One Must Imagine Marty and John Happy: Two Strangers Discuss the Absurd in an Ambleside Pub

“Camus.” It wasn’t a question. I turned from the bar to find a man standing beside me. He nodded at the quotation emblazoned across my t-shirt.

“The struggle itself
towards the heights is
enough to fill a man’s
heart. One must
imagine Sisyphus
happy.”

The pub was almost empty. Mid-morning on a rainy Monday. More than a little damp my tweed jacket was draped over the back of my chair at a table in the middle of the room. I placed my order, a half of Swift Best (3.4% ABV) named for MV Swift, largest of the boats that plies the tourist routes on Windermere.

We introduced ourselves. It was immediately clear John knew a lot more than I do about Camus in particular and philosophy in general. A long-time interest on his part I think, whereas I only encountered Camus a couple of years ago. I was unaware of the philosopher’s lifelong interest in football, for example. Fortunately, I knew enough of his theories and writings to hold my own in what developed into a lively and engaging discussion.

John recommended a book by English existentialist philosopher and novelist Colin Wilson, noting that nowadays he uses it as a footrest when playing guitar. He mentioned music a couple of times and I wish I’d asked him about it. It’s clearly an important part of his life, as writing is to mine. I believe the book John was talking about is Wilson’s The Outsider. (“Through the works and lives of various artists, including Kafka, Camus, Hemingway, Hesse, Lawrence, Van Gogh, Shaw, Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, Wilson explored the psyche of the outsider, his effect on society and society’s on him.”) I’ve ordered myself a copy. As I don’t play guitar, I’ll probably read it.

Talk turned to Camus’ 1942 philosophical work The Myth of Sisyphus, from which my t-shirt quotation is taken. It was my introduction to the French-Algerian philosopher’s work. I know it well enough to have gleaned thoughts and ideas that resonate strongly with my own. Moving to Camus’ novels, I was happy we settled on the only one I’ve read in full. Published in 1942, the title of L’Étranger translates literally as “the foreigner” but the book has appeared in English editions as The Outsider (in the United Kingdom) and as The Stranger in the United States. It’s a dark tale but one I find compelling. I’ve read it in print, listened to it on audiobook, and watched an English-dubbed version of the 1967 Italian film Lo Straniero (The Stranger) directed by Luchino Visconti. John was unaware of the film and I was happy to recommend it to him.

Pausing our philosophical discussion, we touched on what had brought each of us to the Wateredge Inn that day. John was on a coach trip, though from where I don’t know. I shared that I was on vacation, staying a couple of miles away, and that I’d previously stayed in the Quaysiders Club apartments across the road and loved being able to walk to the pub of an evening. I mentioned it was one of my happy places and that I’ve blogged about it previously. I gave him a contact card with details of the blog and my social media accounts. I rarely have any cause to hand them out and was relieved to find a few in my wallet. John commented that as I’d written about happy places I could write about miserable places too. It’s an idea I might take up in the future.

He told me a story about a time he went to France with a group of friends. They stayed overnight somewhere in England — Seaford? — before crossing the Channel but everything went wrong and he hated the place because of it. In France, he met up with someone who spontaneously said of the same English town, “Oh I love that place!” We laughed and agreed it demonstrated the power of perspective. I’d add that our feelings about a place or situation are essentially arbitrary and can change — or be changed — in a moment.

This relates well to Camus’ theory of the absurd, which I summarised as a response to “mankind’s need to find meaning in a universe that doesn’t give a shit.” This seemingly bleak perspective is saved from nihilistic despair by recognising that we are free to find our own meaning and purpose. That day, for example. I’m no fan of heavy rain, but without it John and I wouldn’t have met. Likewise if I’d chosen a different t-shirt, stood further down the bar, or taken a phone call before ordering my drink. Serendipity? Happenstance? The universe doesn’t give a damn about my search for meaning or purpose, but I do. I choose to smile and call my life richer for meeting this stranger at the bar. My little bit of Camusian rebellion.

I could have stood talking with John for hours but at a certain point it felt right to bring the conversation to a close. We shook hands and I returned to my table, leaving John at the bar. A moment later, on a whim, I went back and asked for a photo and to confirm he was okay with me sharing it online. He was happy to agree. Later that day I posted the photo on social media with the following description.

This is John. We got chatting at the bar when he commented on my Albert Camus t-shirt. Brilliant conversation about Camus, his ideas and novels, other philosophers (of which John is far more knowledgeable than me), happy places, miserable places, expectations, blogging ... Thanks for the conversation, John. There’s a more than passing chance it will feature in a blog post in the none too distant future!

It led to a short discussion with my friend Cal regarding Camus’ L’Étranger and why The Outsider is a better English title than The Stranger. To be honest, I think both work, for different reasons. The principal character Meursault is certainly a societal outsider, unable to understand, relate to, or fake the responses considered appropriate by those around him. This is something I relate to, not least in his inability to express the expected level of grief at his mother’s death.

But the words strange and stranger are also highly relevant to the story, the latter both in the sense of increasingly strange and as someone you don’t know. Interestingly, the word “strange” appears just once in my English translation of the book. It’s elsewhere given as “queer” in the original sense of that word. At one point, Meursault refers to his own strangeness (queerness) and its impact on others. He’s talking here of his girlfriend Marie.

Then she said she wondered if she really loved me or not. I, of course, couldn’t enlighten her as to that. And, after another silence, she murmured something about my being “a queer fellow.” “And I daresay that’s why I love you,” she added. “But maybe that’s why one day I’ll come to hate you.”

To which I had nothing to say, so I said nothing.

The word is rendered as “strange” in Visconti’s 1967 film adaptation.

Then she said I that I was strange somehow and that she loved me because I was strange. But that maybe some day she would come to hate me for just that reason.

The story as a whole turns on Meursaut’s unpremeditated, almost accidental, murder of a man he’s never met before and knows nothing about. It occurs to me that John and I were no less strangers when we met at the bar of the Wateredge Inn than Meursault and the unnamed Arab he encountered on the beach of Algiers. The outcomes of the two meetings were, thankfully, very different.

I’m reminded of two quotations. The first is widely attributed to the Irish poet William Butler Yeats. “There are no strangers here; Only friends you haven’t met yet.” That’s very much how I feel about to my short encounter with John. The second is by Virginia Woolf from her novel The Waves.

Our friends – how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not.

This is a favourite of mine, reflecting as it does the essential strangeness of us all, even to those who believe they know us well. In all of this, there’s an echo of a conversation I had years ago in the toilet of a bar in Newcastle. The other guy instigated that conversation too, responding to what I had on my t-shirt at the time.

“So, where are your roots?”

It’s not every day you get asked a question like that in the gents’ toilet at Bar Loco. At least, it’s not every day I get asked that in the gents’ toilet at Bar Loco. Then again, I’m not there very often.

It was the t-shirt, of course. My American Roots t-shirt. Specifically, given I was standing at the urinal, the back of the shirt which asks WHERE ARE YOUR ROOTS? in sans serif caps.

Caught off-guard, mid pee, I stumbled for an answer. “Well,” I said, looking down at my chest. “I’m not American. The shirt is. It was a gift from my bestie in Maine. I’m from Liverpool.”

I can think of one more conversation with a stranger that was inspired by a t-shirt I was wearing. I was sitting in my then favourite coffee shop, Caffè Nero in Newcastle, before heading to a mental health event. A young guy at the next table noticed my t-shirt approvingly. “Fucking good shirt, man.”

All told, my conversation with John lasted no more than ten minutes, but it left me feeling invigorated. Proud of myself, even. It’s something I’ve rarely been able to do. Engage fully in conversation with someone I don’t know at all. John has my details if he wants to connect but if not, that’s fine too. The conversation itself was enough to fill this man’s heart.

PS: John, if you’re reading this, I wish you an absurd life!

 

Photo by Martin Baker at the Wateredge Inn, Ambleside, July 2025.

 

Pause for Thought: Hesitation is My Super Power

Marty taught me to hesitate.

— Fran Houston

TW: Mention of suicidality and self-harm

This blog post was inspired by a recent conversation with Fran. She described how she’s learned from me to hesitate over certain things where previously she’d have acted instinctively — and not always wisely. I knew it was a topic worth exploring but with respect to the theme I decided not to rush into doing so. I let it sit with me for several days. Every now and again an idea or reference would come to me and I’d jot it down, but I didn’t begin working on this post for a week or more.

The Perils of Hesitation

One of the first things I do when starting a new blog post is research quotes relevant to the topic. Other people’s words often afford me a fresh perspective, or provide a hook on which to hang my arguments. In this case, I was looking for quotations highlighting the positive aspects of hesitation, with a few contrary perspectives about hesitating too much or too long.

