those pre-Vatican II family relics that continued to abstain from eating meat every Friday right up through the present day. Indeed I spent my childhood memorising prayers, attending Mass in Latin, depositing my transgressions in the confessional on a weekly basis. On Saturday afternoons, regardless of the weather - sun, warmth, rain, sleet, hail, floods, snow - we were packed into the family car and taken to the basement chapel of our splendid parish church. I guess while our souls were still covered in the grime of weekly sin, we were confined to the bowels of the building. And only after our souls had been scrubbed clean and shiny were we allowed to enter the grander church upstairs.

To take the sting out of having to spend a couple of hours staring at the twinkle of offertory candles during a glorious winter, spring, or autumn day, it helped knowing that the entire neighbourhood was there suffering alongside us. Yes, by God, we were all there having a miserable time together- not outside climbing trees, not ice -skating, not throwing snowballs at cars, not sneaking off to the corner sweet shop to buy hot tamale flavoured gummy fish using the coins we'd nicked from our fathers' dressers, not playing hit the bat, and not smoking sticks behind the garage, or throwing spiky conkers at each other.

Apparently, we were sufficiently bad to come up with a litany of sins to confess every week. We had to earn our penance, after all - three Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, one Act of Contrition (which I could never remember and therefore had to read from a card). I do remember thinking about what I was going to say whilst brushing my teeth. In the car I'd be putting my mental list together. Good Lord, if God does exist and he has a long memory, when he thinks back on the things we came up with back then, his socketless eyes will roll in despair. During the early years our sins must have tasted more like a box of Russell Stover chocolates compared to the more bitter variety we manage to dish out or keep to ourselves in our later years.

Alas, once our Saturday job was finished, and our souls had gotten the good pasting they deserved, we'd emerge from the basement with our green cards, running out into the world to mess our slates up all over again. How else were we expected to keep up with the rigorous schedule our parents had set in motion? The new transgressions would start immediately after we returned to our seat. The temptation to get your mate sniggering while they attempted to look contrite while reciting their obligatory prayers was just too overwhelming. Our journey would continue with the bickering in the car on the way home- all that pent up energy needed an outlet. Once at home, sneaking into the kitchen before dinner to steal one of the home-made chocolate chip cookies hidden in the red apple biscuit tin. To top it off, Saturday night would usually end with a tantrum that included tipping the entire chess board and all its remaining pieces onto the floor at the precise moment my brother was about to declare checkmate.

Oh dear, it's no wonder Sunday mornings started with a sobering, forced-march to the car. Getting eight people ready for Mass in a house with only one full bath was a miracle in itself. Getting bathed, into proper clothes (no denim, no tee shirts, no shorts, no scuffed shoes, just white shirts with pressed slacks for the boys, and knee-length skirts with tights for the girls) and out the door by 10.45 every Sunday was always a fire drill. And, my father was a stickler for being on time for church.

In contrast, Dad was often late for everything else. My little brother and I once sat outside school for three hours waiting for him to turn up. What was baffling was from where we sat, we could see the little dirt path through the tiny wood that lead to his office. How could he forget us for so long? Fortunately my brother and I made friends with the two left-over 60s hippy librarians. In fact, we spent so much time with them at the library after school we were on a first name basis, which at the time, was unheard of - as kids, we were required to address adults properly, with titles not first names. Subsequently, the library became our kingdom; the place where we were allowed to freely explore the contents of books for hours; play with the microfilm machines; feed the Koi carp that swam beneath the artificial stream running under the bridge that connected the reference and circulating book sections. Maybe the college should have installed a tunnel , bridge or fast-running stream between my father's office and the library?

So, no, my Dad didn't like being late for church; he'd round us up, race to the church, probably ignoring the speed limit signs along the way. When we arrived, we parked in the same place each week- on top of the pavement with the basketball court drawn on it. We sat in the same seats every week- the front pew on the left hand side, right in front of the lectern where the readings took place. No, there was no escaping Father O'Connor's flapping butterfly arms as he stood in front of me adorned in his green or purple robes. Whenever I looked at him, I wondered if he remembered how I had flubbed my one and only line at my First Communion. Well really it was just one word, not even a whole line.

