Greetings fellow travellers, hope the sunshine isn't too much of a shock for you all?
The title of our lesson today is pretty much self explanatory, it is a reflection of one year in the life of the Guru, and that year is a period that ran from mid 1977 to mid 1978.
Don't fret pet, I'm not going to go through the whole year - it is just that recent events have had me recalling those years when I was a teenage Guru and this period was quite an important time in many ways.
It was a little over a week ago that I attended the concert that I reported in my last blog and of course one of the main attractions of that concert was the music of John Williams, specifically the music of Star Wars.
Star Wars was released across the US in May 1977, here in the UK we had to wait until December but in the meantime Meco released the Star Wars theme as a disco track and I must admit it was played an awful lot in our 5th Form Common Room during breaks and the lunch hour.
I can't recall how many times I actually went to see the film after it was released but it was enough to qualify me as a fan, and as I was already a Trekkie this only added to my geek status.
I will never tire of watching the films (Episodes 4-6 of course) and the music is never off my playlist - both the disco version and the original soundtrack version.
1977 was a great year, not only did we have Star Wars and Close Encounters Of The Third Kind, there was also Saturday Night Fever, A Bridge Too Far and The Spy Who Loved Me.
The music of that era was to my liking - never really understood why the music of the 1970's is thought so bad. OK, we had David Soul and Leo Sayer but then we also had Fleetwood Mac, Abba, Stevie Wonder, and all the great dance tracks from the likes of Thelma Houston, The Village People and Donna Summer.
Punk was really getting started - I didn't join that party because I was not angry at anything - I was living a very contented life and so my musical taste reflected that.
Although the film of Saturday Night Fever didn't appear in the UK until the beginning of 1978, we had been hearing the soundtrack on the radio for sometime and I really did love that soundtrack because again it fitted my mood...I should admit that eventually I even bought a pair of white shoes which were proudly worn on the dance floor at various venues including Cinderella Rockerfella's in Lincoln.
Luckily Mrs B was not present at these occasions and I do wonder what she would have thought as I danced myself dizzy.
These were great times to be a teenager, and I suppose the death of Donna Summer and Robin Gibb have brought these memories to the forefront of my mind - adding to the great memories of the films we queued, and queued to see.
I'm glad I was born when I was and where I was, I had a very happy childhood and I was exposed to some great cultural influences - and how wonderful that the brightness of those times is captured forever in film and on disc and in our hearts.
Meco - Star Wars
Donna Summer - I Feel Love
Night Fever - The Bee Gees
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Where's The Orchestra?
Forgive me, my children, for I have sinned. It has been some time since my last confession.
I was politely informed yesterday that I was neglecting my little flock so I return to the keyboard in the hope that I have not lost my touch.
A mixed bag of thoughts today held together by a tenuous link which you will have to try and spot for yourself.
I have been living the bachelor life for a few days as Mrs B is required elsewhere, and as yet I have not resorted to fish finger sandwiches as my only source of sustenance. Although tonight I will be savouring the delights of a Sainsbury's own brand Balti curry with a smattering of samosas as an aperitif.
You will please take note that the curry is not from Tesco - well I tend to avoid the place if not accompanied by Mrs B, as I am liable to say something politically incorrect to the staff...and the troglodytes.
The terror of Tesco aside, it was still bad enough standing in a short queue at Sainsbury's and hearing the checkout girl go through the checklist of statements that they are trained to deliver - the first being "sorry to keep you waiting".
"I've not been waiting, I've been queueing and there is a difference" came my rather barbed reply.
The girl looked up and almost swallowed her chewing gum. She then said, without the slightest hint of irony whatsoever, "sorry you've had to queue".
I decided to carry on being mean and said, "but I love to queue, it's why I come to supermarkets and may I say the quality of your queue is first class at the side of some I have been in".
I waited for the flash of inspiration to brighten her glazed eyes, but she simply lowered them back to her duties and intoned "do you need a bag today". (It was so deadpan it didn't even deserve a question mark).
I just gave up - "yes please" was all I could muster.