The latter weren’t hard to find. Building on the proverbial “He who hesitates is lost” Mae West declared “He who hesitates is a damned fool.” As an aside, the former is a misquotation or adaptation of a line in Joseph Addison’s 1712 play Cato: “The woman that deliberates is lost.” Oscar Wilde took things a stage further in his play The Importance of Being Earnest in which Lady Bracknell utters the damning indictment, “Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old.” Amongst many other counsels against hesitating, the following three are indicative.

The minute you hesitate you are in trouble.
― Steve Waugh

Make up your mind to act decidedly and take the consequences. No good is ever done in this world by hesitation.
— Thomas Huxley

Fear causes hesitation, and hesitation will cause your worst fears to come true.
— Patrick Swayze

I could see what they were hinting at but it felt very one-sided. Surely there were some positives to hesitation.

The Positive Side of Hesitation

I found only one quotation explicitly extolling the merits of hesitation. In a line heavy with current geo-political relevance, former Prime Minister of Israel Golda Meir stated that “A leader who doesn’t hesitate before he sends his nation into battle is not fit to be a leader.”

Hesitating before taking any action that may harm others or ourselves is sound advice. Whether framed as hesitation, interruption, distraction, or pausing, not acting on perilous thoughts is central to strategies intended to prevent or limit the effect of suicidality and self-harm. This doesn’t only apply to the person at risk. It applies to us as the listener too. As I’ve explored previously in How Are You Really? Eight Things I’ve Learned About Suicidality and Self-Harm it’s easy to react out of fear if someone tells you they have thoughts of suicide or self-harm. Knee-jerk responses are unlikely to help, however, and can be unhelpful. As Fran expressed it to me on one occasion, “The worse thing someone can do is to be shocked. A much better response is ‘tell me more about how you feel.’” If we’re prepared to listen without judgment — to pause — we open a space in which both people can feel safe. For links to crisis and help lines check out our resources page. Details of suicide awareness and prevention training can be found in our article 17 Online Suicide Awareness Courses and Podcasts.

More generally, it’s wise to pause when approaching any situation which may be unhelpful or unhealthy. My friend and fellow mental health blogger Aimee Wilson reminded me of the DBT (dialectical behaviour therapy) strategy known as cost benefit analysis. In a DBT context, this classic decision-making technique can be used to challenge old, unhealthy patterns of thinking, allowing them to be replaced by more healthy thoughts.

Perplexed at how few positive viewpoints I’d found, I changed my search from “quotations about hesitation” to “quotations about pausing.” Suddenly, everything fell into place. It was clearly a matter of semantics. Several writers focused on pausing in order to appreciate the progress we’ve made or the world around us. Guillaume Apollinaire reminds us that “Now and then it’s good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.” Albert Einstein pushed things up a notch, declaring “He who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead; his eyes are closed.” Amongst reminders of this kind I love Bruce Feiler’s quirky “Take a walk with a turtle. And behold the world in pause.” It’s impossible to mention turtles and not to think of Crush, the laid-back surfer-dude sea turtle voiced by Andrew Stanton in Disney/Pixar’s 2003 animated film Finding Nemo and the 2016 sequel Finding Dory.

Former professional cyclist and three-time Olympic gold medalist Kristin Armstrong highlights the benefits of pausing in order to reset our thinking and open our minds to new perspectives. “It’s not only moving that creates new starting points.” she says. “Sometimes all it takes is a subtle shift in perspective, an opening of the mind, an intentional pause and reset, or a new route to start to see new options and new possibilities.” The benefits to our thinking are further emphasised by Indian singer Shreya Ghoshal. She wrote, “I believe that when the going gets tough, you should just hit pause. Assimilate what is happening for ten minutes. Your thoughts will be much clearer.”

“Look before you leap” is a call to prudent hesitation originating in the fables of Aesop, a slave and storyteller who lived in ancient Greece around 620 BCE. In The Fox and the Goat, a fox falls into a well and can’t get out. A thirsty goat walks by and the fox persuades the goat to jump into the well to get a drink. The fox climbs on the goat’s back and escapes, leaving the goat unable to escape. When the goat asks the fox for help, the fox tells him he has only himself to blame. “If you had as much sense as you have beard, old fellow, you would have been more cautious about finding a way to get out again before you jumped in.”

The caution of Aesop’s fable is challenged by a poem by Christopher Logue (often wrongly attributed to Guillaume Apollinaire, to whom it was dedicated) called “Come to the Edge.”

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It’s too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
and he pushed,
And they flew.

The meaning is clear. If we push through our fears (or are pushed) we can overcome what holds us back. However intoxicating the message, it’s profoundly dangerous. As I wrote in Just Don’t: Ten Reasons Not to Do the Thing it’s not for others to push us over the edge. The motivation to transcend our fears must come from within us, albeit with encouragement and support.

Hesitation and Action: the Critical Balance

As with most things in life, there’s a balance to be struck. In the present context, the balance is between leaping into things without regard to the risks and consequences, and missing opportunities by waiting for things to fall perfectly into place. It’s not always clear in advance when to act and when to pause a while longer. Author and life coach Tony Robbins suggested that “Change happens when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of change.” In that moment, we may decide to do the thing, but there’s no shame in paying attention to our fears and putting it off for another day. A gentler call to action is afforded by Mark Victor Hansen.

Don’t wait until everything is just right. It will never be perfect. There will always be challenges, obstacles and less than perfect conditions. So what. Get started now. With each step you take, you will grow stronger and stronger, more and more skilled, more and more self-confident and more and more successful.

For Fran the distinction is clear. “Procrastination can lead to you damning yourself,” she told me. “There’s a power in choosing to hesitate.” She continued with an example. “When someone e-mails me my tendency is to reply immediately rather than give it space. I can react or hesitate and think about what my response might be. Hesitation is giving space.”

My tendency to hesitate helps counter Fran’s impulsivity, which can be heightened by mania and anxiety. “Hesitation is a way of protecting myself for my mental wellness,” as she put it. Rather than respond immediately to what someone says or does, I’ll encourage her to pause and consider if what she’s feeling and thinking is grounded in fact. An immediate response or action is rarely necessary, although we remain aware of the counter danger. As Fran expressed it, “The other side is I ruminate for days or weeks over things.”

My Experience of Hesitation and Pause

But what of me? How do I strike that balance? I called hesitation my super power, but do I hesitate too much? Just the right amount? Not enough? There’ve undoubtedly been times in my life when it would have been better to pause to consider the consequences of what I was about to do. The times that spring to mind are from decades ago. Most concern my feelings towards other people. I fell in love easily and deeply. I just didn’t always know what to do with those emotions. As Elvis Presley sang in “Can’t Help Falling in Love”:

Wise men say
“Only fools rush in”
But I can’t help
Falling in love with you.

By acting impulsively or recklessly I embarrassed, confused, and hurt people I cared about more times than I’m comfortable recalling. It’s something I was aware of at the time, as evidenced by several of my poems from those days.

A voice I recognise dies screaming
NOREGRETS!
but I regret the months confused the
rhymes you (were they all ?uneasingly) inspired
because I never wanted to confuse you
— from “26.”

.then a fiercer
flame repels: the memory of
another that my flutterings
confused (an age too long ago.
— from “Mothly”

i feel i’ve found a newfriend
in you .someone to think fondly of
speak fondly to, afraid though i
might hurt you (like the rest)
by coming on too strong
— from “untitled three”

Experiences such as these left me with a mistrust of spontaneity and a tendency to overplay the hesitation card. As a result, I’ve undoubtedly missed out because I hesitated too long. I once deflected an explicitly romantic advance from someone I liked very much with a kiss on the nose, so confident was I there’d be plenty of other opportunities for us to take things further. It was hesitation on a comedically epic scale and I still cringe at the memory. They say at the end of life you recall the opportunities you failed to take up. If so, I’m pretty sure that will be one of them. (Sorry, Jenny!)

More prosaically, I twice declined promotion at work before finally accepting when it was made clear the offer wouldn’t be made a fourth time. I missed out on maybe a year’s elevated salary as a result of my hesitation. Continuing the financial theme, I recently opened a new savings account after holding several thousand pounds in my current (checking) account for years where it earned zero interest. Now and again I’d research options but always hesitated to make a decision. Each month’s procrastination lost me the interest I’d have earned if I’d moved the money somewhere else. Finally, I recognised that I didn’t need to find the perfect solution. There would always be a higher yield account or savings plan on offer somewhere. I only needed to choose one with a decent rate of interest. I made the decision and moved the money.

I believe I’m learning to find that sweet spot between healthy and unhealthy hesitation. This applies not only to my own life but how I feel about and respond to what my friends and loved ones are going through in theirs. Everything from how to respond to e-mails, invitations, challenge, and conflict, to handling new friendships and relationships. The following quotation by Lori Deschene, founder of Tiny Buddha, reminds me this is a skill that requires practice to perfect.