It's true. I was so nervous standing in front of what seemed like thousands of people, I forgot to say Amen. Uncomfortable in my starched white frock and little veil, I kept listing side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other foot. As I shuffled my way closer to Father O'Connor, it was like waiting for one of the red-faced dinner ladies to reach you at the lunch counter: "What will it be today deary, Fish sticks, Salisbury steak or a Sloppy Joe?" I watched as Father O’Connor handed out what looked like Necco wafers to each of my classmates before me. I saw them as they blessed themselves, turned gracefully and walked back to the obscurity of their seats. Of course, being arranged in alphabetical order meant I was close to the end of the line. When Father O’Connor finally handed me the stale white disc, I stared at him as it dissolved tastelessly on my tongue. He waited and waited. He kept staring at me. Eventually he leaned in towards me to ask, "Do you have anything to say?" My mind was blank. I couldn't think of anything. What was I supposed to say? Realizing he wasn't going to move on until I replied, I did exactly what Mum always told me to do when you were given something, especially something you didn't like. I smiled and said, "Thank you, Father. It was lovely." At long last, out of misery, I too blessed myself, turned and melted into the crowd.

I never told my parents how I had forgotten the one and only word I was supposed to have memorised (Amen). I hoped they hadn't heard my blunder as they sat in that famous front row, proudly waiting for me to turn around. I couldn't be sure if they had heard what I said or not. It wasn't until years later, after I had moved away and was living in another country, after my brother had gotten married, after my sister had children that my parents found out what I had actually said. Thank you again Father O'Connor...for having sat down to dinner with my parents at that reception, for having asked after me after 35 years, for having laughed out loud while recounting that mortifying story to a table full of people, including my parents.

The St. Mary's I knew was constructed around an enormous avenue of columns. It had an elegant carved choir loft which housed the oldest Casavant organ still in use in the United States. Every Sunday, the impressive 1897 Casavant Organ (Opus 78) was accompanied by the not quite perfect voices of a choir comprised of amateur vocalists dressed in black and white. The choir had the lucky advantage of being able to look across row after row of honey-coloured pews filled with interesting looking people. Along the sides of the church were dozens of bottle-blue, emerald-green and purple ceiling-to-floor stained glass windows, plus the usual Italian, guild-framed oil paintings depicting holy scenes like the Stations of the Cross. In front of me there was a virtual hot house of cut flowers bursting over the edges of the marble steps -mostly Lilly, Gladiolas, and seasonal blooms like Hyacinth and Narcissus. For me, going to church was like spending an hour a week in an art museum, the Boston public library or a green house, but with music.

It was easy to drift off into fantasy land while sitting amidst the splendour of the framed antique masterpieces, leaded glass windows and blank-eyed faces of the saints' sculptures. As I sat there soaking in the opulence, surrounded by dozens of dust-veil sun rays streaming through the windows, beaming their rainbow of colours across rows of elegantly dressed parishioners, I thought how lucky and angelic those people were to have been singled out by God's golden fingers. In this place, there was a lot to look at, to smell, to read and to sing. Even if I wasn't allowed to turn around and stare at everyone behind us (or I'd get one of my Dad's stern, cold stares), I could at least admire the frescos above me or scan the sections of crowd to my right.

Sometimes I'd find my best friend, Anne (who looked odd dressed in a skirt rather than the usual tomboy attire we spent so much time wearing). Other times, I'd see my Phys Ed teacher (who all the girls, including me, loved); or, Mrs. Cole who was the lifeguard at the pool (and, who all us kids disliked because when you were running or messing about, she'd blow her whistle, shout your name across the complex, and make you sit at the edge of the water in a public time out). Sometimes I'd spot my Maths teacher, Mr. Dowd.

I was terrified of Mr. Dowd. He was an ex-Army Commander who ran our class like we were all conscripts not worthy of an education. I hated the weekly, timed arithmetic tests that he handed back to me full of red 'Xs'. Every Friday I'd be in a panic trying to finish as many problems as quickly and correctly as possible as Mr. Dowd patrolled the rows of desks, stop-watch in hand, a whistle in his mouth. I could feel the cold shadow of his presence as he passed by my desk. Too busy doing my calculations to look up, all I saw were  the toes of his black polished shoes. If there was ever something to pray for as a kid, it was to get 100% on Mr. Dowd's Maths tests; and maybe for my dog Jesse to make it into dog heaven. I wasn't sure as a kid if that was possible. My Grandmother said animals didn't have souls so they didn't have what it takes to be considered for entry. I'm not sure C.S. Lewis agreed with her though.