I packed my things and walked away thinking about how lonely and isolated she seemed to be, sat there in a huge building full of people and yet disconnected from it all. The corporate beatings in the back room as they drilled the statements like 'have a nice day' into her, had left her a very sad sight indeed.
I have also this week performed a funeral ceremony for a man who chose to live away from the rest of humanity, or distance himself as far as he could from the rest of us. He died alone under the wide and starry sky and was not missed for quite some time.
Now this would at first glance strike you as a sad tale but then you must remember that he lived this way by choice.
As I stood waiting to conduct his funeral I watched the wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the crematorium and a thought came into my head. I included this thought in the ceremony and it passed over the heads of the few who had gathered to pay their respects, pretty much without effect.
The thought was this - when we are most alone we realise that we can never be totally alone because at that point we realise we are connected to everything.
Hearing the wind in the trees made me understand how a man on his own might hear god whispering to him, if he had that sort of mindset. Others may stand and hear the wind in the trees and tune into that more natural conversation that takes place between a man and his environment. I suppose it's a sort of pantheism or a spiritual humanism as we realise that although we may place ourselves at the top of the food chain, but we are still part of the food chain.
Is this too deep? Sorry, but I feel the need to press on - very much like a sanitary towel.
On Saturday I was lucky enough to go and see the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, perhaps I should say I was lucky enough to go and hear the CBSO. It was a brilliant concert in which they played the music of John Williams, with excerpts from Jaws, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List.
An orchestra is made up of about 100 players and each of them bring their individual skills to the event and as they play you can see how lost they are in their part of the process of making music. But it only works because the sum of all the parts is greater than their individual efforts. And yet, take one of them away and what happens?
Let us consider the case of the man who plays the triangle. It always amazes me that above the swell of the strings and the strident notes of the horns you can hear that 'ting' of the triangle so clearly.
The man who lived apart, the girl on the checkout, me without Mrs B, we all have our part to play in the orchestration of the music of life and I'm going to make sure my triangle is heard.
The battle to be who we are and who we want to be - what a challenge it can be on occasion.
In a world that is trying to beat us all into submission and sit us all at the checkout of life intoning bland statements by rote, we should never miss a chance to listen to the wind in the trees. You might just hear the wind, you might hear something that only you can hear but I bet the next time you do stand and watch the trees dance to the music of life, you will hear the triangle...because that will be you.
I was politely informed yesterday that I was neglecting my little flock so I return to the keyboard in the hope that I have not lost my touch.
A mixed bag of thoughts today held together by a tenuous link which you will have to try and spot for yourself.
I have been living the bachelor life for a few days as Mrs B is required elsewhere, and as yet I have not resorted to fish finger sandwiches as my only source of sustenance. Although tonight I will be savouring the delights of a Sainsbury's own brand Balti curry with a smattering of samosas as an aperitif.
You will please take note that the curry is not from Tesco - well I tend to avoid the place if not accompanied by Mrs B, as I am liable to say something politically incorrect to the staff...and the troglodytes.
The terror of Tesco aside, it was still bad enough standing in a short queue at Sainsbury's and hearing the checkout girl go through the checklist of statements that they are trained to deliver - the first being "sorry to keep you waiting".
"I've not been waiting, I've been queueing and there is a difference" came my rather barbed reply.
The girl looked up and almost swallowed her chewing gum. She then said, without the slightest hint of irony whatsoever, "sorry you've had to queue".
I decided to carry on being mean and said, "but I love to queue, it's why I come to supermarkets and may I say the quality of your queue is first class at the side of some I have been in".
I waited for the flash of inspiration to brighten her glazed eyes, but she simply lowered them back to her duties and intoned "do you need a bag today". (It was so deadpan it didn't even deserve a question mark).
I just gave up - "yes please" was all I could muster.
I packed my things and walked away thinking about how lonely and isolated she seemed to be, sat there in a huge building full of people and yet disconnected from it all. The corporate beatings in the back room as they drilled the statements like 'have a nice day' into her, had left her a very sad sight indeed.