Practice the pause. Pause before judging. Pause before assuming. Pause before accusing. Pause whenever you’re about to react harshly, and you’ll avoid doing and saying things you’ll later regret.

There’s an echo there of the Sufi saying attributed to the 13^th-century Persian poet and mystic Jalāl al-Dīn Muḥammad Rūmī (Rumi).

Before you speak, let your words pass through three gates:
Is it true?
Is it necessary?
Is it kind?

This is a favourite of Fran’s and something she reminds me of from time to time. It cuts to the heart of the hesitation paradox for me. Many of my past issues might have been avoided if I’d known Rumi’s words and paid heed to them.

Over to You

In this article I’ve explored what hesitation and pause mean to me. What do you feel about these topics? Are you someone who takes time to think things through or do you respond instinctively to situations and events? Have there been times you wish you’d stopped to consider the consequences of your actions? Are there things you’ve missed out on because you hesitated too long? What is your super power? Fran and I would love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Humberto Portillo at Unsplash.

 

Occasional Spikes of Mayday: The Power of Analogy When Talking About Mental Health

Fran and I find analogies helpful when discussing mental and physical health. This is especially true when one person has little or no experience of what the other is attempting to convey. In this post I want to share a few models and analogies we find useful, and introduce a new one we’ve only recently taken up. I’ve described a few of these previously in The Stress Bucket and Other Models That Help Me Talk about Mental Health.

Spoon Theory

Perhaps the most well-known analogy for chronic illness is the spoon theory created by Christine Miserandino. The idea is that people living with energy-limiting conditions such as MS (multiple sclerosis) and fibromyalgia begin each day with a limited number of energy units, represented by spoons. If you’ve ever come across the terms spoons or spoonies online in a health context, that’s what they’re talking about.

Waves

Although Fran and I reference spoon theory on occasion, we’re more likely to employ our home-grown models. I’ve always loved the sine wave analogy Fran employed on a TV interview to describe her symptoms.

My chronic fatigue syndrome operates like this ... [Fran draws an up and down sine wave in the air.] My bipolar depression operates like this ... [She draws a second wave.] And sometimes they go like this ... [She draws two synchronised waves.] And sometimes they go like this ... [Fran draws two waves out of phase, so that one peaks while the other bottoms out.] It’s really quite a bizarre experience.

In those few sentences Fran captured for me the essence of a life lived with distinct but overlapping health conditions. As we describe in our book, waves also feature in the model a friend of ours uses to explore her relationship with depression.

My analogy is a sunny beach. The sea represents my depression. If I’m in the water out of my depth I’m not feeling so good. If I’m knee deep I am getting better. If I’m walking on the beach with waves lapping at my feet it’s much better. If I’m on the dunes looking back at the sea view at sunset I am happy and content, at peace for a while.

No one can hold back the tide of illness by willpower alone, but the clarity of our friend’s model acknowledges a degree of personal responsibility.

Flatness

Analogies also serve as a form of verbal shorthand for thoughts and feelings that might be difficult to express in detail. In Flatness and Disinclination I described how I use “flat” as shorthand for a sense of feeling low. “Not actively low or depressed; it’s more like the absence of any specific emotion than the presence of a negative one.” I can use the term with Fran or other friends to let them know how I’m feeling without having to go into details. This is especially helpful to me because I find it extremely difficult to label my feelings and emotions, a key indicator of alexithymia.

The Box on the Shelf / Waterfalls

Other analogies of ours include The Box on the Shelf for handling difficult issues or situations, and the analogy of a waterfall which relates to holding space for other people.

I thought for a moment about the term holding space. We use it a lot, but I’d never really considered what it means. “The idea,” I continued, “is to hold a space open for everything that’s being shared to flow into.”

I offered an analogy. “Imagine you’re standing beside a waterfall. If it’s a small waterfall with a small pool, you can stand close by. If it’s a big waterfall it will have a bigger pool and more spray and splashing. You would stand further back so you can appreciate it without getting wet.”

The waterfall analogy is about maintaining healthy boundaries, and is one we reference on a regular basis.

Air Traffic Control

I recently shared a blog post about air traffic control (ATC) as an analogy for aspects of a supportive friendship. As I wrote in Squawk 7700 “The radar analogy is a useful addition [to my toolbox]. Like an air traffic controller, I scan my collection of friends to see how everyone is doing, and to make sure no one gets left out or forgotten about.”

Plate Spinning / Mayday and Pan Pan

For a long time, Fran has been advocating for her elderly parents. This can be both mentally and physically draining, not least because things seem to transition from one crisis to another with little intervening respite. It can be difficult for Fran to prioritise the different items that need addressing or following up. During a recent conversation I reminded her of the plate spinning analogy I’ve found helpful when similarly overwhelmed. I’ve described this previously in How I Keep My Plates Spinning (Mostly).

I’ve focused on how I keep my plates spinning, but sometimes there’s just too much crockery up there! It’s more graceful to catch a few pieces before they fall and set them safely aside, but it’s okay if one or more end up on the floor. Maybe we took on too many tasks at once, either because we overestimated our capabilities or because we were given little opportunity to say no. Maybe we tried to handle just a little too much drama, our own or other people’s. Maybe life simply threw more at us than we could ever hope to keep going at the same time.

I also offered a new analogy rooted in my fascination with aviation. Mayday and Pan Pan are internationally recognised distress calls used by aviators to alert air traffic control to issues they’re dealing with. Mayday is used where there’s an imminent and serious threat to life or the aircraft. Pan Pan is a lower level alert. It’s used for situations which are urgent but not immediately life-threatening. In each case there are defined procedures for both aviators and ATC so that the situation can be resolved as safely as possible. In the case of a Mayday call, the aircraft will be afforded immediate and full attention of all relevant emergency and support services, with other aircraft and airport movements being adjusted or suspended as necessary until the crisis is over.

I asked Fran what kind of alert she’d issue for how she was feeling. She said she’s been living in a pan pan scenario for a long time, “with occasional spikes of mayday.” It’s not that I was unaware of how things had been for her. We talk every day about whatever’s going on for both of us. But those few words — using an analogy which I’d offered her because it resonates for me — conveyed the reality of her situation in a way I could immediately appreciate and understand. It was a great example of the power of analogy in helping us understand what’s going on for someone else, and in sharing how things are for us.

Over to You

In this blog post I’ve described a number of models and analogies which Fran and I find helpful when we’re discussing aspects of mental and physical health. Do any of them resonate for you? Do you use analogies to help you describe your symptoms to friends and loved ones? Do friends and loved ones use any when describing their situation to you? Which do you find most useful? Are there any you feel are unhelpful because they trivialise or gloss over the details? We’d love to hear your thoughts, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

 

Photo by Camilo Jimenez at Unsplash.

 

It Was All Story: The Wizard of Berry Hill

Our blog focuses on mental health and supportive friendships. Now and again, however, Fran and I give ourselves permission to explore other topics. This is one of those occasions. As regular readers will know, writing has always been an important part of my life. I’ve kept a daily diary for over fifty years. During that time I’ve written poetry, articles, short stories, a novella, two books, and a great many blog posts. I’ve not written creative fiction for a number of years, but in We Are All Made of Stories I described some of my past adventures in that genre.

I’ve shared two short stories here in the past. Written in 1999, Home Eleven is an urban fantasy based loosely on events and experiences at Newcastle’s Green Festival. Dating from 2001, The Hundred Stories touches on a project I was working on at that time that interwove JRR Tolkien’s life and work with British history and folklore. The story references accounts of the brothers of Lindisfarne (Holy Island) who carried the body of St Cuthbert around the north of England to escape attack by the Danes.

This time, I’d like to share a short story originally published in 2003. The Wizard of Berry Hill was inspired by a visit to the Archaeolink Prehistory Park in Oyne, Aberdeenshire. Opened in June 1997 in a historically significant area boasting seven Iron Age forts, Archaeolink has been variously described as “ahead of its time” and “Scotland’s most boring visitor centre.” It closed in 2011 after funding was withdrawn. My tale describes a nighttime visitor to the former hill fort, evoking some of the settlement’s troubled history.

---

The Wizard of Berry Hill

He walked unnoticed into the settlement. There seemed to be no one else about, a faint ember-glow in the gathering darkness was the only hint of habitation.

Something, the memory of mannish companionship perhaps, drew him in and hitching the soiled cloak above his knees he settled astride one of the roughly worked logs that circled the abandoned hearth.

In his wandering he had known many such camps huddled against the hills, each little more than a clutch of huts about a fire. He snorted. So far had men fallen! And yet, he reminded himself, some had remembered longer than others. About the hearth-fire they would gather, the day’s labour done. Then the air would thicken with smoke; with debate, argument and song, with music and the Tellings of older days.

There had been folk enough about this fire earlier in the day. From the nearby hill he had watched them with his keen grey eyes. Men and women busy about their day. Children running between the huts with whooping cries.

