A Tale of Two Neighbours

I parked outside their home only a few weeks ago. As I idly waited for my passenger, I looked at the low-roofed building wedged in between the bigger business premised round about. Lace drapes hung in the little windows and in one, I could see a glass vase holding some pretty flowers. ‘That’s a home,’ I remember thinking, ‘Someone who lives here cares enough to make the place look special’. Then the door slowly opened and a small man stepped out, dressed simply in a navy jumper and dark trousers. A hunchback with a gentle face. He stood on the pavement and silently surveyed the street, up and down, and then he simply soaked in the sunshine of the beautiful summers day. Here was Tom Blaine, king of his quiet sphere.

Just a few yards around the corner from this peaceful humble place is the office of Enda Kenny. It too is small and unpretentious, but the whole town, indeed the whole country, know who Mr. Kenny is. Castlebar is very much the Taosieach’s town and many here are proud of the ‘power’ the Mayo man, ‘one of ourselves,’ has attained.  He is rarely there, as the pressing responsibility of ruling the country and developing the nation as a successful, ‘safe’ place in which to live, demands much of his attention.

But so much has changed since that quiet afternoon on New Antrim Street. Never again will Tom walk through that little door and gaze peacefully around at his world. Never again will the traffic kindly come to a halt and let him make his crossing as he takes a stroll around the town. For Tom and his brother Jack were cruelly murdered in their home on Tuesday night.

They were needy.  They were harmless, vulnerable, human. Their deaths have reverberated around the community bringing a devastating sense of loss; they have also forced us to take a cold hard look at the state of our society. They should not have died. Their deaths have no reason.

But it cannot be simply coincidence that as they were battered to death in a town which ought to have insured that nothing like that would ever happen, their neighbour was making a new law that in his country, vulnerable, helpless human beings could be killed – in certain cases. Mr. Kenny was resolutely facilitating the passing of a Bill by his government that would legalize abortion in Ireland – a bill destined to tragically end the lives of precious, vulnerable and helpless unborn children. The Bill this week has passed through the Dail ad looks set to become part of Irish law.

Forgive me, but I cannot help seeing seeing in one event the reflection of another.  What sort of a society have we that can produce young men like Alan Cawley? No, we cannot foist the guilt onto a minority group, or say that an Irish person would never do such a thing. One of our own is responsible for the deaths of two quiet men who could not protect themselves. And yet, what sort of a leader have we that can push through a piece of deathly legislation, against the wishes of thousands of citizens, and make Ireland an even more dangerous place for the vulnerable, the helpless, the most precious of our society?

Two neighbours; Tom Blaine, and his brother, needy and vulnerable, brutally murdered – Enda Kenny, powerful and ‘self-sufficient’, responsible now for innocent blood. Terrible things have happened in Castlebar this week. We will miss Tom and Jack Blaine...and how many more?

Why I Study History

The Relationship Between History and Policy

NUIG MA History Seminar Presentation, 27 March 2012 

 The appointment of a special board of eleven historians to help the government prepare appropriately for the upcoming Decade of Centenaries, including the Ulster Covenant and the Easter Rising, is evidence that the study of history is still of considerable importance in the running of a country. (Once I used to think that you would celebrate one of those and protest in whatever appropriate or inappropriate way at the other - and anyone who attempted to celebrate both was a hypocrite...but anyway.) 

Historians can assist in deconstructing conceptions of past occurrences which are open to different interpretations, they can examine current popular belief concerning topical issues and they can assess how 'our actions and thoughts are conditioned by the heritage of the past', and are thus not as valid, as rational, and as necessary as we believe they are. Quentin Smith says that 'the stories we tell about ourselves are always and unavoidable partial...it becomes the task of the historian to ensure that such stories are not uncritically accepted.' By doing this historians can, undoubtedly, make a valuable contribution to public policy: for example John Bew's work in examining the role of Ulster Presbyterians in the 1798 rebellion reminds one that the version of irrational, sectarian Unionism that exists in Northern Ireland today may not be the only interpretation of Unionism in existence, and thus encourages government to consider more deeply the original intentions of Unionism. My own study of Thomas Davis' version of a united Irish nation which firmly valued both Catholics and Protestants, and also of the Orange Order in Northern Ireland which became the final refuge of an increasingly alienated sector of Ulster society opened my understanding, and indeed developed my criticism, of policy development in Northern Ireland. 