I have also this week performed a funeral ceremony for a man who chose to live away from the rest of humanity, or distance himself as far as he could from the rest of us. He died alone under the wide and starry sky and was not missed for quite some time.
Now this would at first glance strike you as a sad tale but then you must remember that he lived this way by choice.
As I stood waiting to conduct his funeral I watched the wind blowing through the trees in the grounds of the crematorium and a thought came into my head. I included this thought in the ceremony and it passed over the heads of the few who had gathered to pay their respects, pretty much without effect.
The thought was this - when we are most alone we realise that we can never be totally alone because at that point we realise we are connected to everything.
Hearing the wind in the trees made me understand how a man on his own might hear god whispering to him, if he had that sort of mindset. Others may stand and hear the wind in the trees and tune into that more natural conversation that takes place between a man and his environment. I suppose it's a sort of pantheism or a spiritual humanism as we realise that although we may place ourselves at the top of the food chain, but we are still part of the food chain.
Is this too deep? Sorry, but I feel the need to press on - very much like a sanitary towel.
On Saturday I was lucky enough to go and see the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra, perhaps I should say I was lucky enough to go and hear the CBSO. It was a brilliant concert in which they played the music of John Williams, with excerpts from Jaws, Star Wars, Harry Potter, Saving Private Ryan and Schindler's List.
An orchestra is made up of about 100 players and each of them bring their individual skills to the event and as they play you can see how lost they are in their part of the process of making music. But it only works because the sum of all the parts is greater than their individual efforts. And yet, take one of them away and what happens?
Let us consider the case of the man who plays the triangle. It always amazes me that above the swell of the strings and the strident notes of the horns you can hear that 'ting' of the triangle so clearly.
The man who lived apart, the girl on the checkout, me without Mrs B, we all have our part to play in the orchestration of the music of life and I'm going to make sure my triangle is heard.
The battle to be who we are and who we want to be - what a challenge it can be on occasion.
In a world that is trying to beat us all into submission and sit us all at the checkout of life intoning bland statements by rote, we should never miss a chance to listen to the wind in the trees. You might just hear the wind, you might hear something that only you can hear but I bet the next time you do stand and watch the trees dance to the music of life, you will hear the triangle...because that will be you.
Thursday, 3 May 2012
An Innocent Man
Just when you thought I would never bother you again, here I am.
Life has been very busy here on the Hill, it is starting to calm down a little now and hopefully later this week we will return to normality - or a new state of normality at the very least.
It doesn't take much to throw the normal routine of life into chaos does it? A family illness, a mechanical issue with your car, a dispute with a large corporation over £60 being nabbed from your bank account - it all makes day to day life a little less cheery.
Then there was the weather of course, bucket loads of rain falling all over the country adding to the misery levels.
I sometimes think that if we didn't have the weather to moan about, some folk would never have a conversation!
Perhaps we should move to the substantive part of todays communiqué or Bull as I would like it to be known.
A Papal Bull is a letter from the Pope and most of them are just that....bull!
Collective muttering - 'Here we go, another swing at the Catholic Church'.
I sat and watched Darragh MacIntyre's documentary about child sex abuse in the Catholic Church last night, it made disturbing viewing. Much of what he reported had been in the public domain for a while but the really shocking thing was the revelation that Cardinal Sean Brady, the leader of the church in Ireland, had been involved in an alleged cover up of abuse.
He had been a priest at the time, charged with investigating allegations into the conduct of Father Brendan Smyth and he took a statement from a very brave boy who outlined the levels of abuse he and others had suffered. The young boy, Brendan Boland, even provided names and addresses of other victims he was aware of, before being sworn to secrecy by Brady.
The information was never passed on nor acted upon and the abuse of the other children continued for many years.
Brady had formerly stated that if he thought any action or inaction of his had led to young people being victimised, then he would resign and yet faced with this allegation he steadfastly hangs onto power and uses weasel words to justify himself.
He claims he is an innocent man - well thank goodness his innocence is important to him, because the innocence of the children his church was supposed to care for was obviously not important at all.