But now he was alone. From the voluminous pouch at his belt he drew forth a long-stemmed pipe, the wooden bowl and stem almost black with grime and smoke.

For a moment he turned it over in his hands, his mind on other journeys. Older days. Then he tapped the bowl twice against the log. The sound, sharp in the gathering dark, disturbed birds roosting in the trees beyond the nearest hut.

“Hush!” he muttered, pipe clamped firmly now in his mouth while he fumbled for weed. Teeth found familiar grooves in the chewed stem.

He lifted an ember in a twist of grass, lit the weed. Thin streams of smoke wavered in the still evening air.

An old man’s comfort in the wild.

Something moved by his foot. “Good evening, little master!” he breathed companionably. He reached half a dry loaf of bread from the pouch and scattered crumbs in the grass. The mouse hesitated a moment before settling down to eat between the high leather boots.

He had not journeyed so far north for many years. Many lives of men. The last time this land had been open forest, the tall trees lapping against the hill like a tide.

He drew deep on his weed, blew it back to the night in a silver cloud that swept across the ground like the falcon he had watched earlier in the day as it worked the ragged hedgerows away to the north.

Gone. All gone.

He sighed aloud. The mouse paused, crumb held in its tiny hands.

A breeze stirred the night air, quickening the hearth. He reached for a blackened stick and teased a lick or two of flame from the embers but no fuel lay to hand and he allowed the fire to die back again.

There was none to see but his eyes were wet with tears. A different night. A different fire.

He was standing on the high wall that had circled the hill top settlement. The man beside him was young, but men had fallen far from the times of old and twenty five summers was enough to see him lord of his people. This was his demesne, his fortress, hard won and stoutly defended. A wave of swords rising against the rude fort. The cries of the men. Women and children slain with casual savagery. The young prince fallen with his people. Their blood drenching the ground as the victors set flame upon the hill top.

Long, long ago.

Nothing stood now on Berry Hill but tumbled masonry, a few wizened spruce and everywhere the wiry, sheep-cropped turf. And yet, the land remembered.

Not an hour since he had stood there, listened to the wind lament through the grass under a sky heavy with tears. As drizzle filled the air he had circled the hilltop. Lichens, deep and venous red, slicked the wet stone and more than once he had been glad of his short staff.

His tour of homage complete he had descended the narrow steps through gorse and thistle and the hoar brambles that gave the place its name. He licked his hand where it smarted still, a two inch scratch his price for the sweet fruit he had plucked on his descent.

It was all such a long time ago. The invaders had moved on, content to have destroyed the settlement and hungry for better plunder in the east. For many years Berry Hill had been left deserted, its name a token of misfortune and dread to later days. In hard times some few had come, disdaining the ill-famed summit for the lower slopes. Of their name and fate no story told, unless it was the sound of the wind across the ruins of their house.

Night was almost upon him. The pipe, which he never once took from his mouth, pulsed slowly to the rhythm of his breathing. The last embers glowed dimly in the hearth. The little mouse had long since departed.

He turned to look behind him. The thatched roofs of the huts stood out ghostly against the tree line. All unoccupied, they were nonetheless a part of the Story, like the ruined fortress on the hill and the deserted farmstead. Like those who gathered here every day to rediscover the old ways and learn how to remember. Like himself.

It was all Story. Patterns across the land and down the years. He sighed — and the sound fell upon the air with an Age’s soft sadness.

oOo

At the first flush of dawn he drew back the rude curtain, bent his grey head beneath the low wooden lintel and stepped out into the clearing. For one night at least the settlement had been occupied again.

Clouds still brooded over Berry Hill and he drew his cloak tight against the promise of rain. For a moment he stood there between hut and hearth. His eyes were closed, the rude staff planted firmly at his side. He extended his right arm over the settlement, fingers stiffly splayed. His lips moved though he spoke no word aloud and when he opened his eyes a few minutes later he did not linger but strode from the place with not a backward glance.

He was about to emerge from the narrow stand of trees when sudden bird-call stopped him short. Bright light raked the gloom, flashed green from his dark eyes.

The car sped past, suspension effortlessly absorbing the contours of the land. Its driver was oblivious to Outside. He had driven the road a thousand times and this time in the morning there was never anyone else about. Just another early start at the office.

The robin flung himself off the low branch from which he had announced the alarm. A dozen wing-beats took him to his morning perch on the large white-painted gate post. He watched, head cocked to one side, as the sun rose higher in the sky. Shrouded in cloud it seemed to ride the contours of the hill. Then in sudden brilliance a beam of gold broke free, lighting the thatches of the huts and stirring the robin into song.

Soon the vehicles would arrive. Lights would go on in the visitor centre, the souvenir shop and restaurant. Later the visitors. Tourists looking for something different. Coaches of school kids to whoop around the huts, learning how to make flint knives and needles from splinters of bone. Story-telling around the great hearth.

His brown cloak swirling about his legs, the traveller crossed the road and disappeared into the trees on the other side.

Another day at the Archaeolink Heritage Village. Another turn of the page. And over all the mass of Berry Hill, brooding.

 

Artwork by Martin Baker.

 

Better Late Than Never? The Dubious Art of Procrastination

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow.
— Mark Twain

Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.
— Pablo Picasso

It would be witty of me to say this is a post I’ve been meaning to write for ages but kept putting off. Witty, but incorrect. The idea to write about procrastination only came to me a few days ago and I’m taking the first opportunity I have to make a start on it. My tendency to procrastinate — to put things off, often until they have become critical — is something I’ve lived with most of my adult life. It doesn’t apply to everything. I deal with many things as they occur.

I work in a live support role, and need to respond to events and issues promptly and effectively. In the workplace I’ve developed strategies and solutions to improve my personal effectiveness and that of the team I’m part of. I take pride in our ability to respond as efficiently and effectively as possible. In my personal life, I stay on top of day-to-day finances. Bills are paid on time. Holiday accommodation, car rental, and trips are planned in advance. I’m well ahead with my blogging. As I write this, I have eight articles scheduled to post over the coming couple of months.

So, what’s the problem? In what areas of my life do I leave things to the last minute? Two recent examples will suffice: the installation of a “smart” electricity meter, and setting up a new savings account.

I never saw much point in requesting a smart meter for the house. The old meter was fine, although I it was a pain to have to clear my way to it to take meter readings each month. Because of this, I tended to submit readings every six months or so, allowing the supply company to estimate usage in between. Some time last year, the supply company began insisting on changing the old meter for a new smart one. There were no down sides to this. I’d no longer have to provide manual meter readings, and would be able to better gauge how much electricity was being used. I say there were no down sides. There was one one. The engineer would need easy access to the cupboard under the stairs. There was so much junk in there that I had to contort myself whenever I read the meter or needed to access anything in there.

This could have been resolved in short order. I could have made an appointment for the new meter to be installed and used that as a deadline for some serious and much needed decluttering. Instead, I chose to focus on the decluttering aspect, spinning that out over a month or more. To be fair, it took more time and effort than I’d anticipated, but the point is I used the decluttering as an excuse to defer the installation of the new meter. Even after the decluttering was done I put off making the appointment until it became critical. On the appointed day, the engineer arrived precisely when he said he would. Within an hour and a half, the new meter was installed and is working well. I can easily monitor how much electricity is being used and how much it will cost, on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis.

For a number of years I’ve carried a balance of several thousands of pounds in a current account (checking account, for my US friends) which pays negligible interest. I’ve lost out on hundreds of pounds in interest, simply because I procrastinated over moving the money elsewhere. At different times I made a tentative start, reviewing a range of accounts at my current and other banks. The number of options overwhelmed me. Which would be the best, not only in terms of interest rate but also ease of access and other benefits? Each time, I put off making a decision. In the meantime, the money was safe. It just wasn’t working for me in any meaningful way. Finally, I bit the bullet. I opened a new savings account with my current bank and am in the process of moving the majority of the balance across from my current account. Opening the account online took perhaps thirty minutes.

I’m happy to have ticked these two items off my Things I Can Put Off a While But Not Indefinitely list. They’re no longer gnawing away in the back of my mind as things that will need my attention eventually. One might imagine my success would inspire me to review the other items on my list, prioritise them, and take at least a few steps towards their completion. As author Denis Waitley writes in Empires of the Mind: Lessons to Lead and Succeed in a Knowledge-Based World, “One of the best escapes from the prison of procrastination is to take even the smallest step toward your goal.” I’m honest enough with myself to know this isn’t going to happen unless I make real changes.

I'm generally effective once situations become critical, but the satisfaction of eventually accomplishing a task has never outweighed the urge to put difficult or challenging things off as long as possible. I'll go to considerable lengths to achieve this, including keeping myself busy. As I wrote recently in Do You Ever Just Do Nothing? “Filling the spaces [in my life with stuff] allows me to ignore or postpone less interesting or pleasurable tasks. It’s a strategy for self-distraction.” I recognise it's not a healthy strategy, but it's one that's deeply ingrained. Putting things off until tomorrow has served me for many years. It may — finally — be time to address this.