 In such deconstruction however, caution must always be exercised as deconstruction must always be accompanied with some form of reconstruction. Stefan Berg's words, 'It seems wiser to assume that society would be better off with weak and playful identities rather than those underpinned by a strong sense of a common national past', are alarming; just as a human being needs a strong sense of self-identity to perform to his or her full potential, so too does a nation. Public policy formation should start with this identity; historians should not simply be given the task of justifying already-created unpalatable policies to make them appeal to the nation. Historians can take current situations and make analogical comparisons with similar occurrences in the past, thus educating those who formulate public policy. 

One needs to be aware of the danger of looking for direct parallels in the past and thus predicting the future; successful use of history to guide current policy development will take into account the otherness of the past, the uniqueness of the present, and will at the same time 'reclaim some of the richness of past experiences'. A good example of this is Christopher Andrews examination of the 'Holy Terror'; he outlines that while US intelligence believes that the current war on terrorism, sparked by 9/11, is dealing with an entirely new adversary and thence requires unprecedented methods4, Early Modern Europe was also a society plagued by Muslim fanaticism in the form, for example, of Barbary ghuzat who saw themselves as religious warriors. A historical examiniation of this phenomenon ought to increase awareness for those involved in fighting against it. Likewise the study of economic history can increase understanding of the current recession; a recent study I carried out on the development of Antwerp in the sixteenth century outlined how the entrepreneurship of immigrants into the area was encouraged by the traditional stress put on 'values such as achievement, competition, toleration, industry, thrift and calculation'; these values had created a pro-enterprise culture'. As today's policy-makers seek to encourage entrepreneurship in Ireland, a consideration of successful enterprise cultures would no doubt be useful. 

NUIG MA class 2011-2012

 Personally I believe that historians have a vital role to play in the formation of public policy; much depends upon their own historical beliefs however, and it would be hoped that in Ireland those who have remained loyal to the essence of Irish identity would be the ones who have the greatest impact on the policy formation.

Called or Driven?

What you do v. What you are

He had nothing at all. His home was the wilderness, his food came from the wild and his clothes were the simplest one could find. He knew who he wasn't: 'I am not the Christ', and instead identified himself as just a voice – 'I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, Make straight the way of the Lord.'

And yet the people came and crowded around him as he stood and preached to them on the banks of the River Jordan. Thousands gathered, hungry, seeking, eager to hear these strange words, words they had never heard before. They came forward to be baptised; men followed him and became his disciples, listening intently to everything he said. This was a poor man, from a quiet humble home where he had lived with two elderly parents, suddenly thrust into the limelight, the news on the lips of every dweller in Israel. What an easy step it would have been to allow them to think that he was indeed the Messiah, and that deliverance would come through him!

But he knew the truth; solmenly, soberly, with an air of understanding he moved through the grateful, listening crowds, eyes roving the horizon for the Messiah whose coming he had been called to herald. Then one day he saw him; as the sun beamed down on the brown earth of the desert, and the people lined up to be baptised in the muddy waters of the Jordan, he looked and saw Him appear. Reverently, as silence fell on the watching crowds, he moved towards Him and spoke: 'Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sin of the world.'

Later, not long before imprisonment, his disciples came to him, disturbed and upset about Christ's actions amongst the people, which had resulted in their master's popularity decreasing. He shared with them the secret of his life's calling - 'A man can receive nothing except it be given him from heaven...He must increase but I must decrease.' Perhaps they stared at him, not understanding this man, who so easily accepted the way Christ 'took over' his ministry. Maybe he said quietly, 'You see, I get my joy, not in what I do, but in who I am – in God. I was called for a purpose, and I fulfilled my calling – Christ has come. Therefore is my joy fulfilled.

He died an ignominous death; but today we remember this humble man as John the Baptist. His name has lived on through the pages of history as the man who prepared the way for the coming of Christ. Why John? – God called and he responded. The call demanded submission to God's ways, God's methods and God's criteria of success. And John was willing to accept those terms no matter what the cost to him in pain or loneliness.