Father Brendan Smyth died in prison, does that make his victims sleep easier? I doubt it.
The Catholic Church should just come out and apologise totally and without any caveats, there can be no excuse for the perpetuating of abuse by hiding the facts.
There we have it then, my little Bull. And if any of you are thinking of Tommy Steele, you must be as old as me!
Life has been very busy here on the Hill, it is starting to calm down a little now and hopefully later this week we will return to normality - or a new state of normality at the very least.
It doesn't take much to throw the normal routine of life into chaos does it? A family illness, a mechanical issue with your car, a dispute with a large corporation over £60 being nabbed from your bank account - it all makes day to day life a little less cheery.
Then there was the weather of course, bucket loads of rain falling all over the country adding to the misery levels.
I sometimes think that if we didn't have the weather to moan about, some folk would never have a conversation!
Perhaps we should move to the substantive part of todays communiqué or Bull as I would like it to be known.
A Papal Bull is a letter from the Pope and most of them are just that....bull!
Collective muttering - 'Here we go, another swing at the Catholic Church'.
I sat and watched Darragh MacIntyre's documentary about child sex abuse in the Catholic Church last night, it made disturbing viewing. Much of what he reported had been in the public domain for a while but the really shocking thing was the revelation that Cardinal Sean Brady, the leader of the church in Ireland, had been involved in an alleged cover up of abuse.
He had been a priest at the time, charged with investigating allegations into the conduct of Father Brendan Smyth and he took a statement from a very brave boy who outlined the levels of abuse he and others had suffered. The young boy, Brendan Boland, even provided names and addresses of other victims he was aware of, before being sworn to secrecy by Brady.
The information was never passed on nor acted upon and the abuse of the other children continued for many years.
Brady had formerly stated that if he thought any action or inaction of his had led to young people being victimised, then he would resign and yet faced with this allegation he steadfastly hangs onto power and uses weasel words to justify himself.
He claims he is an innocent man - well thank goodness his innocence is important to him, because the innocence of the children his church was supposed to care for was obviously not important at all.
Father Brendan Smyth died in prison, does that make his victims sleep easier? I doubt it.
The Catholic Church should just come out and apologise totally and without any caveats, there can be no excuse for the perpetuating of abuse by hiding the facts.
There we have it then, my little Bull. And if any of you are thinking of Tommy Steele, you must be as old as me!
Thursday, 19 April 2012
Old Friends
I'm not sure about all of you but I am pretty much fed up with the rain on the roof as it goes pit-pitty-pat and if I had a kitty cat I would tell it to sit. (If you get this reference well done).
Life is very full at the minute my dears, filled with the very real ups and downs of life and so taking time to escape for a coupe of hours is even more welcome which is why last evening we ventured to the Theatre Royal in Nottingham to see a performance of Save The Last Dance.
One of Mrs B's work colleagues commented that we seem to go to the theatre an awful lot - and perhaps we do. What is wrong with that I ask?
I have a pile of tickets next to me that will see us visit local theatres for six forthcoming events as well as The Royal Albert Hall in a few weeks for The Night of 1000 Voices.
I suppose I still hanker after the thrill of appearing on stage, I did so love it. Perhaps I will find my way back again but in the meantime we invest our well earned pennies in that pile of tickets that open up the magical world of theatre and an escape from reality for a little while.
Save The Last Dance is what they might call a jukebox musical in that it is peppered with songs that were very familiar, most from the pen of Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman. Now these were names that I could not say I had heard before but you will know the songs of that I am sure: Sweets For My Sweet, Teenager In Love, Suspicion, His Latest Flame and Viva Las Vegas to cite just a few.
The show was written by Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran and has been produced by Bill Kenwright and Laurie Mansfield.
Lord Sir Bill of Kenwright is a very wise man and he has put together a show that will leave the audience with a huge grin on their face and a song on their lips as they trip through the discarded toffee wrappers and empty ice cream tubs back out into the rain.