I smile at Mark Twain’s characteristically witty advice to “Never put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after tomorrow.” But as Pablo Picasso recognised, there are only so many tomorrows. Picasso’s version — “Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone” — resonates because of the end of life planning work I began last year. I made a good start on that, gathering information together and even drafting my own obituary, but there’s a great deal more to be done. Hopefully, I have a good number of tomorrows in which to do so, but I heed Picasso’s warning. There are things I’m not willing to die having left undone. Identifying what those are, and working towards their accomplishment, would be a good place to start addressing my life-long urge towards procrastination.

 

Photo by Pedro Forester Da Silva at Unsplash.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (June 2025)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

1. The Box on the Shelf: A Strategy for Handling Difficult Issues and Situations
2. How Sad the Song: An Atheist Ponders His Mortality
3. Shhhhhhh! A Friend’s Guide to Secrets
4. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
5. Twelve Songs That Remind Me What Caring Is All About
6. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
7. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man
8. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
9. Don’t Be a Jerk: How to Respond Responsibly on Social Media
10. *michigan*, by Mickey Solis

Our most visited pages were:

1. Contact Us
2. Resources
3. News and Appearances
4. Testimonials
5. Our books
6. About Us

 

Photo of Kirkharle Courtyard by Martin Baker.

 

You Can Clock Out for the Day Now

The best thing about the future is that it comes one day at a time.
— Unknown

This post was inspired by an evening conversation with Fran. Despite having achieved plenty that day, she felt the weight of the many items still on her to do list. We’d talk for a little while about this and that, but her mind kept returning to all the things she felt she had to do. It was overwhelming. I reminded her that it’s hard to feel you’ve achieved enough when the number of things to be done is uncertain or uncountably large.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You can clock out for the day now.”

The workplace analogy of clocking (or punching) in and out is a useful one. It helps us set boundaries for how much we can reasonably expect of ourselves. Our responsibility is to do what we can, not to do everything. Show up for the day and clock in, do the best we can, then clock out.

The amount we achieve in any twenty-four hours will vary. Some days we’ll have plenty of energy and focus. Some days our energy and focus is less, or other things crop up that need to be dealt with. Some tasks can be achieved in an hour or so. Others necessarily span days or weeks.

Whatever the circumstances, it’s okay to say enough is enough for today. I’ll pick it up again in the morning. To give ourselves permission to draw a line under the day, acknowledge what we achieved, and be gentle with ourselves for the things still to be addressed.

Tomorrow is another day.

 

Photo by Hennie Stander at Unsplash.

 

Do You Ever Just Do Nothing?

To do nothing at all is the most difficult thing in the world, the most difficult and the most intellectual.

— Oscar Wilde

The inspiration for this post came on one of my regular lunchtime walks. I was on a call with Fran, sharing the experience of my walk with her and catching up on our respective days. I was looking ahead to the weekend and mentioned how rare it was for me to not have a blog topic ready to work on. Fran thought for a moment, then asked “Do you ever just do nothing?” In that moment, I knew my search for a topic was over. It’s very rare that I take time to “do nothing.” It would be interesting to explore why that is. So here we are. There’s an irony, of course. I’m writing about doing nothing instead of actually doing nothing. Whatever that means.

Doing literally nothing would be akin to placing oneself in a sensory deprivation tank. I know people who’ve done that and found it valuable. I’ve thought of trying it myself, despite the less than restful experiences of Homer and Lisa Simpson. Fran allows herself spells of relative sensory deprivation at home. For twenty or thirty minutes at a time she lies perfectly flat and completely still. No pillows. Eyes closed. Eye mask on. No music playing. No TV. No extraneous sounds of any kind. She says she finds it helpful. I’ve not tried it but I know I’d hate it. Remaining absolutely still isn’t something I find easy at all. Fran doesn’t describe her technique as meditation but there’s some overlap. We used to meditate together regularly. I enjoyed the breath-focused techniques but Fran’s stillness sessions sound more like body scan meditation, which I always found excruciatingly unpleasant.

What else might we mean by “doing nothing”? Does reading in silence count? Possibly. Watching TV or movies? Probably not. Social media? No. Writing blog posts about doing nothing? Now we’re being silly. I asked Fran to expand on the subject.

“We are a culture,” she said, “that doesn’t allow quiet or silence. We constantly fill up any crevices of our lives with social media, TV, music, etc. [We need] sensory deprivation. Recharge. Like turning off one’s phone. And we wonder why we’re depressed or anxious. Eastern cultures do meditation. Even with yoga, one is DOING something.”

For Fran, stillness is key, but I rarely allow myself that kind of quietude. Indeed, I go out of my way to avoid it. I’m not easy in silence. It’s rare for me to sit and focus on a TV show or movie, but the TV will be on in the corner of the room for background sound. If not, I’ll have something playing on my headset. Music, perhaps, or one of the disaster documentaries that I love so much. (My fascination with disaster documentaries and movies deserves a separate blog post some time.) It’s not uncommon for me to have the TV on in the background and something playing on my headset at the same time.

I find background sound soothing. It explains why I’ve always found coffee shops and cafés so conducive to writing. I shared my top writing venues previously in Coffee and Scribbles: My Ten Favourite Writing Cafés. I’ve tried ambient sound apps including White Noise Pro with its range of café soundtracks, but nothing works as well as the real thing. I find speech, whether the sounds of coffee shop conversation or documentary narration, more soothing than music, with a few exceptions.

It’s one thing to find ambient noise relaxing. It’s another to explain why silence, even relative silence, is unsettling to me. I’ve no childhood memories or experiences to relate. The TV was on most of the time when I was growing up and I enjoyed playing records or the radio in my bedroom, but I studied in silence. I didn’t find the silence of the exam hall difficult in any way. I relished the opportunity to demonstrate my knowledge of the subject. I did well in examinations. I recall completing my final exam at university and wondering how I’d fare the rest of my life when my skills and progress would be measured by other means.

More generally, I’m not good at simply being in the moment. In Fran’s words, I “constantly fill up any crevices” of my life with doing. There’s an irony in saying that, because as I’ve explained in such posts as The Joy of Missing Out I don’t “do things and go places” any more. A week away in the UK once a year. Days out when I hire a car. But no grand adventures. No safaris or other trips abroad. No music festivals, sporting events, movies, or visits to the theatre. None of the kind of thing most people enjoy. But I’m constantly doing things, nonetheless.

What kind of thing? I’ve kept a daily diary for the past fifty years. I write less than I used to, largely because I process my thoughts and what’s going on for me in conversation with friends and in my blogging, but it still takes upwards of thirty minutes a day. I usually write my diary late evening, but have it with me most of the time and often journal several times through the day. What else? I have four or five friends I check in with every day or so. One I write to every week. Others I connect with less frequently, but who also mean a great deal. I’m arguably not good at maintaining my boundaries when it comes to the people I care about. But the time I spend with friends — mostly online but occasionally in person — is extraordinarily precious to me.

Blogging is also an important part of my life. I publish a new post every week and the current article is never far from my thoughts. As one of my favourite coffee mugs declares, “I might look like I’m listening to you but in my head I’m thinking about blogging.” I have a t-shirt with the slogan “LIFE IS SHORT. BLOG MORE.” Another that says “EAT. SLEEP. BLOG. REPEAT.” It takes time each week to explore relevant topics, capture my ideas and notes, actually write the post, edit and proofread it, add links and images, and schedule it for publication. Is hare posts on social media and handle feedback and comments. All that takes up a considerable amount of time. Blogging is more than something I do, though. In a very real sense it’s an expression of who I am.

Not everything I do is as worthwhile as my journal, my friends, or my blogging. There are times where I’m not doing anything useful, creative, or purposeful, and yet I’ll fill the gaps rather than allow myself time free from input and distraction. Much of my time on social media is valuable to me, whether that’s sharing my own content or keeping up with my friends and other accounts I’m interested in. There are a number of creators whose content I enjoy. That said, I spend a considerable amount of time online which isn’t adding much value to my life. These are the times where it would be healthier for me to disengage, put the devices aside, and rest. As I’ve suggested to friends on occasion, “Phone down. Eyes closed.” It’s easier to offer advice to others than take it yourself.

