An interesting experience

Well, that was an interesting experience.

Ever since I received my diabetes diagnosis, some weeks ago, the NHS (National Health Service) have been sending advice, appointments with phlebotomists and now a ‘Diabetic Eye Screening’ appointment. No, I didn’t know what that was either, but went along for the ride, so to speak.

I also didn’t know that there were two ‘health centres’ in the same small road, and virtually at the same place. Me being me, obviously, went to the wrong one. I was shown through the reception window where I should be, next door or rather across the very small pebble strewn ‘garden’.

When I arrived I was alone. Alone, that is, as in there was no other person in evidence, anywhere, not even a receptionist. The computer screen (where you sign in to say that you have arrived) asked me not to sign in to say that I had arrived but, instead, to wander round the corner to the waiting room. So I did as I was told and plonked my girth on a small blue plastic chair. 60s music was playing from a very small radio very similar to the portable one I had when I was fourteen. I was regaled by Marc Bolan and a 60s mix which was nostalgic, and not unpleasant. After my appointment time had passed I was approached by the only other person I had encountered in that vaguely Kafkaesque building, and asked my date of birth. I was asked to wait further. Still the waiting room had only one client, me.

The same be-uniformed female personage reappeared, called out my name to the waiting room and looked around, there was still only me and her in the room. She then asked me to follow her. I meekly did so.

She patiently, and with a darkish and somewhat macabre humour, began to test my staying power by outlining what was going to happen to me in that room, and for the next few hours. I was to be stung by fluid in my eyes. I would cry, I would follow dots of light with my pupils frozen open for several hours, I would be dizzy and unable to drive. I explained that I already was unable to drive, as I have no car. The, now slightly friendly, health care official asked if I was accompanied by my wife. I looked around, then explained I had none.

After a few moments of stinging eyes, crying and a sensation which in my youth I might have gained from ingesting either a sugar cube or small square of blotting paper laced with a non-legal substance, camera play (Cannon) eyes to right and eyes to the left, I was released. Four hours later my pupils are still dilated, but I am able to see a little more clearly and type this.

Invading Ipswich

It was the thought of eating a marsala dosa that dragged me out of bed and onto a train (well two Greater Anglia trains actually) heading for Ipswich, in Suffolk

I didn't sleep well that night, yes, yet again, so I was slightly discombobulated with half my brain dormant and the other yearning for matchsticks (to keep my eyes open).

Oh, incidentally, Ipswich is the oldest Anglo-Saxon town in England. That is to say that two types of Germanic tribes, the Angles and the Saxons, took over in England after the Romans had gone, that was before the ‘Danes’ (Vikings) started to do the very same to them, and destroyed the original small town of Ipswich.

Also see “https://www.history.org.uk/.../anglo-saxons-a-brief...'.

But what of the Celts? Well they were effectively crushed by the invading Romans (eventually), but that was before the Angles and Saxons clubbed together to get called the Anglo-Saxons.

In places Ipswich (derived from the medieval name 'Gippeswic', probably taken either from an Old Saxon personal name or from an earlier name of the Orwell estuary) is stunningly beautiful. But you have to look for the beauty, it's there, but hidden.

The good thing is that there are a few interesting eateries. Chennai Dosa being one such. I had missed dosa ever since I left Malaysia. It's my favourite breakfast, and (Paal) apam running a close second. I did have dosa, once, in Siem Reap, but it was too oily. Then again (twice) in Phnom Penh, which was better, and again in Colchester but that was dreadful. The masala dosa, in Chennai Dosa, Ipswich, was excellent but only available after 11.30am. Hardly breakfast time.

I arrived in the town early, and purposely sought out Ipswich's beauty. I was so lucky to have such beautiful early spring weather to wander around in. Thank you Cosmos.

Footnote, Eric Blair took his pen name from the River Orwell and St. George, the patron saint of England, to become George Orwell.

Walking back time

In 1966, I was 15. I couldn't wait to leave school in Colchester (Britain’s first Roman city, with a 2000 year heritage. And which Pliny the Elder immortalised as Camulodunum), which had plagued me for four years, and where the only thing that I had truthfully learned was how to smoke. I went to college. College was better. There I met the 15 year old who would remain my friend until today, some 56 years later. The North East Essex Technical College and School of Arts Annex (1965 - 1990, in Lexden) which we had attended has long since changed its purpose to private flats.

Yesterday was bright. The sky was blue and encouraging, so I embarked upon two journeys simultaneously, one physical and one through my past within this old Roman city. It was a curious jaunt which had me meandering through timelines like a broken Tardis, from my early 20s back to being 15, then to my 30s etc etc etc. All this in 5.5 miles (8.96 km).

Firstly there was the road (Goojerat Road named for British involvement in India) that I had cycled to and from my workplace when I was in my very early twenties. The care home building is still there, but the name and ownership has changed. Then I walked into Prettygate, where my oldest friend lived back when we were 15. The area became so named because of the literally attractive gate to a farm (previously called Cooper's Farm from 1655) long since vanished and remembered only by the name and The Prettygate public house.