I want to be like John. Having listened to God's call, I can know my mission. It may demand courage and discipline, of course, but now the results are in the hands of the Caller. Whether I increase or decrease is His concern, not mine. To order my life according to the expectations of myself and others, and to value myself according to the opinions of others is to be a driven person. But to operate on the basis of God's call is to live the fulfilled life of a called person.

Ein Stern ist nur ein Loch in Himmel

This is a composition I wrote a few years ago for a German Creative Writing class. It's about a time when I was very down and felt terribly alone. I thought everything was over for me but then my eyes caught sight of the morning star shining out of a heavy black sky. Looking at it, I was suddenly transported into a place of beauty and happiness where nightmares were just unfortunate untrue dreams that quickly come and go. I reminded myself that the next time darkness comes, I must just search for the morning star. A star is just a peephole into heaven.

Der Stern

Ich bin allein, nur ich und eine grosse, unfreundliche Welt voller Dunkelheit und Einsamkeit. Es gibt kein Licht. Ich habe nie so tiefe Dunkelheit erlebt. Langsam versuche ich ein paar Schritte zu machen, aber kann keinen Boden unter meinen Fuessen fuhlen. Ich versuche verzweifelt etwas zu sehen, doch ich habe nur das furchtbare Gefuhl, von einer bedrohlichen, unerschoepflichen Grube umgeben zu sein. Ein eiskalter Wind weht – es geht durch meine Kleidung und schmerzt in meinen Knochen. Ich fuehle mich wie ein kleines Stueck Eis auf stuermischen Wasser. Ich rufe ‘Hallo!’ und warte aengstlich fuer ein Antwort. Aber ich hoere nichts – nur den Wind, den durch die Nacht heult und weint. Wo sind die Menschen? Ist noch niemand diesen Weg gegangen? Wasser ist auf meinen Gesicht und ich verstehe nicht, warum ich Salz schmecke. Bis ich realisiere, dass ich weine.


Voller Angst, sehe ich auf. Meine Augen blicken der unsichtbaren Grube hoch und suchen am Nachthimmel noch einmal nach einen Sterne.

Dann sehe ich ihn. Der Morgenstern. Es beleuchtet meine Welt wie die Sonne, den Mond und alle Sterne. Es ist schoen und waehrend ich ihn betrachte, scheint es mir, als waere ich ploetzlich in einer anderen Welt.

Hier ist es hell und warm und froehlich. Ich kann Lachen hoeren und Kinder spielen irgendwo. Hier gibts keine Geheimnisse, keine versteckte Gefahr. Der Wind weht auch, aber es ist nur eine Brise, frisch und voll mit dem Duft von Blumen. Alles ist farbig, die Sonne scheint, der Himmel ist blau und ohne Wolken. Ich mache meineAugen zu, und bin zufrieden, einfach die Waerme auf meinem Gesicht zu spueren. In der Naehe gibts einen Baum mit Fruechten, und ich nehme ein; die Suesse nimmt den Geschmack von Salz weg.

Mitten in meiner Freude, erinnere ich mich nur schwach die andere Welt.Den Albtraum. Wenn ich mich das naechste Mal verloren fuehle, muss ich einfach daran denken, nach dem Morgenstern zu suchen.

Ein Stern ist nur ein Loch in Himmel.

A World of Desert Islands

In Ireland, suicide rates are sadly soaring, especially among young men. I wrote this piece in the space of about an hour one Saturday afternoon as I stared into the embers of glowing fire in my cosy sitting-room. Now to put it into practice...

I’ve never been visited one, but from photographs they look idyllic; no human beings live upon them and many are devoid of even rough fisherman’s huts. Sometimes I simply want one of these beautiful desert islands all for myself - a little patch of palm-treed land in the middle of an azure blue sea, with golden sands and beautiful sunshine all day long. There time stands still; no appointments to keep, no lectures to attend, no questions to answer, no issues to be concerned about, no people to be bothered by...ah yes, on some of these dark, wet February days when I find it hard to believe that spring time really is here, I wish I had the wings of a bird and could fly away to my special place. The place where I choose everything myself and create my ideal world - my very own desert island.