There are occasions when I accept the value of quiet time. Ironically, these tend to be when I’m online with Fran. In How Sharing Quiet Moments Can Deepen Your Friendship I described the first time this happened, at Fran’s suggestion. I enjoy such shared stillness but I rarely attempt this when I’m on my own. The most recent occasion was on a rare day trip to the coast. I’d taken my diary and at one point sat to journal overlooking the sea. For the most part, I walked the promenade taking in the sights and sounds. Was that doing nothing? Maybe. Later in the day I had a clearer moment of engagement. As I blogged later, “Without consciously deciding to, I found myself sitting on a bench in the park as maybe a dozen radio-controlled yachts raced back and forth across the water. For the first time in my day I felt fully engaged with what was happening around me.” I’m reminded of Otis Reading’s 1968 hit (Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay, released shortly after the singer’s death in a plane crash.

Sittin’ in the morning sun
I’ll be sittin’ when the evenin’ come
Watching the ships roll in
And then I watch ’em roll away again

This sounds like this is a positive advertisement for settling back and letting the world go by. On that same day at the coast, I watched a huge container ship as it made its way to the mouth of the river. But Reading isn’t watching the ships roll in and out in any healthy sense. His inaction is described as wasting time, and there’s a despair in his situation that no amount sitting beside the water is likely to improve.

I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the ’Frisco bay
I’ve had nothing to live for
Look like nothin’s gonna come my way

So I’m just gonna sit on the dock of the bay
Watching the tide roll away
I’m sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time

Sometimes, there’s a need for action rather than inaction. Value in movement rather than stillness, and peril in doing nothing. My situation has never been as dark as the character in Otis’ song, but I wonder what lies behind my uneasiness with stillness. What am I scared of?

I start from the position of wanting to use my time as fully and creatively as possible. Before Fran and I began writing our book, I took inventory of my time. I identified a two hour window in my evenings which I could reasonably anticipate being regularly and reliably available. Without it there’d have been no point beginning such a project. I’ve taken a similar inventory at other times. Despite not having any books on the go, there are very few “free” slots at all. When one opens up I tend to move something else into it. I might reach out to another friend, especially if we’ve not been in touch for a while, or look through my notes for blogging ideas. It won’t always be something urgent or especially worthwhile, but I’ll find something rather than close my eyes and relax. I don’t find relaxation especially relaxing! Filling the spaces also allows me to ignore or postpone less interesting or pleasurable tasks. It’s a strategy for self-distraction. This is perhaps a version of Parkinsons law. Rather than “work expand[ing] so as to fill the time available for its completion” I find other work to fill any gaps.

Having explored my own attitudes to doing nothing, I invited others to share what it means to them. The following are presented with only minor edits for clarity.

My take is that busyness has become an epidemic. It’s a badge of honor, it seems to me. If you’re not busy then maybe you’re lazy or just plain odd. Maybe if people weren’t so busy, they would actually have to face some hard facts about themselves. Maybe it’s a form of running from an unquiet soul or thoughts in their heads. Maybe it’s a fear of being still or really feeling their emotions. Maybe it’s all of the above. Currently, I’m listening to music. Am I really doing much of anything? I don’t know. I suppose music is something to do. If I did nothing in silence, I might lose my mind.
— Jen

During hard times, one of my good friends taught me a mantra that relates to this. “If in doubt, do nothing.” I’ve actually used it successfully many times.
— Louise

I very rarely do nothing because it’s boring ... what’s the point? But some of the things I do now I’m retired could be considered time wasting e.g. playing games on my tablet! P.S. I don’t count quiet reflection or meditation as “doing nothing.”
— Fiona

I have an unusual take on this. I’m so used to the passive-aggressive question from a senior member of my family of “what have you done on the weekend/time off/holiday, nothing?” that “nothing” has negative connotations. However, recently, I’m very aware that time to decompress is not only beneficial, but necessary. Whether it’s 15 mins just lying on my bed in silence, or half an hour listening to the radio or watching something utterly disposable whilst the boy is at the gym, disconnected from everything else, is good for my soul.
— Karl

I’ll present the final contribution separately as it’s a tad longer:

I recognise myself as doing nothing when I’m asleep. There are times when I can’t do what I want to do and no matter what the alternative is that alternative is always seen as doing nothing and I am temporarily frustrated as well.

No-one ever does nothing they just switch from not doing something to a different form of something they see as doing nothing. Quid pro quo apples and pears?!

The only times I do nothing are when I am either mentally or physically exhausted or both. Then it forces me to stop what I’m doing e.g. writing music or doing posts on the religious/atheist belief forums and then I downscale to laying down on the bed reading. Within that reading session I often fall asleep for short periods eventually waking up completely restored.

Even with that downscale activity I class it as doing nothing because I’m not achieving the actual goal I want to do all the time, and rationalise it out as passive background reading for the main goal I want to do all the time. It is rare I am not happy eventually doing that doing nothing thing even though I do class it as doing nothing. Joyfully giving in to your mental and physical state because you have to comes with a feeling of dignity. You can’t get mad with yourself for too long, you can only get even.

Doing nothing for me is a bad thing because I would like to do whatever I want to do 24/7 but I can’t. But immediately I rationalise this as a good thing because it shows I’m keen to live life no matter how I feel. Rock till you drop!

Life is a rollercoaster that moves up to higher states permanently on a daily basis. The do nothing points are the descent, and the doing something points are the a,scent to the higher place. That is a child to old person, cradle to the grave learning mode which is how I like to live.

Tactically… rocking ‘til I’m dropping is my daily mode of life. Strategically… rock ‘til you drop is living a full life and then death !

— Paul

I’m grateful to everyone who offered their thoughts, ideas, and experience, whether included here or exchanged in personal communication. You’ve given me plenty to think about and expanded my appreciation of what it means to do nothing. I’m unsure how much it will change how I approach my life but it’s made me more aware of how I’m choosing to fill my time. That has to be a good thing. If you missed the opportunity to contribute or have something to add now you’ve read the entire piece, Fran and I would love to hear from you, either in the comments below or via our contact page.

I’ll close with that classic invocation to inactivity, Busy Doing Nothing by songwriters Johnny Burke and Jimmy Van Heusen, as sung by Bing Crosby in the 1949 movie A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.

We’re busy doin’ nothin’
Workin’ the whole day through
Tryin’ to find lots of things not to do
We’re busy goin’ nowhere
Isn’t it just a crime
We’d like to be unhappy, but
We never do have the time.

 

Photo by Milan Popovic at Unsplash.

 

How Sad the Song: An Atheist Ponders His Mortality

To the dumb question “Why me?” the cosmos barely bothers to return the reply: Why not?

— Christopher Hitchens, Mortality

Death has been on my mind a good deal in the past year. I wrote two articles on end of life planning: Letting Go of the Balloon: End of Life Planning for the Overwhelmed and How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary. I also explored how it feels to be in my sixties and took a look at how many years may be left to me. These are important topics and I enjoyed the challenge. But what of death itself? What do I think and feel about the fact that one day I’ll no longer be here? That’s what I want to address in this post.

The Stilling of the Pool

In an interview for The Guardian published in May 2011 (coincidentally the month Fran and I met) the late theoretical physicist Stephen Hawking expressed his views on the idea of an afterlife. “I regard the brain as a computer which will stop working when its components fail,” he said. “There is no heaven or afterlife for broken down computers; that is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.” It’s a view very close to my own. I’m not afraid of the dark.

For me, death represents neither more nor less than cessation. The point beyond which the person ceases to be. My earliest experience of death was at the age of eighteen when my father died. He had been in and out of hospital for months. I remember walking from the ward one day certain I wouldn’t see him again. He died within days of that visit, I think, though my memory isn’t clear on that. I’m reminded of the opening lines of Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger (L’Étranger): “Aujourd’hui Maman est morte. Ou peut-être hier, je ne sais pas.” The most common English translation is: “Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.” I’m unsure how I felt at the time, but I do know there was no sense of my father continuing in any way. He was remembered, mourned, and missed by those of us who were still alive. But my father, Norman William Baker, wasn’t there any more. He wasn’t anywhere. He simply wasn’t.

Decades later, a close friend died. She was in her early forties, one year younger than me. Way too young, as they say. I felt shock and profound loss, but as with my father there was no sense of her still existing in any way. This certainty was so profound I couldn’t write, speak, or even think the words “my friend is dead.” The is in that sentence implied a continuity that to me was blatantly untrue. I couldn’t say my friend was dead because she wasn’t anything. It was the same years later when my mother died. My father, my mother, my friend aren’t off somewhere “being dead.” They no longer are. And when my time comes I won’t be somewhere being dead. I won’t be. No afterlife, thank you very much. No spirit world. No continuation. No meeting those who’ve gone before.

This idea of death as annihilation might seem terrifying but I don’t find it so. It does, however, beg the question: what exactly is annihilated? What ceases at the moment of death? What was there before death that no longer is? We use a range of words to convey the something that makes us what we are. Words like consciousness, personality, essence, spirit, or soul. None of them help very much. We use them to label something about a person — what makes us unique — but they say nothing about what that something is.