Down the road and down the hill I trod, recalling the cannabis smoking days and the first hashish high at 17, which turned out to be self delusion brought on unwittingly by part of an Oxo cube, rolled and innocently smoked. Then back to 15 again and the college annex grounds now a small parkland (Lexden Park is an 8.1 hectare Local Nature Reserve in Lexden, a suburb of Colchester in Essex, Wikipedia).

I crossed over to Spring Lane, obviously named due to the spring which still seeps water down the road in a small rivulet, and walked into Lexden Springs Nature Reserve which borders the now dilapidated ‘Old Rectory’ (1814) which has signs warning of wandering dogs used by Police. The Lexden Road end of Spring Lane contains many interesting houses including one which dates from 1671 but, in reality, is a mixture of well maintained and poorly maintained ‘listed’ buildings like the Old Rectory.

The beauty of the blue sky, and the amazing shining sun more, indicated Spring rather than the Winter we are supposed to be having in March, croci and daffodils along the way supported this thesis.

The damp and slightly muddy footpath (into the nature reserve) skirted the backs of houses for a while until it finally opened up to what could only be described as fields, with a hint of woodland at the Colchester town end (which I had always thought of as The Hilly Fields….more on this later). The shorn fields presented a haven for dog walkers, but little else. It was more like a walk through an older fallow farm than a ramble in nature, but it was nice to be out into (pretend) countryside.

Heading towards Colchester proper I weaved in and out to what barren woodlands I could, before eventually having to find my way back onto that original footpath which lead into pastures entirely familiar (ie the fields which in my school youthful, non-athletic, self was presented with cross-country running (which for me and my three friends was more like an amble than, and nothing at all like, an actual run). The path led, in one direction, down to that torturous school, in another to my old art school and yet another into town. I moved in the town direction and was glad that I remembered the direction well enough. From there I did a mini-shop, actually bought ‘Skate’ to make a fish curry, today, and wander back to this abode after 8.96 kilometres of walking. Not the longest I have done recently, but a good distance nevertheless.

A new neighbour

Why (I don't hear you utter) are you wide awake at 04.27 in the morning?

My wakefulness (for the past three hours) is courtesy of the chap upstairs from me. A small chap, I imagine, in a coat of fur and nose of whiskers who scrabbles and scratches about above my ceiling.

Once aware of the new lodger, I began to light incense whenever and wherever I heard him, with the notion that the scent might prove distasteful to him. I use the male gender specific pronoun as I don't believe that a lady would be disturbing me at such an inopportune time. We (that is the Royal 'we') have moved on from joss fragrances to smacking the ceiling with a pillow. That seems to have worked, at least for the moment.

In this building, there lives a 'roofer' who doubles as a purveyor of cannabinoids, a gentleman who died and came back to life and another who could supply me with spare parts for my car. If I had a car, which I don't. Two rooms are now empty. One simply deserted, the other vacant after a mighty police raid from gentlemen (and one lady) from the local constabulary. Now, there is also what I might imagine to be a rattus norvegicus, or common brown rat. I use the term 'common' here in a descriptive rather than derogatory sense, meaning no insult to my obviously squatting neighbour.

My problem is being a light sleeper. I rouse quickly at the slightest sound, hence my current alertness. 

The clawing sound is back. My new neighbour is becoming oblivious to my ceiling pounding. I shall, no doubt, have to report this squatter to the landlady. I have resisted doing so, in the spirit of fair play and,"we're all in this together", for I have no doubt that my reporting will eventually result in sending this little soul back into the Cosmos, which is against the Buddhist principle of 'Ahimsa' or non-violence. But there are limits and (like E. C. Segar's Popeye) I am rapidly getting to the point where ,"that's all I can stands, I can stands no more."

A cave somewhere

Every other Tuesday, I now attend a ‘men’s group’ at my local Buddhist centre. It’s all part of learning a little more about the ‘Dharma’.

Two weeks ago the group was temporarily moved online, to Zoom. I have never liked the impersonal aspect of Zoom, and have found the technical side very challenging, so I didn’t attend. Well, that is two reasons, another is that my one room is often noisy during the evening (the tenant downstairs likes his music/TV louder than I would like…I have a feeling that he is harder of hearing, if not now he soon will be). That noise, and the fact that even a small felis domesticus could not be rendered airborne by its spine extension prevents me from using Zoom. It’s also the reason that the videos I make there (for China mostly) are short, very short.

Last evening (7pm - 9pm) we were back at the centre.

I am not usually one for all male meetings. The larger the grouping of males is, the less I am inclined to participate (too much testosterone in the atmosphere). I much prefer mixed company, however it seems that Buddhism, like Islam, prefers to keep its sexes apart, so I really have little choice if I am to learn more about Buddha, Dharma and Sangha (the 3 jewels). Nor am I much of a one for wandering abroad in the evening. Morning is my time. Evenings I prefer indoors, at the place where I (temporarily at least) lay my head (when not being subjected to a noisy noise which would be enough to annoy an oyster more). 