The story is a simple one and initially I thought too simple but in the end you realise that the simplicity of girl meets boy works really well. A white girl from Luton meets a black USAF airmen whilst on holiday in Lowestoft, what follows is a sweet love story which deftly looks at the racism of an era. The events are set in the 1960's thereby allowing the backdrop of some wonderfully evocative music.
The actors are what you might call unknowns but they deliver a fine ensemble performance with many doubling up as members of a brilliant band. The longer the show went on the louder the response from an almost packed house, singing along with all of the songs we recalled so easily. This was an audience of a certain age whose connection to the music was evident, not least displayed in the fact that the family sat in front of us had come decked out in 1960's period costume.
Not everything was perfect with the show, one of the lead actresses needs to work on her diction when singing but even worse was a character called Carlo, an ice cream seller whose father was from Naples which meant he could try out a nice cod Italian accent but then we discovered he was really from Wolverhampton.
Not to blow my own trumpet, but I have experience of being on stage and deploying the lethal comedy weapon that is a Wolverhampton accent - the actor playing Carlo, Graham Weaver, could not contain the might of this weapon and his accent drifted badly until it landed just south of Liverpool! It was horrendous but...let me try that again...BUT, when Graham Weaver sang Hushabye all was forgiven. The most beautiful singing voice - clear, strong and pitch perfect.
It was a great night in the theatre and everyone had a good singalong and we did all go home very much brighter in spite of the rhythm of the pouring rain and the vicissitudes of life.
If the show comes anywhere near you I recommend you buy a ticket.
As an aside, if you are in London please go and see Shrek:The Musical as Alastair Natkiel is playing the role of Lord Farquaad from the 27th April for one week. He will be brilliant and as he is the most famous person I know in the West End I felt it my duty to let you all share him a little.
OK, I better go and make some progress work wise but I will be singing as I go, why not join me...
Save The Last Dance
Life is very full at the minute my dears, filled with the very real ups and downs of life and so taking time to escape for a coupe of hours is even more welcome which is why last evening we ventured to the Theatre Royal in Nottingham to see a performance of Save The Last Dance.
One of Mrs B's work colleagues commented that we seem to go to the theatre an awful lot - and perhaps we do. What is wrong with that I ask?
I have a pile of tickets next to me that will see us visit local theatres for six forthcoming events as well as The Royal Albert Hall in a few weeks for The Night of 1000 Voices.
I suppose I still hanker after the thrill of appearing on stage, I did so love it. Perhaps I will find my way back again but in the meantime we invest our well earned pennies in that pile of tickets that open up the magical world of theatre and an escape from reality for a little while.
Save The Last Dance is what they might call a jukebox musical in that it is peppered with songs that were very familiar, most from the pen of Doc Pomus and Mort Shuman. Now these were names that I could not say I had heard before but you will know the songs of that I am sure: Sweets For My Sweet, Teenager In Love, Suspicion, His Latest Flame and Viva Las Vegas to cite just a few.
The show was written by Laurence Marks and Maurice Gran and has been produced by Bill Kenwright and Laurie Mansfield.
Lord Sir Bill of Kenwright is a very wise man and he has put together a show that will leave the audience with a huge grin on their face and a song on their lips as they trip through the discarded toffee wrappers and empty ice cream tubs back out into the rain.
The story is a simple one and initially I thought too simple but in the end you realise that the simplicity of girl meets boy works really well. A white girl from Luton meets a black USAF airmen whilst on holiday in Lowestoft, what follows is a sweet love story which deftly looks at the racism of an era. The events are set in the 1960's thereby allowing the backdrop of some wonderfully evocative music.
The actors are what you might call unknowns but they deliver a fine ensemble performance with many doubling up as members of a brilliant band. The longer the show went on the louder the response from an almost packed house, singing along with all of the songs we recalled so easily. This was an audience of a certain age whose connection to the music was evident, not least displayed in the fact that the family sat in front of us had come decked out in 1960's period costume.