But I know I'd soon tire of it. After about an hour, I would be walking to the edge of the soft, white sand and craning my eyes to see if there was anything interesting on the horizon, any ship I could call out to, any island I could swim to and explore. I would soon be restlessly pacing in the shade under the luscious palm trees, books thrown aside, sick and tired already of my own company. Why? Because no human being is designed to be - as John Donne so wonderfully put it – ‘an island unto himself’. Human beings are social creatures. Human beings are designed to relate to each other, to be interested in each other and to interact with each other in order to reach their potential.

Desert islands. Creating your dream life. Making everything fit perfectly, eliminating any distractions, any imperfections, anything annoying; pretending that the nasty things and the awkward people just don't exist; constantly reassuring yourself that the main thing that matters in this world is your own well-being. Deceive yourself if you want and ask the insolent question 'Am I my brother's keeper, my sister’s keeper? ' The fact is - you are; you have a responsibility for the person next to you – whether it's your brother, your sister, your friend, the girl in the tutorial that no-one wants to sit beside, the sad young man in the train station with his head in his hands, the stressed out mother, the lonely pensioner on the bus who never meets anyone from Monday through to Sunday - all humans, all part of this amazing yet terrible world, all unique individuals. Would you believe it if I said - ‘You have a responsibility for your fellow man'? Because, believe it or not, you do.

All you have to do is say hello, give a quick smile, listen to a rambling story, offer a word of encouragement, be there for a laugh and maybe some tears, send a text, press a 'like' button, retweet a tweet...or maybe you could go a bit further and ask 'How are you?' Don't accept the mere platitudes, the meaningless 'I'm fine', the talk of things like sport or the weather or what happened last night on Coronation Street that evade real, honest communication. In a country where suicide rates are soaring, don't stupidly believe it'll never happen to one of your classmates, one of your friends, one of the group of guys you always hang out with. Ask the question 'How are you?' and wait for the real answer – it will come if you wait long enough.

The desert island is attractive – but just for a little while. Remember it is a desert, and remember that no - one is an island unto him/herself. You are your brother's and your sister’s keeper.

The Story of the Widow's Son

Summer is a good time for caravanning, relaxing and clearing out. Especially when there’s a Cash for Clothes shop in town. On this particular occasion however I was sorting through piles of old books, cataloguing them for a hopeful sale, which might or might not happen…In the process I found a special book which I had studied at the tender age of 15.

Sporting an off-white cover with orange arrows criss-crossing over it, its title ‘Exploring English’ gave no hint of the wonders within. At first glance its interior provoked dismay - dull pages with lines of small black type, regular instances of those dreaded ‘Dig Deeper’ questions and not a picture in sight. ‘Let’s start here!’ said my wonderful teacher and, gathering around the comforting gas heater, we began our journey into the world of Irish short stories which soon proved to be fascinating.

I think it was truly then that words alone came alive for me. I learned how a writer could create a whole world with a few adept phrases, a brief description of a passing expression, some sparse details about a rural landscape, an adjective, a name. I experienced how a half-page of print could transport me into a world completely alien to my own, where the people were so different yet so alike in their fears, loves, thoughts, feelings and actions. I realised that the best stories were the simplest - the annual journey to the beach, the father returning to his childhood home with a nagging wife and bickering children, the decision to abandon a mercenary life so that one could have time to gaze at the stars, the widow whose precious son dies trying to save a chicken…

Yes, the story of the Widow’s Son was my favourite. Despite all the literature I have since read for school exams and at university, the story of Packy has always kept its place in my mind - its endless potential and yet its inevitable ending. The widow’s son is coming home from school on his bike, clutching a newly-won scholarship, down the steep, rough hill that leads to the little cottage. His mother watches him, this son that represents all she lives for, and their main source of income, the hens, cluster around her on the dusty road, pecking and clucking. Suddenly as Packy nears the humble abode a jittery hen zigzags out in front of the speeding bike and the cyclist brakes violently. The dust blows away to reveal an unharmed hen squawking as she waddles back to the others and an inert body lying on the road. The widow runs to her son, desperately wipes the grime from his face and realises the awful truth - the impact of the fall as the boy was thrown over the handlebars killed him. ‘Why did he try to save that useless chicken?’ she wails, as the neighbours gather around.

