7,300 days and counting.

I will be 59 later this month. I reckon I have a further 7,300 days left (20 years) give or take 7,300 days. Theoretically I could be dead tomorrow or indeed even, less likely, I might live to be one hundred. Statisticians will try and cheer me up and tell me the average man who gets to 59 has a life expectancy of perhaps a further 28 years – so theoretically I should live to 87... But I am not the average man. Soon I will be taking more pills every day than there are candles to blow out on my birthday cake.

I have always taken an interest in planning. When studying for exams – and I did lots of them –– I always made a schedule. However in practice I rarely followed the plan. But at least I knew the schedule was there. I knew exactly what I was not studying and when I was not studying it.

When in business I loved to make lists – perhaps of up to thirty things to do in a day. I loved putting a line through them as they were accomplished. So I wonder, why not make a plan of what to do with the remaining 7,300 days? Surely I must have people to meet, places to visit and books to write? The man without a plan is like the unwise virgin in the Bible who facing perhaps her last 100 days decides she will at last write that book and take that world tour.... As a good friend of mine would regularly say – failing to plan is planning to fail.

Dear reader, if you are under 50 there is no point in reading further. Indeed apologies, there was probably little point in reading as far as here. Sorry about that. Because up to the age of fifty the world is inexhaustible. Full stop. Theoretically at least we feel we could have another five children and marry a further four partners. Health is not something we worry about, it is something we use and abuse. Like air or water. Just to test our immortality we will spend an entire week drinking Bordeaux or climbing the Alps or both. Under fifty, health is something we take for granted. A little like oil – there will always be more.

But after fifty you turn the corner on the great race track of life and to your amazement you see the finishing line in the distance – perhaps not in the immediate distance – but there it is, sure enough. It is similar to climbing a mountain, up and up we go, always straining, always higher, our sight firmly on the summit. We arrive at the top – it’s called our forties. The view is fantastic, the air is pure but the only way is…. down, the only vista is…. below.

I have enjoyed my fifties even more than my forties. I have enjoyed the gentler path down from the summit. I have been examining the flowers and smelling the roses and the coffee on the way down. On the way up I just walked past and on top of the flowers unaware. In a sense I treated many people a little like flowers. People I hardly noticed on the way up have become more familiar and more important on the way down.

If there is no life after life, as is my increasing conviction, then it is all the more important to enjoy sensibly the 7,300 days left. Rather than being sad at only 7,300 days left, I daily celebrate that there are as many as 7,300 left. Quality becomes far more important than quantity and size no longer matters. Very often less is more.

Death is the only human certainty. As my mother puts it so well, she is not afraid of death, she is just afraid of dying, as in, the circumstances of her dying. Not many people make it to 90, and not many of the people who get to 90 are in great health. Medicine has done a great job in keeping more of us alive a lot longer. The downside is that we are living longer than perhaps the manufacturer had in mind. Cars built for 100,000 miles are now regularly clocking 200,000 and not all the parts are working.

Society is facing huge issues regarding aging, health and death. By and large society is simply refusing to address them. For sure the State can no longer be expected to look after every sick, deprived and old person. Families will have to relearn the age old tradition of caring. Families will become less atomic. The family will have to find a rocking chair and clay pipe for 'the old fellow' (me) and just stick me in the corner beside the turf fire. We will probably see many elderly people head to warmer climes to pass the winter more comfortably and less expensively.

So I better sit down later today and make that list
Books to read
Blogs to write
Places to Travel
People to meet
Charities to support
7,300 things to do before I die...
Suggestions on a postcard...

The Cathar Creed

Blogs are supposed to be original, so apologies in advance. I can claim no authorship of the text below. It is attributed to a vaugely Catholic sect which flourished in a number of European countries in the 13th century paticularly in France and more particularly in Albi in the south of that wonderful country.

When I heard it today for the second time in less than a month I decided it was more than a coincidence and it was a sign I should share it with others.


My intention is not to get into an argument about the rights and wrongs of the theology attributed to the Cathars or their persecution by the Papacy and Crusaders from Northern France whose motives seem purely mercenary. I suggest we judge the piece on its own merits, on how it speaks to our spirit and its effect on our own lives.


Along with the Song of St Francis, St. Patrick's Breastplate and of course the Sermon on the Mount, it is one of the most moving statments I have ever heard or read.

Make of it what you will. It 'reads' better out loud. Shalom!