The regular guide/teacher wasn’t able to be there this time. I say regular but last evening was only the third time that we had all met up, and one of those times was the online one I didn’t attend. Neither were three other members (and I use this term a mite cautiously) in attendance. 

It was amazing how the whole group dynamics changed due to the substitution and the absences. The proxy ‘leader’ knew the three others, but not me. I found myself in a group of one. All the others are part of another group which meets on Wednesdays and, apparently, interact outside of both groups. They are younger too, but these days most people are younger than me. This has really made me feel like an outsider and has me considering why I am, actually, attending. Finally, it seems that the others have been on ‘retreats’ together, which is something I am yet to experience or commit to. 

 

A Buddhist retreat is (and I quote) “...important for many Buddhists as they provide a chance to spend periods of time with other Buddhists away from everyday life. Retreats involve various aspects of Buddhism, such as meditation and studying the Buddha's teachings.” Said retreats are also very seriously vegetarian (or vegan) in actuality. 

I shouldn’t make comparisons, however, this every-other-Tuesday group is vastly different from the Chinese Buddhist monthly (mixed sex) group which I had attended in Malaysia. The purpose of both was/is lay people meeting to learn more about Buddhism and how to lead a Buddhist everyday lifestyle. The Malaysian group was much more informal, and frequently involved (non-vegetarian) eats, well it would wouldn’t it. This British all masculine group is a tad more serious, earnest I could say, and maybe that’s because it really is a course (the Triratna Dharma Training Course for Mitras) thinly disguised as a group. Is this the right way/path for me? Perhaps it is too early to tell. 

I hear a remote cave calling.

Yesterday

Yesterday I was at a very low ebb remembering that it would have been my tenth wedding anniversary. I experienced the full weight of dukkha, or suffering, and it was all my own doing.

The day was spent in a comforting anguish. It was a teary pain which recalled my loss, over and over again. I decided to let it flow in me and eventually beyond me, to be rid of that crippling, destructive, sadness with the hope of building upon it.

Kharma is cosmic action. Kharma is like a pond's ripples or the effect of dominoes falling, each knocking the other. A chain of events had been put into action, part of that chain eventuated in my experiencing the loss of the person who had been my partner for a little over eight years. I acknowledge my part in this. I further acknowledge that it cannot be changed. There is no going back.

To move forward, my mind set has to change. It will be slow. I have come far mentally, as well as physically, since our relationship finished. I can go further. I can only change myself. Phase one has been to re-engage with daily mindfulness meditation. Phase two was to exercise via walking and Phase three will include Tai Chi and maybe Qi Gong later.

I have far to go, but the path is there and all I have to do is to tread it



Me, not 'us'

Happy Womens’ Day

This is a day of celebration of women though, of course, every day should be a celebration of women really. Being me, and you really wouldn’t want to be me, it’s also a time of reflection and maybe even introspection.

When you’re suddenly made single after eight-and-a-bit years, there’s a lot of psychological unpacking to do. Being coupled-up was my life, then it wasn’t. It was, and still is, a shock to the system. But it’s not just that, there is the rearranging of ‘self’ as opposed to ‘us’ to sort out.

When you have lived with an ‘other’ for a few years, some of ‘them’ seeps into what is ‘you’. You both become a little of each other. Then, suddenly, you’re not. You find yourself looking at something like ‘mee sua’ on a Chinese restaurant menu and thinking “ooo, I’d rather like that”, then remembering it’s actually not one of your likes, but her’s. It happened just now. I was thinking about chicken thighs in tomato sauce for dinner tonight. Then I thought “it would be nice with fresh basil” and suddenly remembered that I don’t really like fresh basil. She liked that, not me.

This strange “who am I, really” has happened a few times recently. I guess that it’s because our ex-wedding anniversary is coming up (12th March), and I have to remember that we no longer celebrate it. Just like I no longer celebrate things like her birthday (June), Chinese Moon Festival or Chinese New Year. That was her, not me, ‘cause I’m all about Christmas and my birthday now, she wasn’t.

I’ve stopped drinking beer now, not for any religious reason but because I never did like beer, and only drank it to accompany her. I’ve gone back to having the occasional Bombay Sapphire and tonic, instead. Last week I was in a second hand book shop in Frinton (on Sea), and noticed three or four books on ‘Art Therapy’. For a moment I got all excited and wanted to buy them. But stopped. That wasn’t me, that was her. She was studying art therapy, and those books would have been a present from me, to her.

One-and-a-half years later and I am still discovering who I am, still unravelling, still unpacking, still trying to remember to forget what was ‘us’ and concentrate on what is ‘me’. It’s a journey into the unknown.

Nevertheless, Happy Women's Day