But there was another ending to the story too. Again Packy is coming home from school, and the widow watches as he zooms down the steep hill. Again the flighty hen crosses the road at the wrong time and again there is a squeal of brakes. When the dust blows away this time, there is a dead chicken on the road and a stunned boy covered with feathers and specks of blood. The widow runs to the hen, sees its lifeless state and turns on Packy. ‘You’ve killed the best egg-layer, you ungrateful wretch! You couldn’t care less, could you? Here am I, slaving away for you to get an education from day to day and you just go and kill my prime hen…! What am I, your servant, is it? Who gets your meals, your books, your clothes, provides a home for you to live in…?’ A crowd of neighbours have gathered to silently watch this dramatic scene. They take in every word, and waves of shame cover Packy. The next morning he has disappeared and a letter eventually arrives, saying he has got a job on a trawler and will send back money every week - ‘to pay for everything you’ve done for me.’

It made me think then, and it still does. Despite different happenings, the poor widow lost her son in both stories. How often we wonder about our lives and ask that ‘What if it was different? question! We dream up alternatives and paint beautiful pictures of perfect lives and happy endings. The only One who knows the real story of our lives from beginning to end is God; there seems to us to be sometimes a way that looks just perfect but ‘the end thereof are the ways of death.’(Prov 16:25) Only ‘His way is perfect.’ (Ps 18:30)

Happenings

Right now, I am preparing for my first teaching interview! I'm slightly nervous, wondering if I will be able to perform well, but at the same time I should think that a girl who has done so many German orals should find an interview in her own language easy enough!

At the same time, I'm considering doing an MA in History with NUI Galway. I have been offered a place by the School of History and, although I was initially firmly against returning to the much-trodden grounds of Áras na Mac Léinn and the Concourse, the idea is slowly growing on me. Any situation really is what you make of it yourself, and I think that if I resolve to act differently myself, set aside silly fears and assumptions and present a friendly, open face to everyone I meet, next year could be the opposite to what last year was. So much goes on inside active, imaginative minds and if I directed some of this 'creative energy' into projects outside of myself, I may find the year more fulfilling. The course itself appeals greatly to me.

Hmm...concerning Norris and Cox, the latest news is good news. Cox did not get the Fine Gael nomination and Norris campaign has suffered a fatal blow with the discovery that he used his position as a Senator to appeal for clemency for his ex-partner who had been charged with child abuse in Israel. The race looks set to lose the Grandpa-figure who is in reality a dangerous individual. These development have been an answer to prayer; it will be exciting to see what God does next.

Next week, I head for Deutschland. Back to Bayern and all it symbolizes. It will be a time of relaxation, thoughtfulness, sight-seeing and visiting. Periods of aloneness will give me time to start thinking about a thesis, which hopefully will have some form of European educational history at its center. It will be without a doubt interesting, and I look greatly forward to it.

Cox and Norris: the Mysteries of Irish Politics

The Irish Presidential election is on its way. It’ll be 3 months of pure hype, jammed radio lines, pointless TV debates where no conclusive result is ever reached and articles in the paper about which candidate has the best dress sense. Already its been crazy and in the midst of all the craziness, there’s unfortunately no rock of sense, no person to whom you can look and say, ‘He or She is the One for the House.’

In Ireland the abnormal can very quickly be seen as normal. A country which is fast developing dangerous Orwellian tendencies can now actually consider a man with pronounced views on incest and child abuse, David Norris, as a valid candidate for the Presidency. This is a country, remember, which has been ripped apart in recent years by discoveries that that hallowed institution, so dear to the hearts of Irish people, was home to the most cruel, sadistic child abusers that Ireland has perhaps ever seen. Lives, homes, communities, and indeed whole societies were wounded, sometimes fatally, by these revelations; yet we blindly embrace and endorse a man to be our President who holds these views. How completely contradictory and stupid can we be? Ireland should be rising from the battle, determined to become an international ambassador for vulnerable children and young people by showing an example in national policy and belief. Instead a man who endorses under-age sexual activity and says a case can be made for incest has the nerve to run for Presidency - indeed can top online polls and be nominated by members of government.