The Cathar Creed
It has no membership, save those who know they belong.
It has no rivals because it is non competitive.
It has no ambition - it seeks only to serve.
It knows no boundaries, for nationalisms are unloving.
It is not of itself because it seeks to enrich all groups and religions.
It acknowledges all great teachers of all the ages who have shown the truth of love.
Those who participate, practice the truth of love in all their being.
There is no walk of life or nationality that is a barrier.
Those who are, know.
It seeks not to teach, but to be, and by being, enriched.
It recognizes that the way we are may be the way of those around us because we are that way.
It recognizes the whole planet as a being of which we are a part.
It recognizes that the time has come for the supreme transmutation, the ultimate alchemical act of conscious change of the ego in to a voluntary return to the whole.
It does not proclaim itself with a loud voice, but in the subtle realms of loving.
It salutes all those in the past who have blazoned the path, but have paid the price.
It admits no hierarchy or structure, for no one is greater than another.
Its members shall know each other by their deeds and being, and by their eyes and by no other outward sign, save the fraternal embrace.
Each one will dedicate their life to the silent loving of their neighbour and environment, and the planet, will carry out their task, however exalted or humble.
It recognizes the supremacy of the great idea, which may only be accomplished if the human race practices the supremacy of love.
It has no reward to offer, either here or in the hereafter, save that of the ineffable joy of being and loving.
Each shall seek to advance the cause of understanding, doing good by stealth and teaching only by example.
They shall heal their neighbour, their community, our planet and living beings in whatever form they take.
They shall know no fear and feel no shame and their witness shall prevail over all odds.
It has no secret, no arcanum, no initiation, save that of true understanding of the power of love and that, if we want it to be so, the world will change, but only if we change.
All who belong, belong; they belong to the Church of Love.

Newsflash - The return of Adam, the prodigal son

The skype phone must have been ringing for a few minutes before Archangel Michael got to it, slightly breathless. He was thrilled to find it was Adam, God's only son at the other end. 'Hi Adam, great to hear from you. It's been a while'. 'Yeah Mike, I've missed the last few New Year's dinners. Been a bit busy with some problems on earth. Anyway, how are you?'

'Oh terrific, thanks. We are getting great use out of that pin you bought us some years ago'. Adam felt guilty. He had left the shopping for presents for the New Years Party until the last minute and all he could find in the shops that were closing quickly was a pin with instructions as to how to place angels on the head of it. 'How many angels are you up to now' asked Adam, to make conversation. 'Well, just before the phone rang we had managed to get a hundred and thirty seven'

'Wow' exhaled Adam, trying hard to show some interest. 'To be honest Mike, I thought it was a fairly mean present, but I am glad you got some use out of it. I don't suppose Dad would be around?' Adam tried to sound matter of fact, but he was terrified that God would not take his call. Adam had missed the last twenty New Years dinners in a row. It was the only thing that God asked of Adam and his younger sister Eve all year long. God took these annual family meals seriously.

The skype phone rang in the Greenhouse where a white bearded, stooped God was busy watering the seedlings. 'Adam, my dear boy, how lovely to hear from you' God positively beamed. 'I hope you don't mind me saying but you look worse the wear than me. I hope you haven't been drinking too much'. Adam was so relieved to be talking to his father that he filled up slightly and his voice broke a little. 'You will glad to hear that I am off the drugs and drink over five years now. Its just I've had a lot of family problems recently - nothing new, the usual famine and war and global warming. It just seems to have got more difficult lately and my off spring have run out of money and ideas to sort it. But we will get over it, we always seem to'

Adam wasn't sure how to broach the subject of the New Year dinner, having missed the last few without even sending an apology. Happily God intervened. 'I hope you can make our family dinner next week. It's never the same without you. Angels are good company but we seem to run out of conversation topics fairly fast. Your sister Eve has missed you. She hasn't told me, but I gather you haven't rung or even texted her in some years. 'Sorry, Dad, I've been a bit of a black sheep for the last few years. I won't make excuses but it has been a rotten last few years on earth. I won't bore you with the details'. 'On the contrary, my son, I cannot wait to get all the news over dinner.