Not everything was perfect with the show, one of the lead actresses needs to work on her diction when singing but even worse was a character called Carlo, an ice cream seller whose father was from Naples which meant he could try out a nice cod Italian accent but then we discovered he was really from Wolverhampton.
Not to blow my own trumpet, but I have experience of being on stage and deploying the lethal comedy weapon that is a Wolverhampton accent - the actor playing Carlo, Graham Weaver, could not contain the might of this weapon and his accent drifted badly until it landed just south of Liverpool! It was horrendous but...let me try that again...BUT, when Graham Weaver sang Hushabye all was forgiven. The most beautiful singing voice - clear, strong and pitch perfect.
It was a great night in the theatre and everyone had a good singalong and we did all go home very much brighter in spite of the rhythm of the pouring rain and the vicissitudes of life.
If the show comes anywhere near you I recommend you buy a ticket.
As an aside, if you are in London please go and see Shrek:The Musical as Alastair Natkiel is playing the role of Lord Farquaad from the 27th April for one week. He will be brilliant and as he is the most famous person I know in the West End I felt it my duty to let you all share him a little.
OK, I better go and make some progress work wise but I will be singing as I go, why not join me...
Save The Last Dance
Saturday, 14 April 2012
Epiphany
Do you think that telling the truth is important? Do you think honesty and straightforwardness are virtues?
When I stand behind the lectern and deliver a funeral ceremony I have always tried to be guided by the needs of the family and those mourners who have come to support them and pay their respects. My ability to deliver a ceremony is based on the sharing of memories, as I am usually a stranger to the deceased.
I have to maintain a strong belief that what I am told is true and therefore I can repeat it feeling that I am speaking in honest terms about the life lived. I have often mused what I would do if I knew I was being fed a load of rubbish which I was then expected to regurgitate.
Delivering the eulogy is the easiest part of the job for me, creating it after visiting the family is the hard bit...you have to listen and listen carefully, not just with your ears but your eyes too.
In recent days I have delivered tributes for a lady who died at the age 94, and a man who ended his own life at 39.
In meeting with the families it soon became apparent that they both needed a degree of finesse in reaching a final ceremony that would serve their needs. For obvious reason I cannot go into specifics but needless to say I worked hard and prepared two unique ceremonies for two unique lives. The first was delivered without difficulty and the family were very pleased with the result, the second was more problematic because as I tried to deliver the ceremony I had prepared another one popped into my head.
It was for the same man but the words I had on paper did not come out of my mouth - instead I found myself talking about perspective and judgement.
We are very complicated creatures and we show different aspects of that nature to the people we share life with. Some are able to see more than one side of a personality because of the time they spend in that persons company but others might only see one glimpse of a mans life and from that glimpse draw a conclusion of what they are like.
The mourners all knew that the deceased had killed himself, and that had led some of them to reach a certain truth about him and his life - you could see the pity in their faces.
I pointed out that pity was a judgement on the life of the person they must have loved, or else why be at his funeral?
What really gives us the right to judge the life of another because of one choice and one decision that might have been driven by circumstances well beyond his control?
As it happens, I was very well aware of some of the reasons that may have helped this young man decide to end his life and I understood his choice. More than that, I can acknowledge his right to make that choice.
Buzzing around in my head as I spoke was a feeling that he had been truthful in his choice, and although some there believed his choice was indulgent and selfish it was plain that in his mind there was no other choice...and I knew as I looked into the eyes of his sisters that they believed that too. So I told THAT truth to the congregation. I challenged them to judge the choice if they wished but not to judge the man who made it.
Of course you don't have to agree with the choice, you can feel sad that it was made and that a life was ended, that is a valid response - but to judge the man is a different matter altogether.
I can hear you all saying, but Guru, you constantly judge others in your insightful witty way...this is true but of course I am the exception that proves the rule.
How do we sum up a life in words, in twenty five minutes, in a room that is designed to remind us of death? We could tell the story of where someone is born, goes to school, works, talk about their hobbies and retell a few funny tales or perhaps we should just acknowledge that a life is more than words and a list of things.