Many years ago I read Yatri’s Unknown Man: The Mysterious Birth of a New Species. One line from the book has remained with me. In response to the question “Who am I?” the author offers, “I appear to be the process of reading this book.” That was my introduction to the idea of life, my own included, being not stuff but process. Movement. Flow. Patterns.

Quantum Field Theory (QFT) posits everything as fluctuations in quantum fields. What we think of as an electron is a localised excitation in the electron field. A photon is a localised excitation in the electromagnetic field, and so on. I’m not a physicist by any means but this representation of reality as waves is comfortable to me. Comforting, even. Popular explanations of QFT invite us to imagine these localised excitations as ripples on a pond. We’ve all thrown stones into a pool of water at some point in our lives. We’ve watched the ripples fan out across the surface, interacting with others until they fade to stillness. No one ever asks “Where did the ripples go?” We understand they weren’t material objects. They were patterns in the surface of the water. The water is still there, its surface alive to the possibility of further ripples in the future.

Likewise, everything that is me, everything I mean when I think or speak of myself, everything others mean when they think or speak of me, is not stuff but process. Movement. Flow. Patterns. Death is not a thing in itself. It’s our label for the process by which the ripples of our life fade into stillness. Every thought. Every memory I hold dear at the point of death. The patterns of connection, interraction, friendship, and meaning. All of it. Where did my father go when he died? My mother? My friend? Where will I go? These questions are as meaningless as asking where the music goes when it’s no longer playing. That song we love so much, the melody that evokes feelings so visceral we’re transported back in time, aren’t objects we can point to. They are movement. They exist as long as the waves that carry them are flowing. And so it is with us.

Explicable Without the Hypothesis

This post is subtitled An Atheist Ponders His Mortality but so far I’ve said nothing about god or religion. I’m grateful to my friend Paul Saunders-Priem for reminding me that there’s no necessary connection between belief in an afterlife and belief in god. Most religions include the belief in some form of continuation beyond death but as he put it, “Just because someone believes in the afterlife doesn’t mean they are religious or believe in God. It is entirely possible that life after death is a physical thing.” That’s why I feel it’s important to be upfront about my atheism. I don’t believe in an afterlife and I don’t believe in god. The one informs the other.

To be clear, atheism isn’t an alternative belief system. It’s defined solely by the absence of belief in a god or gods. As American science writer and historian Michael Shermer puts it, “There is no atheist world view.” This might be hard to grasp, especially if you’re a person of faith. But we’re all atheists when it comes to other religions. If you’re a Christian you know what it means not to believe in Allah or Zeus. If you’re a follower of Islam you know what it means not to believe in Vishnu or Wotan. As English actor Ricky Gervais pointed out during an interview with Late Show host Stephen Colbert, the atheist simply denies the reality of one more god than the believer.

Atheists rarely claim to be absolutely certain of their position. British scientist and educator Richard Dawkins made this clear in his book Outgrowing God: A Beginner’s Guide to Atheism.

When people say they are atheists, they don’t mean they can prove that there are no gods. Strictly speaking, it’s impossible to prove that something does not exist. We don’t positively know there are no gods, just as we can’t prove that there are no fairies or pixies or elves or hobgoblins or leprechauns or pink unicorns.

Dawkins’ atheism is founded in the lack of compelling evidence to the contrary. In an interview with Mehdi Hassan he declared, “I’m an atheist in the same way as I’m an aleprechaunist, an afairyist, and an apinkunicornist.” Challenged to say if he equated his lack of belief in god with his lack of belief in fairies and leprechauns, Dawkins replied “The evidence for both is equally poor.”

British-American author and journalist Christopher Hitchens made the equivalent point in a 2009 debate with American philosopher and Christian apologist William Lane Craig. The question being debated was “Does God Exist?”

Now it’s often said [...] that atheists think they can prove the nonexistence of God. This, in fact, very slightly but crucially misrepresents what we’ve always said. [...] We argue quite simply that there’s no plausible or convincing reason, certainly no evidential one, to believe that there is such an entity. And that all observable phenomena, including the cosmological one to which I’m coming, are explicable without the hypothesis.

My stance is far less scholarly and well-reasoned than those of Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens, but I agree with them on this. I find no personal, philosophical, or scientific need for there to be a god or gods, and am unconvinced by arguments to the contrary. I’m as certain there’s no god as I’m certain there’s no continuity of the self beyond death. Which is to say, utterly and completely certain.

The Facts of Death

Everyone knows about the facts of life — the basics of sex education concerning puberty, sexual activity, and reproduction. The facts of life are taught in our schools, whispered in the playgrounds, stumbled into online, and — ideally at least — shared by parents with their children. But what of the facts of death? Where and how are they taught?

What does it mean to die? What is it like, not merely to think or talk about death but to do it. Because that’s what “we’re all going to die” means. Every one of us will experience what it is to die. You. Me. Everyone. I’m reminded of an episode of the British TV drama series Sharpe, based on the Napoleonic War novels of Bernard Cornwell. A wounded Sergeant Major Harper is duped by the formidable Irish priest Father Curtis into marrying his long-time partner Ramona before he supposedly succumbs to his wounds.

Curtis: “I now pronounce you man and wife. Now, get up and kiss the bride.”

Harper: “I thought you said I was going to die, Father!”

Curtis: “Sure, we’re ALL going to die, Patrick.”

I’ve never witnessed the moment of a person’s death and have no direct experience on which to draw. The closest I’ve come are two short books by end of life educator and author Barbara Karnes: Gone From My Sight: The Dying Experience and The Eleventh Hour: A Caring Guide for the Hours to Minutes Before Death. They’re written for those who will die — which is to say all of us — as well as for those who will be present in the weeks, days, and hours before a loved one dies. The facts of death are presented with compassion but they’re nevertheless hard for someone like me who hitherto had never thought much about what dying involves. I’d naively likened a good death — one experienced without unmanaged pain, injury, or trauma — to falling asleep. Drawing on her many years of experience, Barbara Karnes makes it clear there’s a great deal more to the physical process of even a good death than that. It’s not all pretty, but it is all honest and real. It’s what I needed to hear and I commend her books to anyone wanting information on what happens when the body is close to death.

It’s difficult to express how it feels to have even this modicum of understanding. This is what my body will go through, what I will experience, at the end of my life. My final days and hours. My final breath. The final beat of this heart. It’s a strange feeling. Not scary exactly, but strange. Sad, perhaps.

Of course, an ending free from pain and illness is by no means guaranteed. How must it be to face death on those terms? I’ve yet to watch it, but the documentary series Take Me Out Feet First has been recommended to me. It describes and discusses Medical Aid in Dying (MAID), a program currently available in several U.S. states. MAID allows a terminally ill, mentally capable adult with a prognosis of six months or less to live to request a prescription for medication they can self-administer so as to die peacefully in their sleep. I’m conflicted on the merits of such programs, sometimes described as assisted dying or death with dignity. Readers may be aware that a change to the law in England and Wales — the Terminally Ill Adults (End of Life) Bill — is currently making its way through the UK parliament. A separate assisted dying bill is being considered in Scotland. I may return to the topic in a future post. For now I will say that I fully support the right to end one’s life under certain circumstances, as I support the work of the hospice movement in managing end of life care. My concerns relate to the circumstances under which such provisions might be made available, the availability and funding of alternatives including hospice care, and the legal and medical safeguards. These are not theoretical or philosophical questions. They are questions about the very real and often not very nice facts concerning the ending of life.

There are many paths through life, each unique to the person walking it. But all paths lead to one inevitable destination. What options do I want to be available to my friends and loved ones when they get there? What options do I want to be available for me when my time comes?

It’s Only Life After All

Talking with family, friends, and colleagues has helped me understand more about my thoughts and feelings concerning the end of life, and appreciate there are few things more personal than how we approach the death of loved ones and prepare for our own. Fran shared two anonymous quotations with me which I want to include. The first is a reminder to live life purposefully, because we can never say when that final day will come.

One day, you are going to hug your last hug, kiss your last kiss and hear someone’s voice for the last time. But you never know when the last time will be, so live every day as if it were the last time you will be with the person you love.

It reminds me of this cover by British singer-songwriter Jasmine Thompson of the Meghan Trainor song “Like I’m Gonna Lose You.”

In the blink of an eye
Just a whisper of smoke
You could lose everything
The truth is, you never know.

Such reminders are welcome, because there will be a day that dawns without me in it. A final entry in the diaries I’ve kept since I was fourteen years old. Life will go on without me. That’s no easier a realisation for me than it was for Christopher Hitchens, here debating the question “Is there an afterlife?” with Sam Harris, David Wolpe, and Bradley Artson Shavit.

It will happen to all of us, that at some point you’ll get tapped on the shoulder and told, not just that the party’s over, but slightly worse: the party’s going on, but you have to leave. And it’s going on without you.