Lets look at another unbelievable situation. Imagine this: a man becomes a member of a party one day, and the next day is nominated by that party as their presidential candidate. Would that happen to me? No way. After years of ground work and building support I might garner enough guts to stand for a Local Council election - and then in all likelihood wouldn’t even get elected, because as we all know its usually second time successful. Then after a few more years I might get a seat in Leinster House; then after a few decades of fighting for the rights of the underprivileged or special needs children or in bridging the gap between warring factions in Limerick (using a new method which would soon prove to be successful with the drug gangs in Mexico City and the minority groups of South-East Ukraine) I might just feel confident enough to think about the Presidency. I would have to talk with other party members and logically assess my situation; standing for Party Nomination would require long speeches and promises and pledges, and then in the end I probably mightn’t even get it because there would be someone with much better qualifications (from Dublin, aristocratic background, key player in resolving Northern problem, Nobel Peace Prize winner etc) who would almost automatically receive it, and I would have to humbly bow out of the race and loyally support the nominee in every way I can.

Not so with Pat Cox. He can do in two days what the rest of us might hope to attain in a lifetime. He’s got a bit of an identity crisis I think, as he used to be an Independent, then he was part of Progressive Democrats and now of course he has taken a bit of a liking to Fine Gael. What Cox has though that makes him special are his friends in Europe, particularly those in the Spinelli group. And Europe have been pulling the strings in the Blueshirt party machine a bit. You see Ireland’s strong nationalistic spirit is hard one to crack and the powers that be are of the opinion that a strong European hand on the Irish helm could put a few things 'right'. But are they going to bludgeon their way through reality and force the impossible to happen? Apparently. They got Lisbon 2 passed, for example. I keep saying to myself, ‘This cannot happen! It’s wrong!’ but the personal opinion of the people and common sense just don’t seem to matter anymore.

So that’s the way it is at the moment. It’s just the beginning now and who knows what will happen during the next couple of months? In Ireland you expect the unexpected. I just hope that we won’t find ourselves descending further into the morass we’re in right now.

A Day at School

A Day at School

It's another morning. I stumble out the door of the house, armed with big black handbag and laptop bag, and start the car. With heat turned on full blast, I head down the road, wipers going like crazy, hoping to miss the morning rush. Right at the roundabout, straight through Mulroy's junction, remember the speed limit, this would be a typical morning for the curley tails to be out. As I accelerate down the N4, I turn up the Cathedrals' singing Daystar, joining in at the top of my voice because no-one can hear me here. I like this song – 'Let Your love shine through me in the night', and I like to make it my prayer, because beyond teaching well, and giving grades and correcting copies, I want to make an impact on each child's soul for eternity.

School. Buses are pulled in outside, along with cars and there are kids pouring from in from every side, a blue army descending on a grey building. They all look the same, yet each one is a totally different bundle of fears and desires; some wave at me at as I pull into my car-park space, and I smile back. I get my stuff, lock up the car, climb the white steps, and enter the school. Inside, the familiar smell of baking bread from the canteen fills the air and the principle walks up and down the corridor, making sure everyone is behaving as they congregate around lockers and collect books. In the staffroom, there are teachers drinking tea, making toast, yawning, chatting and most of all photocopying. I leave my bags in my spot under the window and prepare for my first class, saying 'Good Morning' to a couple of people.

The bell goes, and the staffroom is empty in about 30 seconds. In my classroom, Room 2, a smell of fresh paint fills the air as it has been just recently renovated. The room is buzzing with noise and laughter and I say nothing for a moment, waiting for last-minute stragglers to come in and finding the right page in my book. Then I close the door, write the page-number on the board and shout – 'Okay everyone, books open, copies out, turn around in your chairs, enough talking please!' Slowly 24 fourteen-year-olds quieten down, scrambling for pencils and asking 'Miss, what page is it?' Patiently I say, 'It's on the board.' This happens about 3 times. After calling the roll, class begins, and the 40 minutes pass quickly, with questions, and complaints about homework, and threats of points and imaginative answers. Then the bell goes and there is a rush for the door; as one teacher says 'They'd run you over, so they would.'