It is strange how in church on Sunday, out of context, people can look so different, somehow they appear softer. Seeing Mr. Dowd on his knees, head bowed, empty hands clasped together in prayer, head illuminated by that halo of light beaming down from the heavens, it seemed inconceivable he could be the same terse, stiff-shouldered teacher I feared most at school. For one thing, in church, Mr. Dowd was always alone and, to me, this made him appear vulnerable. I even imagined he might be sad; but then, he'd stand up, looking like he still belonged to the military all over again. At that moment I half expected him to shout "Pencils down." As he stood there, straight-backed, chest puffed out, hands folded in front of him, I wondered what his sins were. Was terrifying students with weekly Maths tests a sin?

One Sunday, my head thick with cough syrup, I woke up with a start just as I leaned too far to the left, nearly sliding into the aisle in the middle of a reading. Were it not for the hand I felt on my shoulder, I would have been on the floor. No it was not the hand of God or anything remotely divine; it was Mr. Dowd keeping me upright. Apparently, he'd been been sitting behind me for twenty minutes, arm braced like a two-by-four, holding me upright in the pew. That day I turned around, shook his hand said "Peace be with you" like I meant it.

I remember one crowded Midnight Mass; the air was full of what as a kid I thought was ground pepper smoke, but which was really frankincense. As the priest and altar boys made their way towards the altar, they must have been a bit over enthusiastic when swinging the puffing orb through the aisles because in the middle of Christmas Eve Mass, my sister was overcome by the clawing thickness of the incense. Right there, in the dim candlelit, elaborately decorated church, in a time when there were no toilets or children's quiet area tucked behind a sound proof glass room, she keeled over. One minute she was sitting next to me. The next minute, after we stood up to recite the Apostle's Creed, she dropped to the floor like a stone, rolling under the seat with a clatter. She lay there next to the kneeler for a what seemed like the longest minute I've ever held my breath. Mrs. Cole, who was not only the lifeguard at the pool but also our swim teacher, would have been proud of me.

What was even more extraordinary than my sister lying beneath the pew, was my Dad. He didn't flinch or move an inch. He just stood there staring forward, finished the last line, said Amen, and without skipping a beat reached down, pulled her up from the floor, lay her down on the pew behind us, and then carried on listening to the Mass. My sister of course came round soon enough, looking all pasty-faced and droopy, wondering if she was in trouble. But thanks to my sister, one mystery had been solved. I often wondered what that sound was, that clatter and thud which you sometimes heard reverberating as it bounced off the column heads, making its way to the front of the church. Now it was explained.

Well thank God for parents. That's what I say. Thank you Mum and Dad for making me go to catechism and confession on Saturdays; for the cream and jam-filled doughnuts, pancakes and sausages after Mass; for buying stacks of Sunday papers stuffed full of comics, especially The Peanuts; for letting me lie down on the living room floor all day to read them; for introducing me to Erma Bombeck; for letting us build a skating-rink in the garden every winter; for playing 'I spy an ornament' in front of the Christmas tree, year after year; for staying up all night on Christmas Eve wrapping presents; for filling our stockings with balsam wood cabin incense burners and Duncan Butterfly yo-yos; for Slinkies and Clementines on Christmas morning; for Mr. Dowd's Maths tests and Mrs. Cole's swimming lessons; for the solid hug my childhood friend gave me after a 35 year gap.

Thank you for giving my parents the ability to manage being critical, analytical and pious all these years. And thank you for filling my head up with thousands and thousands of childhood memories. If it hadn't been for my parents and you, Theo, I wouldn't be the person I am today.

Growing up Catholic... I couldn't have had it any other way, no matter what Einstein said.

The God Letter... On sale now

"... I read a great deal in the last days of your book, and thank you very much for sending it to me...

...The word God is for me nothing more than the expression and product of human weaknesses, the Bible a collection of honorable, but still primitive legends which are nevertheless pretty childish. No interpretation no matter how subtle can (for me) change this. These subtilised interpretations are highly manifold according to their nature and have almost nothing to do with the original text. For me the Jewish religion like all other religions is an incarnation of the most childish superstitions. And the Jewish people to whom I gladly belong and with whose mentality I have a deep affinity have no different quality for me than all other people. As far as my experience goes, they are also no better than other human groups, although they are protected from the worst cancers by a lack of power. Otherwise I cannot see anything 'chosen' about them.

In general I find it painful that you claim a privileged position and try to defend it by two walls of pride, an external one as a man and an internal one as a Jew. As a man you claim, so to speak, a dispensation from causality otherwise accepted, as a Jew the privilege of monotheism. But a limited causality is no longer a causality at all, as our wonderful Spinoza recognized with all incision, probably as the first one. And the animistic interpretations of the religions of nature are in principle not annulled by monopolization. With such walls we can only attain a certain self-deception, but our moral efforts are not furthered by them. On the contrary.

