Half a Job

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Richard Bach made the following observation in his book Illusions;

“The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”

In recent years I have found this idea to be most useful in surviving moments of depression but occasionally, I have found that it does not stimulate the same defensive thoughts and I am left asking myself a much more fundamental question.

Today has been one such day. I have been busier than normal and, having done too much, I am now suffering with both increased pain levels and depression.

I’ve been searching for an answer to the following ‘simple’ question; the problem is the answer is not simple. The question; What is the point of living when you spend most of your life racked in pain and unable to do almost everything you enjoy doing?

I have heard the standard answers, “luckier than others”, “loving family”, “I’m needed”, “almost, isn’t everything”, and “there is hope”….. but to be brutally honest when the chips are down and the spiral of doom is turning the wrong way these answers are not good enough.

I’m exhausted, frightened, angry, depressed and in agony. When our dogs were ill and in pain we made the difficult decision to put them down, the decision was born out of a very deep love for them and a deep desire to end their suffering. I wish with all my heart that our society was not so averse to offering humans the same dignity.

So if there is anyone out there who can answer the question please enlighten me. When you can’t live your life as your true self, what is the point of living?

The best I have come up with thus far is another Richard Bach quote;

“Here is a test to find whether your mission on earth is finished:
If you're alive, it isn't.”

My poem for today is based on a thought I have had almost every day since my accident;

Half a Job

I wish she’d done a better job,
the woman who hit me.
For if she’d done it properly,
I would not live in misery.

John Carré Buchanan
12 November 2010

The Reward

I was chatting with a friend of mine who is working in Uganda at the moment. He had just finished a hard day flying and was settling down to a nice cold Nile. His description of the beer; “Cold and sweet amber nectar, moisture is running gently down the bottles exterior. One takes a thoughtful look into a distant horizon, as it gently flows across ones lips. Ahhhhh” reminded me of a similar occasion 20 years ago when I served in Belize. I was responsible for discharging two “Maintenance ships”. These vessels bought all the heavy equipment the forces required to operate, and returned equipment that was damaged or not required to the UK.

Unloading these ships was both challenging and rewarding. The equipment available to us for the discharge was basic, and on both occasions there was a rain storm which made everything that bit more treacherous and difficult.

Two things I remember most about that job, were this sign on the Port gate;

and the tradition of retiring to the beautiful colonial veranda of number 4 Fort Street after the job was done. There the exhausted Ops team sat and drank ice cold Pina Coladas served in what I can only describe as a glass the size of a small goldfish bowl.

The seed for the following poem had been sown;

The Maint. Ship

Harsh dockside lights illuminate the pier sparkling in the heavy tropical rain.
Stevedores wait patiently as Pilot and Master bring her alongside,
scuppers spewing rainwater.

Heaving lines are thrown and caught, hawsers drawn in and made fast,
the Gangway’s lowered. As the Pilot disembarks he shouts greetings
to boarding Customs and Ship Agents.

The Radio crackles, sparking a flurry of activity as stevedores spring into action.
Hatch covers are raised as chain gangs descend on the cargo to un-lash.
High above crane operators peer through the rain - waiting.

The hold reverberates with the rattles and clangs of shackles, chains, strops, hooks,
As they compete with the incessant drum of the torrential downpour.
A torch summons the hook from above.

The hours pass in a flurry of activity, hooks dip into the hold, their chains dangling
Stevedores clamber over the vehicles and ammunition pallets readying each lift
and vital equipment emerges from the hold.

Shore side, high-viz vests and flashing lights dance an intricate two-step
as vehicles are unlashed and driven off, and stores are loaded on trucks
and all the while the rain pours.

The light changes as dawn passes unnoticed and the crews change shift,
tired grease and rust stained bodies exchanged for fresh eager faces.
But the discharge doesn’t pause.

Tween decks are cleared and the hold’s vertical walls disappear into the depths,
The chain gang finishes un-lashing, in the boot deep rain water,
As they clear the dunnage, the last load emerges.

Down on the pier dented, broken or redundant equipment starts to arrive.
and with hardly a pause the re-load commences, equipment bound for home.
And still it pours.

Finally the job is done, formalities complete, customs and ships agents down.
As the pier’s cleared of debris the vessel slips its berth and heads for home.
Suddenly the rain stops.

The troops head back to camp, exhausted but proud of the job they’ve done.
The boss and his ops team retire to the cool veranda at Four, Ford Street
to savour a ‘Pina Colada’ like no other.

John Carré Buchanan
30 July 2011

The Bush Pilot

I had dinner with some friends last night. One of them is a pilot working for Mission Aviation Fellowship. (His blog can be found here; Biggles Abroad I so admire the work he does I thought I would pen a little something to honour it.

The Bush Pilot

They wait.
Keen eyes search the horizon
hoping for a glint of reflected sunlight.
Sharp ears filter the sounds of the bush
listening for the distant drone -
that heralds his coming.

This lifeline,
remains open where others have failed.
Some barred by conflict
others closed by weather, disasters or
just – too far from wealth,
and so he comes.

Transforming lives.
Bringing help, hope and love.
Flying people to safety.
Delivering food, medicine, equipment,
insight and encouragement
to those that need it.

Excitement soars,
a silvery light in the heavens,
approaches like an angel.
Dust, hopes and cheers rise
as the wheels touch the red earth
and the bush pilot steps down.

John Carré Buchanan
24 May 2011

Dedicated to the Pilots and Support Staff of MAF.