Every day is different and you can never predict what is going to happen next; fainting girls, shoes disappearing, tears, fits of hysterical laughter, questions like:

'Miss, are you 23?'

'If all the noblemen were inside the castle having a feast and the IRA threw a handgrenade at the castle, what would happen?'

'Miss, are we your favourite class?'

'Miss, amn't I talented at English when I try?'

'Miss, when is your last day?'

'Miss, I got the Iphone 4, here look at it, do you like it?'

'Miss, was teaching your first choice?'

'Miss, have you learned a lot from teaching me?'

There are comments like:

'We never understood it before but we do now...thanks Miss',

'Miss, right now I'm bored out of my mind,'

'Miss, poetry is useless – like, nobody uses it in real life...'

There are the kids who seem unable to sit quietly in their seats, the ones who boast of the amount of points they have and say to their friends -

'Aw man I've got lunchtime detention again.' High Five. 'G'man Johnny.'

And there are the ones who never utter a peek, speak in a low tone of voice all the time, and seem to have their minds on something else. They're the ones whose hearts can sometimes be hurting a lot; they're unable to join in the lightheartedness around them, and they are overcome at any sign of care or affection.

The day goes on and when 3:30 comes around, the school wakes up from its after lunch slumber. After I've wiped the tables and filled the dishwasher for the hundreth time in 6 weeks, it's going home time. 'G'bye Miss Burke', shouts red-haired Sarah as I lug all my stuff out, unlock the car, drive out the narrow gates, and out of the small little town of Foxford. Tomorrow will be another day.

Lest We Forget.

A wonderful message imprinted on a grey, cracked wall in the city of Paris

Boy

BOY

By a student teacher

There's a gap between your front teeth,

And yesterday a big black bruise

Adorned your forehead.

You pointed cheerfully at Billy, best friend

For a hundred years,

‘He did it - we were horsin' 'round,

Great craic like.'

I watch you write, each letter a trial of

Patience, pain and

Perseverance.

The marks you leave look more like a

Trail of rabbits' footprints

Than that list of German

Verbs

I spent all week trying to teach you.

Boxing matches and frogs and rugby

And Billy

And ‘Are you on Facebook, Miss?'

A boy, walking across the road of life.

Over hills, through valleys,

Step carefully on those creaking bridges,

Watch the traffic on those

Highways.

Sometimes I feel your eyes on me

During a lull in the restlessness of a boy.

Brown eyes, mirrors of the soul,

Filled with painful, frightened,

Lonely questions

That you could never ask aloud,

And I see the hidden spirit that is

Locked away behind the talk of girls and detention.

Its hard being a boy from a broken home in a

Predatory,

Bloodthirsty world.

Boy, our paths crossed for a few, short weeks,

And though I would show you the best road map

For the rough, wild way that lies ahead,

And hold your hand like a guide through the

Maze of growing-up years,

I must soon leave.

All I can do is give you my prayers

And the memory

Of someone who truly cared

For a boy.

The New Year

Happy New Year!

Past memories are poignant and precious; they speak of that other world, where I once fell, the one I face yet still most days. The world where the idealist approaches the brick wall of reality and either crashes into it and falls stunned to the ground, or, receiving a fresh surge of power, it lifts higher and flies above the monstrous concrete structure. This year, O God, may I fly higher.

'There is often conflict between the ideal and the practical, the remote and the immediate; and this conflict presents real problems. As idealists we may live on a different plane and with a different set of standards than the pragmatist. The idealist will, for instance, regard love as a higher broader basis of judgement than sheer retributive justice. He will seek to lay up treasure in heaven rather than upon earth. He will measure values in terms of service to others rather than benefit to self. We need constantly to life our sights above worldly standards - success depends upon the strength of our courage and conviction, upon the clarity with which we see issues.' (A wise person, whose name I never recorded)

I am excited about 2011. I believe it will be a good year - yes, we are sunk middle in a deep depression and the snow and ice are due back next Tuesday evening with temperatures of -6 degrees, but a flame of hope burns within me. It really does.

Motto: 'Go and do thou likewise' (Luke 11)