Now that I have quite openly stated our differences in intellectual convictions it is still clear to me that we are quite close to each other in essential things, i.e; in our evaluations of human behavior. What separates us are only intellectual 'props' and 'rationalization' in Freud's language. Therefore I think that we would understand each other quite well if we talked about concrete things." 

With friendly thanks and best wishes,
Yours, A. Einstein

Ah, there’s nothing like a good thrashing from an atheist genius.

Yours,

K

Endless, timeless Wales

Dear Lesley,

I am right now in endless Wales near Llanthony Priory.  I came here on Friday for the funeral.  But I missed it, like so much of Roger’s life.

Please forgive me for not having been there on time.  I should have left the evening before, but I was working – that sounds so lame, I hate to even write it down. In the morning, I got held up, distracted, lost, and then ran out of the ability to communicate – no phone, no email, no smoke signals.

I did manage to arrive near Llanthony by 6 pm.  It was already getting late and my sat nav was not helpful at all. The only thing I knew about where I was staying was 1. The sat nav wouldn't help me find it; 2. it was about 10 miles from the oldest pub in Wales; 3. it was up the mountain on a gravel track beyond the Forestry Commission land.

In the pitch black, I didn't know what to expect. After I finally found the infamous gravel tack, it zigzagged through the woods, up the mountain, into the heart of the forest.  When I pulled up to the house, I still could not see what the garden or area around the house looked like.  But inside... there was an ancient Rayburn heating up the kitchen, a log burner in the living room, a bed with crisp linen and an electric blanket, and a bathroom with a tub I could nearly lay down in. I unpacked the truck in the dark, took a bath and climbed into bed, sleeping deeply for the first time in two days.

The first night at the cottage I had the weirdest dream.  In the dream a magic house spoke to me and said: "The answers to all problems are always within reach, but they cannot reveal themselves until you are ready to receive them. Wait for them. They are like blackberries at the end of summer. When ripe, they will roll off their pod and into the palm of your hand. There is no need to tug or pull them away from their thorny hostess. That will only bruise the fruit."

Then I woke up. Still groggy with sleep, I felt my way downstairs to check on the dogs that were sleeping in the living room. I had forgotten to draw the curtains before going to bed. When I looked through the French doors into the garden, the moon was shining bright and full through these enormous trees. The silver light of the moon illuminated the leaves and branches, forming a man's face. It was so clear. There was no mistaking it. I've looked for that spot on the trees every day and night since.  But I haven't found it again.

I think this house is immune to the passage of time. It exudes a softness that holds the world at bay, ensuring modernity exists only in essential moderation. The place has very limited modes of communication-- a phone that dials only local numbers (and I don't have any of those!), no email, no Internet, no mobile signal. It's just me, the dogs, a giant's fistful of swaying trees, red ochre earth, sheep - spotted ones, white ones, black ones, black and white ones, stripy looking ones...., huge hoofed trek horses (the kind knights used to ride), and of course, so many song birds.

I brought the dogs because I hadn't been able to find a longer term dog sitting solution. But they think this is a purpose-built dog holiday- rain, more rain, mud, horse poop, fox poop, more mud, rabbits, deer trails, free-roaming sheep... To say that this little house is dog friendly is a gross understatement.

The cottage is located in the black mountains of south Wales. It is about four hundred years old and is  nested far up the reclusive Vale of Ewyas, two hundred meters from the top of the steep-sided and secluded valley of the Afon Honddu (Afon River). Towering trees surround the property. They look like sentries standing guard - over what I'm not sure - the mystery of the forest, the timelessness of the house, the magic that I've come to think of as synonymous with Wales.

The house is perfectly situated with one mountain to the west, the other to the east. The garden is South west facing and has all these terraces in it. It creeps up to the west, right up to the edge of the mountain with beautiful red-quarry stones covered in moss and lichen, wooden rain barrels everywhere, rust and green ferns, lupins, fox gloves, a bit of spongy grass, and a lot more plants that I couldn't name in ten years. It is as if I fell into a fairy tale. I have come across a gingerbread house where there is no woodsman, no seven dwarfs, no wart-faced old woman with a stick, and no poison apple.  I have walked every day for miles.  The dogs think they are in heaven.  Even I feel close, like I am walking in God's cathedral.

