One evening last week, whilst I was making the evening meal, my mother called me for a conversation on the telephone.

She asked if I was busy, and I said I was making the evening meal, but I could hold the conversation by placing the phone on the worktop near the cooker in loud speaker mode.

As she talked, I made the right noises at intervals, and in truth the things she was telling me, except for an accident that a relative had suffered, I had heard all before.

I was preoccupied, so when there arrived a natural end point to the conversation, I said goodbye and ended the call with her.

A few minutes later, I sat down to the evening meal I had made, with my wife, my daughter and her boyfriend.

As I started to eat, I sat quietly, thinking over what my mother had said to me on the telephone. I had been listening, because I could remember everything she said.

My wife, broke into my quiet reverie and asked me what my mother had called to say.

As I started to speak, I was suddenly, and very surprisingly, absolutely overcome with tears and I could not speak.

There was general concern from those mentioned who were with me, and there was an element of alarm at my upset state.

After a few moments, I was able to compose myself enough to relate what she had told me on the telephone.

My cousin had taken a fall and broken her hip – would I send her a get well card?

Had I enjoyed the family gathering on Saturday Night?

She had enjoyed it, lots of people had spoken to her.

She had told my brother (who’s party it was) how wonderful he was – my tears again start to flow.

She said, “I have had a good life”

The best years were when my children were young and we were poor.

I’ve told your sister, I want “The Road to Emmaus” reading at my funeral.

I thought I was dying at the start of the week, but I think I am better now.

I want to be buried.

I’ve nothing to come back for.

I said to my wife, “I heard what she said, but I wasn’t really listening, but I think she was saying good-bye” – again I was overcome.

She was saying good-bye and I was busy, I wasn’t listening.

My daughter says, “Dad, she is preparing you – she is preparing us all – but I don’t think she was saying good-bye”

I called her later in the evening and she sounded fine. I had been over-wrought.

I didn’t tell her how upset I had been, because it was not as a result of what she had wanted to tell me that caused me to have tears at dinner, it was because I had been detached and unresponsive while she had been saying it, and I had felt ashamed.

Our deaths are inevitable, sometimes we are lucky enough to prepare for them, and prepare those around us, who love us for our passing, but nothing can prepare us, I think for the reality of a death of someone so dear, because grief is the price we pay for love.

My next blog will be: My Foot at a Right Angle

William Defoe

I have been out for a 5 kilometer run, virtually every early morning of my life since September 2015.

The 25 minutes which this physical effort takes my body to complete, affords for me, a precious time to think.

In recent weeks, I have noticed a difference between “cold” and “cold”.

The first “cold” is the below freezing, cold still air, which creates a fog in the air around me, into which my exhaled breath hangs.

The second “cold” is the type I am experiencing in temperatures which are above freezing, perhaps as high as 9 degrees centigrade, which is caused by the cold wind blowing over me as I run.

This second type of “cold” feels the coldest, and this is a surprise to me because my head is telling me that Spring should be warmer than Winter.

Perhaps the effect of the cold in these late days of Spring, has something to do with my expectations not being met. My head is expecting something warmer, but my body is experiencing something sharper and less comfortable.

This depth of thinking, this increasing ability within me to discern the difference between “cold” and “cold” is  a positive sign to me, of my increased capacity to experience and explain and separate out in my mind, the different aspects of each moment.

Living my life in the present, as I now try to do, has been for me a journey of expansion both horizontally (i.e. to accommodate a wider understanding of the experience of others) and also of depth (i.e a wider and much deeper and more compassionate understanding of self).

My next blog will be: Tears at Dinner 

William Defoe

I’ve been listening to the beautiful voice of Welsh lyric mezzo-soprano Katherine Jenkins in my car in recent days.

The CD I am listening to, is pre-dominantly of her singing in Welsh, the language of Wales and I understand, not a word of what she is actually singing.

Of course, the listening experience of music is multi-faceted and despite the fact that I cannot access the meaning of the songs, I can access the feeling which her beautiful voice conveys.

In a strange way, I am proud for the people of Wales, to have such a talented singer as Katherine Jenkins, so conversant and competent to sing in her native tongue.

I feel slightly envious of people who can speak Welsh, and who are multi-lingual, which I am not.

The tone and pitch of her voice, transport me to a heavenly place, as if I am in the presence of an angel.

The orchestral accompaniment to her voice, remind me that to excel, we often need to be supported with the skills of others.