My closing words to the family and friends of the young man who died were something like:
...it's about the connection, that's the reason he sticks in your mind and in your heart and you know you'll never be rid of that feeling. It's because of all the choices he made with you, for you, because of you and of all the choices you made in return. It's because above all else he was who he was - and he could never be anything other than true to his nature. He was honest about that and he remained honest about that to the very end. Don't we applaud honesty in this country? Don't we hold honesty in high regard? Here lies an honest man...
Perspective and truth. I don't claim to be right all of the time and I know that some went away from that funeral a little lost but I also know that those who knew and loved that man best of all gave me the biggest hug and walked away with a renewed respect for the honesty of life and death.
When I stand behind the lectern and deliver a funeral ceremony I have always tried to be guided by the needs of the family and those mourners who have come to support them and pay their respects. My ability to deliver a ceremony is based on the sharing of memories, as I am usually a stranger to the deceased.
I have to maintain a strong belief that what I am told is true and therefore I can repeat it feeling that I am speaking in honest terms about the life lived. I have often mused what I would do if I knew I was being fed a load of rubbish which I was then expected to regurgitate.
Delivering the eulogy is the easiest part of the job for me, creating it after visiting the family is the hard bit...you have to listen and listen carefully, not just with your ears but your eyes too.
In recent days I have delivered tributes for a lady who died at the age 94, and a man who ended his own life at 39.
In meeting with the families it soon became apparent that they both needed a degree of finesse in reaching a final ceremony that would serve their needs. For obvious reason I cannot go into specifics but needless to say I worked hard and prepared two unique ceremonies for two unique lives. The first was delivered without difficulty and the family were very pleased with the result, the second was more problematic because as I tried to deliver the ceremony I had prepared another one popped into my head.
It was for the same man but the words I had on paper did not come out of my mouth - instead I found myself talking about perspective and judgement.
We are very complicated creatures and we show different aspects of that nature to the people we share life with. Some are able to see more than one side of a personality because of the time they spend in that persons company but others might only see one glimpse of a mans life and from that glimpse draw a conclusion of what they are like.
The mourners all knew that the deceased had killed himself, and that had led some of them to reach a certain truth about him and his life - you could see the pity in their faces.
I pointed out that pity was a judgement on the life of the person they must have loved, or else why be at his funeral?
What really gives us the right to judge the life of another because of one choice and one decision that might have been driven by circumstances well beyond his control?
As it happens, I was very well aware of some of the reasons that may have helped this young man decide to end his life and I understood his choice. More than that, I can acknowledge his right to make that choice.
Buzzing around in my head as I spoke was a feeling that he had been truthful in his choice, and although some there believed his choice was indulgent and selfish it was plain that in his mind there was no other choice...and I knew as I looked into the eyes of his sisters that they believed that too. So I told THAT truth to the congregation. I challenged them to judge the choice if they wished but not to judge the man who made it.
Of course you don't have to agree with the choice, you can feel sad that it was made and that a life was ended, that is a valid response - but to judge the man is a different matter altogether.
I can hear you all saying, but Guru, you constantly judge others in your insightful witty way...this is true but of course I am the exception that proves the rule.
How do we sum up a life in words, in twenty five minutes, in a room that is designed to remind us of death? We could tell the story of where someone is born, goes to school, works, talk about their hobbies and retell a few funny tales or perhaps we should just acknowledge that a life is more than words and a list of things.
My closing words to the family and friends of the young man who died were something like:
...it's about the connection, that's the reason he sticks in your mind and in your heart and you know you'll never be rid of that feeling. It's because of all the choices he made with you, for you, because of you and of all the choices you made in return. It's because above all else he was who he was - and he could never be anything other than true to his nature. He was honest about that and he remained honest about that to the very end. Don't we applaud honesty in this country? Don't we hold honesty in high regard? Here lies an honest man...
Perspective and truth. I don't claim to be right all of the time and I know that some went away from that funeral a little lost but I also know that those who knew and loved that man best of all gave me the biggest hug and walked away with a renewed respect for the honesty of life and death.
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