Two days ago I was trying to find my way to the church where the service was held. I wanted to see it.  I packed up my laptop and iPhone hoping I would find a mobile signal and a WiFi link somewhere en route. I drove to the bottom of the track and made a left and continued driving along a winding lane surrounded by fern thickets. The tunnel-like road snaked its way along the river on the right. It is how I imagined Middle Earth.

I found my way to the ancient linear earthwork, Offa's Dyke. I drove across this breath-taking tapestry of 1200 year old history while listening to Nick Drake songs in a loop-  his soulful lyrics and thread-bare notes welled up inside me...  And Time has told me not to ask for more.... Which will you take now.... Strange face with your eyes so pale and sincere (Cello Song)...  and so on, and on.

Sheep grazed lazily in the mountain fields everywhere. Thick-coated, wild welsh ponies ran loose in herds, their manes flying in the wind like freedom flags hoisted in eternal defiance.  Every few miles I’d come upon a pair of red faced walkers wrapped tightly in anoraks, hiking poles in each hand.  Below me, the green quilted earth stretched for what seemed like a thousand miles. In front of me smoke coloured clouds sailed past my windscreen, inches from  the edge of the earth, occasionally getting snagged on the remnants of crumbling stone fences. I felt like a wood dragon soaring over Wales. I half expected an elf or other kind of mythical creature from a C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien story to bolt out in front of me.

It took more time to drive across this monster earthwork than I anticipated. At a mere ten miles an hour, picking my way along a single lane track takes time- I had to take care not to mash any of the sheep and ponies leaping into the road from behind the tufted gorse. One herd of a dozen ponies of varying shapes, colour, size and age trotted along in front of me for twenty minutes. In the middle of the pack were two cheeky-looking foals. A chestnut mare on the end of the troupe kept turning its head to look back at me, checking to see if we were still following them into the horizon. Meanwhile, Sirius sat in the back seat staring through the window, quivering out of his skin.

In contrast, after what seemed ages, I passed through civilized Hay on Wye, then onward towards Newchurch, Kington, Powys to finally pay my overdue respects to the splendid spirit of Roger. Suddenly I realized my phone had reception. At last, I could hear the familiar text message tones going off in rapid sequence. I stopped on the verge to read the burp of messages that had burst into this other world that time had left behind. One text was from my boss.  He was writing in response to the last message I typed, sent so long ago, when I was still connected to his world.  His reply:  "I am in Hawaii. If you cannot work where you are, just take the week off."

I continued to St Mary's. Right before the turning were two white doves standing in the middle of the lane. I photographed them as they flew off over the hedge. I continued round the bend to the church, parked and wandered through a cemetery populated  by an eclectic collection of the dead resting  peacefully beneath each time-stained tombstone.  I wished I had thought to bring charcoal and paper to make some grave rubbings… like I did when I was a kid, totally oblivious to the wrenching sorrow felt by family and friends of strangers lying beneath my feet.

On my way out of Newchurch, I decided to chance downloading my email.  Amongst other things, I received a message from Julian. In his email he included a beautiful quote he had read to Roger on Saturday morning while standing beside the fresh grave of his dearest friend.

"So find a teacher who is an integral being, a beacon who extends his light and virtue with equal ease to those who appreciate him and those who don't. Shape yourself in his mold, bathe in his nourishing radiance, and reflect it out to the rest of the world. You will come to understand an eternal truth: there is always a peaceful home for a virtuous being."

After reading his message, I sat in the lay-by for half an hour sobbing. All those Nick Drake songs came unstuck, pouring out in great gasps. After a bit, I pulled myself together enough to drive back to the cottage.

The following morning I received another email about how to find Roger's resting place, the fresh grave with the single bee hive. I was grateful for the message as the church I visited the day before had offered no clues to where the next stop on my pilgrimage would be. There was only a plastic chair and a picnic table set among the ancient gravestones, testimony to the group that had gathered there on Friday to listen to the Eulogy Roger's friends had written.

At last, I am heading to Offa's Orchard to visit Roger. I will sit and read a couple of Billy Collins poems out loud.  I hope Roger likes Billy Collins. He liked Robert Frost. I like him too, but I couldn't find my Frost anthology before leaving England.

Oh, and while there, I'm going to tell Roger how after all these years I finally made it to his Wales. I have only been here for a few days, but I am finding it difficult to leave. Somehow it feels like he is everywhere.

Roger was always the impish leader making his way in the world, directing people and things, the ever competent conductor who enjoyed being in charge of the orchestra. I sense that even now he is quietly guiding me to something special.

Much love,

K

P.S. I will of course tell him you love him.