The accompaniment of voices, particularly the male welsh voice choirs, remind me of the diversity of the human voice in both pitch and range.

I think that to experience something, without having a full understanding of it, is to be in the midst of a deep involvement with the soul.

My soul craves peace.

My soul craves love.

My soul craves others.

My soul craves energy.

My soul craves light.

My soul craves rest.

My soul craves understanding.

I can honestly say, that my soul has developed a deeper sense of its identity, as I have listened to Katherine Jenkins singing in Welsh and I have understood not a word.

Diolch yn fawr iawn !        [Thank you very much !]

My next blog will be: Cold and cold

William Defoe

In a conversation last week, with my recently appointed new boss, he told me that I was doing a fantastic job, and that I had qualities in my work ethic that he had rarely seen before.

I think there is a risk in all of us to experience a rush of adrenaline at the satisfaction that these words bring, but my response has been more grounded.

I was more interested, in the pockets of real facts around the qualities which he said he so admired, without which the sentiment would have been little more than opinion and conjecture.

This evidence-approached attitude to praise, is the same I would apply to criticism, because the risk would be, that I would accept the judgement of a person in authority without first understanding the basis upon which their observations were based.

A few years ago, I lost a job in which I had worked very hard.

The circumstances were very painful to me at the time, and they have caused a lasting damage to my sense of well-being, in the sense that despite overcoming the issues which caused my job loss, the memory of the time leading up my job loss has affected my confidence.

It is the recollection of these events, which keeps me grounded, in the  circumstances of the praise which I have received recently, and it protects me, as far as is reasonable, from ever having to suffer as I did all those years ago, at the hands of a someone whose view of me was narrow and lacking in basic compassion.

My own personal journey of development has lead me to a place where work is work and home is home.

The separation is clear, but so too are the co-dependencies of work and reward.

The praise was lovely, I loved hearing those words, but so too did I enjoy explaining to him the areas where I would like to experience further development.

It is this holistic and balanced approach which keeps me moving forward in a professional sense, and which keeps me grounded and content in the present moment.

My next blog will be: Welsh Song

William Defoe

As I grow in my understanding of what it is like to love and accept self, I have become ever more determined not to feel restricted in allowing my thoughts to flow.

So, I want to discuss in this post, the important bodily function of defecation and the effect it has had, on my capacity to think, on my capacity to be present, on my capacity to be me.

I have been intrigued by how my body is in control of my mind at the point at which the need for defecation is present.

The feeling is so urgent and so intense and so immediate that it cannot be ignored! (and if it has to be for reasons of the unavailability of facilities etc, the discomfort and urgency increase until the urge is satisfied)

There has been a tendency, in me to consider my thoughts on a range of issues to have the same urgency for a response – to discharge an opinion, or a view, or an expression of anger  – as if it was a bodily call to defecate.

I have been pondering over the journey of my intake of food through my digestive system.

I’m not a biologist, so no lessons here, but the urgency to defecate starts the previous day with the intake of food, either in solitary of in social circumstances.

The food traverses through my body and nourishes and sustains my basic needs for sustenance, but also my higher level needs to enable me to apply my skills at work, my love at home, my emotional needs to self and my spiritual needs to God.

The urgency of defecation is as a result of a journey, of a process, of a cycle which has sustained me, and this solitary act of discharge, is a culmination of something very very profound and wonderful.

No wonder then, that the immediate aftermath of defecation is one of relief and gratitude and comfort.

How wonderful it would be, if these same feelings were present after the discharge of our thoughts, our opinions our anger and our love into the world – this is only likely to be the outcome, if we consider the process of thought, as well as its discharge.

My next blog will be: You’re Fantastic

William Defoe

In the UK at this time of year, the weather and temperatures are changeable.

As winter, gives way to spring, warmer days emerge and the siege mentality of the long cold dark days, gives way to the hope of something lighter, fresher and warmer.

In early April, the sun came out and shone on us, and gave me the impression that winter was behind us.

I decided to consign my long winter overcoat to its wrappings, and store it in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom for another year.

Suddenly, winter returned and I had to go and retrieve my winter coat after trying to muddle through without it, because it became so cold and wet that I needed again to feel its protection and warmth.

Reaching again for my winter coat, seemed like a backward step, a renegade movement to a period which I had consigned to the past, but actually my action to retrieve it from its wrappings, was to recognise and take action to address my immediate needs.