Fran pointed out to me that this is less of an argument for introverts who never felt comfortable at parties while they were alive! English comedian, writer, and actor Bob Mortimer expressed it in more homely terms. “I don’t feel scared about death, I just feel so frustrated and sad to think I won’t see how stories end. My children’s story. My wife’s. The football. All the stories going on in the world that you’re going to miss the end of.”

The second quotation Fran offered me speaks of legacy, the only sense in which it can be said we survive our death.

IF AN ARTIST FALLS IN LOVE WITH YOU, YOU CAN NEVER DIE.

During a wonderful conversation about end of life planning that included favourite music tracks and photographs, my desire for either a pyramid entombment or a Viking long-ship burial, whether or not human ashes are a risk to wildlife (they are), and open casket viewings (no thank you), my friend Jen brought things back to centre with five words she knew I’d recognise: “It’s only life after all.” The reference is to the Indigo Girls’ 1989 song Closer to Fine.

I’m trying to tell you something ‘bout my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It’s only life after all.

The song reminds me that there’s no more (or less) meaning or purpose to my life than I choose there to be. As I’ve written elsewhere: life is not a lesson, though you can choose to see it as such. Life is not a trial, though you are free to live yours as though it were.

I’ll close with four words of mine from a long time ago. When my father died someone asked if I wanted to contribute to his eulogy. The only words I could find were “How sad the song.” I don’t remember if they were used or not. It doesn’t matter to me either way. But it may be that I understood more of what had just happened than I realised at the time.

 

Photo by Sasha Freemind at Unsplash.

 

What On Earth? The Art of Confusion and the Usefulness of Nonsense

A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.

— Roald Dahl, Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator

This post was inspired by a recent chat conversation with Fran. Apropos of nothing, she messaged me the following seven words.

Martin Camus cup straight out of HTLT

She’d found the entry in her calendar but couldn’t remember putting it there or what it signified. For several minutes, we tried to work it out. Fran thought the first three words might be a reminder to buy me a Albert Camus-related mug for my birthday. She knows I’m interested in the philosopher’s work, especially his doctrine of Absurdism. I have a Camus t-shirt and have blogged about him previously. Then again, Fran thinks of me as Marty not Martin, and why write cup instead of mug? HTLT refers to High Tide, Low Tide: The Caring Friend’s Guide to Bipolar Disorder but there’s no mention of Camus or philosophy in our book at all.

Something that is straight out of HTLT is the paradox of words and meaning. The following passage is excerpted from chapter 1 (“The Caring Friendship: Key Skills and Attitudes”).

When you think about it, it is amazing anyone manages to communicate anything meaningful at all. Each of us has our unique mix of thoughts and feelings, hopes, fears, joys, pains, plans, worries, and views about how the world works. We scarcely understand them ourselves, yet we hope to share them with someone who has their own mix to contend with. And the only tools we have are the sounds we can utter, and the marks we can make on paper or a computer screen. It is no wonder we struggle at times!

The question isn’t so much what do those seven words mean, but how do any of us convey meaning at all? Given the immensity of the challenge, the language we use matters. This is never more important than when discussing our lived experience. As a friend reminded me recently, certain words — for example survivor rather than victim in the case of people who have experienced rape, abuse, or trauma; or the appropriate diagnostic labels when discussing mental health — affect how we think about ourselves and relate to one another. There’s a great deal at stake. Communicating our experiences effectively can counter ignorance, stigma, and discrimination. The same friend shared with me a powerful quotation by Brené Brown: “One day you will tell your story of how you overcame what you went through, and it will be someone else’s survival guide.”

Fran and I were aware of this responsibility when writing our book. The Introduction includes a section on perspective and language. In it we described key terms and outlined our approach to the language of illness and wellness. It’s something I think about a lot when I’m blogging. But if it’s so important to use language carefully and clearly, what about nonsense? What’s the value of apparently contradictory, ridiculous, or paradoxical language? Why was I so excited at Fran’s cryptic calendar entry?

I’ve always loved puns and wordplay. I still recall my delight as a teenager when I discovered the poetry of American humourist Ogden Nash. This classic remains a favourite:

The Termite

Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good!
And that is why your Cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.

An even shorter pest-related poem sometimes incorrectly attributed to Nash, is “Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes” (also known as “Fleas”) by Strickland Gillilan. It’s undeniably silly but I love it.

Lines on the Antiquity of Microbes

Adam
Had ’em

In my teen years I wrote silly poems for and about my school friends, recounting our exploits, foibles, and love lives (or lack thereof). I wish I’d kept copies of them. I’m not a fan of all nonsense poetry, however. Lewis Carroll’s “Jabberwocky” from Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There leaves me cold. The opening lines will suffice.

Jabberwocky

‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
   Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
   And the mome raths outgrabe.

My distaste for Carroll’s wordplay is arguably because to me the poem is devoid of meaning. There’s no mystery, nothing to puzzle over or figure out. It’s not invitingly obscure, it’s a chaotic jumble of nonsense. More generally, I can’t abide what I’d describe as crass or contentless silliness. Slapstick comedy. Pantomime. A number of TV shows spring to mind, including Monty Python. Python’s humour might be “clever” but I could never engage.

In contrast, as a teenager I was greatly taken by the American poet and critic Ezra Pound. A collection of his poetry in the school library engaged me so much I neglected to return it when I left. As obscure — and arguably pretentious — as his writing can be, I felt there was profound wisdom and meaning there, if only it could be decoded.

Canto I

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly sea, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.

As well as puns, intelligent silliness, and hidden meaning, I’ve always been fascinated by paradoxes and mind games. Amongst these I’d include Russell’s paradox (check out these videos by Up and Atom and Jeffrey Kaplan), infinite loop paradoxes (Tired Thinker), and Gödel’s incompleteness theorum (Veritassium and Numberphile). I’d also include Buddhist koans, although it’s not a topic I’m very familiar with. The following passage from 10 Buddhist koans, and why understanding them is pointless serves as a useful introduction.

Humans like to know what a sentence means. Sometimes we’ll go to great lengths to derive meaning from a group of words. More often than not, however, we’ll take the easiest possible route to understanding; the less neurologically taxing, the better. This opens the door to misunderstanding, yet it’s also how our brains are built. Spending time on sentences is the work of academics and poets, not commoners. Still, we all (hopefully) want to know what the other person is trying to convey. The koan is antithetical to such communication.

As in good politics and good philosophy, the koan was designed to inject “great doubt” into the adept’s mind. Koans are sometimes labelled “nonsensical,” though that misses the point. Logic is not the goal here. As renowned Sanbo Kyodan teacher, Philip Kapleau, writes, “the role of the koan is not to lead us to satori [enlightenment], but on the contrary to make us lose our way and drive us to despair.”

The article includes the familiar challenge, “Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?” Of the rest, this one resonates with me:

Question: Without speaking, without silence, how can you express the truth?

Response: I always remember springtime in southern China. The birds sing among innumerable kinds of fragrant flowers.

As the article’s author points out, “Reading [these koans] on the screen is purely for curiosity’s sake. [...] ‘sitting with them’ is the real utility, though thinking you’ve ‘got’ them defeats the purpose.”

There’s a similar crisis of contradiction in the Absurdism of French philosopher Albert Camus, whose name features in Fran’s calendar entry. To the extent that I understand his ideas they accord with my own. As I’ve written previously, “We have an innate need to find meaning and value in our lives, but according to Camus, the search is futile because the universe itself is purposeless, meaningless, irrational, and utterly indifferent to our existence. Camus describes this as the paradox of the Absurd.” The koan-like absurdity is expressed in the closing lines of The Myth of Sisyphus, in which Camus uses the ancient tale of Sisyphus to stand for the human condition. Fated for eternity to push a boulder up a mountain only to have it roll back down again, Sisyphus is nevertheless able to find peace.

The struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I have those words on a t-shirt. I wear it to remind myself of the paradox of searching for meaning in a universe devoid of any.

I’ll close with an account of the image I selected for this blog post. The sculpture of the word “what” on its low plinth works as a visual pun for the first three words of this post’s title, “What on earth?” That would have been enough, but a little investigation led me further. Created by KHBT, the sculpture was part of London’s Culture Mile trail in 2020. It’s the first of a series of sculptures which together form a quotation from Virginia Woolf’s novel Jacob’s Room: “What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?”

The idea of following the word trail through the city echoes the way Fran and I attempted to make sense of her calendar entry, considering it one word at a time. We remain uncertain and perplexed. Likewise, the tourist is led not to an answer but to a question. The final scupture in the trail — the question mark — stands alone as an invitation to further exploration and adventure. There are no answers, the trail suggests, only more questions. This is something I’ve explored previously in The Future Will Be Confusing.

At this stage, I hope Fran and I never solve the mystery of her calendar entry. As I told her at the time, “No matter what the truth of this is, the fact that neither of us know what it means is even more exciting!”

 

Photo by Rhys Kentish at Unsplash.