The seasons are not delivered to us in regimental order, rather they tend to emerge one out of the other over time and the ebb and flow of the weather, particularly the rain in the UK is a law unto itself!.

So it is right, that I should have both my shorts and t-shirt, and my jumpers and winter coat to hand to reflect the reality of the season, and to use this analogy of seasons and weather and clothing to educate my spirit to be ready and able, to cope with whatever the day brings.

My next blog will be: Debenhams 

William Defoe

I have visited the same salon for a haircut, every four weeks, for the last 40 years.

For most of those years a man called Jim has cut my hair.

He shares the same Catholic heritage as me, attended the same schools, although he is older than me by approximately 4 years.

Our usual conversations range from, family to football , to the city we love, to holidays, to marriage “strife”, to politics, to jokes and our conversations invariably involve an element of laughter and silliness.

Last week for my regular haircut, our conversation turned to the topic of male impotence.

I ended up telling him that I was feeling really concerned that my ability to function sexually felt as though it was in decline and it scares the hell out of me.

He says to me, same here, time there was when I had to hide myself behind my school satchel but those days are gone.

I said some of my friends, of a similar age to me (mid-fifties) have lost interest in sex, but I have not and the fear I hold, is that my physical capacity will decline further whilst my mental capacity is left behind and seriously frustrated.

He says, well there is always Viagra – some of my friends use Viagra, but to be honest I think you are worrying about losing something which you have not lost.

He said, you are experiencing a slow down in line with your age, but it should not necessarily mean that you are finished with sex.

If you are concerned, he said, see a doctor.

As I emerged from the salon, I was appreciative of my connection with Jim.

His haircut man-talk in the midst of his general humour and his skill as a hairdresser was a much appreciated exchange, which provided me, in the moment, with the re-assurance that I was in need of.

Slow down doesn’t mean stop.

Stop doesn’t mean end.

It’s good to talk!

My next blog will be: Winter Coat

William Defoe

In recent weeks, since around the time of the new year commencing, I have maintained my distance from several individuals.

The origins of this discourse, are in the busy Christmas period, when my season of goodwill and joy to all men, gave way to one of my most destructive emotional episodes which resulted in my daughter and I trading insults and worse.

In respect of my much beloved daughter, I took rapid steps, after a cooling off period, to repair the damage and try to explain with as much sincerity and affection and love that I could, that she means the world to me, but I am fragile at times and need to be loved too.

My wife happened to tell me that she thought that our next door neighbours may have been affected by the row, and they have been acting cool towards her.

I emerged from my car one day after these remarks, and I experienced a similar coolness and the result has been an inner response of a complete and utter shutdown to any attempt to communicate with them.

I have this kind off attitude which runneth, that hell will freezeth over before I make any attempt first to speak.

Silly, silly, foolish, attitude.

Similarly, I had a few words with a member of the choir over a request he made of me to call a mutual friend on his behalf which I refused to do.

He and I have been fine since the exchange, but his wife cast me a glance – I say a glance of poison – and I felt my body stiffen and resolve that under no circumstances would I speak or look at her until she had made amends.

Silly, silly, churlish attitude.

In the weeks that followed, keeping up my promise to blank her, I could not be sure that the poison glance had even been directed at me.

Last week, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her walking towards me with intent.

I froze inside, I didn’t know which way to turn, there was no way to avoid the conversation.

It was an olive branch – would I be so kind as to assist her with some new duties she had taken on at church which she knew I was familiar with.

My heart racing, and resisting the ridiculous urge to say that I would not, thankfully responded with politeness and a smile that of course I would be happy to help.

The olive branch was accepted, the impasse broken and to my shame, by her, not me.

And yet, in the hours after the exchange, I wanted desperately to cling on to the hurt and the humiliation of the poison glance and I felt weak for capitulating to her olive branch.

Silly, silly, obstinate attitude.

These feelings of lingering hurt, have there origins in the suffering I experienced as a teenager, struggling to find my identity, struggling to feel safe, struggling to find the acceptance of others whilst not understanding self.

These recent feelings, are a throwback to a less happier time, a time which should have been happier, but I must not allow this type of destructive thinking to cloud my future too.

Olive branch accepted.

Perhaps now, it is time, to extend my own olive branch towards my next door neighbours.

My next blog will be: Haircut Man-talk

William Defoe