Adam normally came in his best tuxedo but Eve knew he must be down on his luck when she saw him in Paradise Park Reception in faded denim jeans and flip flops. Eve was wearing the same homely dress. She hadn't changed it in fifty years. In her parallel universe things were not as plentiful. Her planet only supported a few thousand humans but at least she was on first name terms with all of them. Adam on the other hand had been given a fantastic start in life with a world that now supported billions of humans. Adam claimed he had lost count recently and of course he knew the names of very few in latter years. It seemed to Eve that Adam had lost much of his good looks. It was only twenty years since she had seen him but he seemed to have aged a thousand. God, who was now bent over with arthritis, seemed almost in better nick. 'Adam you must pop over to my world for a little break, you look as if you could do with one'

Adam was touched by Eve's words and big sisterly hug. For years he had ignored her. He took little interest in her humble world that did not support the diversity of his own. He had often wondered aloud over dinner how she managed to live in a world without animals to eat and where the cereals did not even produce alcohol. Her sober, simply dressed, bicycle riding offspring seemed so dull compared to his own innumerable noisy litter.

The elevator doors opened and God slowly made his way across reception and threw his arms around his prodigal son. 'Lovely to see you Adam, even if you do look knackered'. God turned to Eve and gave her a hug 'Wonderful to see you daughter. Hasn't the year flown?'

Adam put on a bravura performance over dinner, as always. He had Eve and God,not to mention the angels it fits of laughter describing some of habits of his tearaway children. After dinner the tables were cleared, the angels dutifully left the room to allow the three have a private chat.

'Dad, you know how grateful I am for giving me the earth, even though I haven't always shown it.' Adam began. God stroked his beard a little nervously unsure what might follow. 'It's just that in recent years we have some serious problems. Up to now I have tried to solve them myself. But this latest problem of global warming has got out of hand. I am ashamed to admit it, but I can't handle it, I need your help.' Silence filled the room. Eve looked positively pained. She threw her arms around Adam ' Oh dear, I am really sorry for you. I can take a few hundred of your children if that can help. We don't have much but we are willing to share'.

God looked at Adam with those gentle blue eyes. His voice was warm but serious. 'Well son, how many children do you have to cater for?' Adam blushed. Adam rarely blushed. 'Actually, I am ashamed to confess I have lost count. I lost count a few years ago when the number went over the six billion mark. I hate to ask you for a favour but can you change a few laws of nature - just temporarily -until we get over this crisis.'

God, gently slumped down on the sofa, looking every one of his many years. He seemed suddenly exhausted and weary, a little like his profligate son. 'Adam, you know I would do anything to help, but I cannot break my own laws. It's the one thing you cannot do as God. You on theother hand can break them and you frequently do' mused God ruefully 'but I cannot, that is what being God is all about. I can do almost anything, but not everything. Even God cannot cease being God..'His voice trailed off.

'So, all six billion plus of us are screwed, pardon the expression'Adam said angrily.
'Please, son not in your sisters presence' sighed God.

Eve interjected 'What about other universes Dad, didn't you create billions of them. Maybe Adam could borrow a few while he sorts things out back on earth?' 'Lovely thought Eve' God rejoined 'but there is nothing that would suit Adam for another few million years and I am not sure he has the time to wait round'.

Adam looked wretched. 'What will I tell my children?'
In sorrow more than anger God replied ' the truth might be a good place to start'
'So, we're on our own,then' sighed Adam.

'Yes, my son you always have been'

A tale of two Legions

I spent seven years studying for the Mexican missions with the Legion of Christ. I spent the first five - 1969 - 1974 in a boxy building on the Leopardstown Road covered in hideous green cladding (to blend in, we hoped). The tired building stands to this day a monument to the victory of architectural hope over experience. It can be seen clearly from the M50.

It was built as a seminary and was opened in 1969. My group were the first to join in the new building. The group of '68 joined initially in the seminary on Belgard Road in Clondalkin, leased to the order by CRH. CRH took back the building and converted it into a modern head office around 1970.

The Legion of Christ was founded by Father Marcial Maciel in Mexico in the early forties. I met Maciel on numerous occasions - perhaps as often as 20 or 30 times. He seemed charismatic, funny and different. What I did not know at the time and would not learn for a further twenty years was that Maciel stands accused of molesting dozens of boys, his own seminarians, of living with two women and siring two families. It appears sadly the case that money and drugs were used and abused during his long life until he died in 2007.

When Maciel visited the seminary in Leopardstown he would arrive in a black, top of the range Peugeot and often dine in the Glenview Hotel. This in an Order that preached poverty chastity and obedience.

I left the Legion in the summer of 1976 after finishing first year studies in Rome, disillusioned with the Order's approach to mission and worried about the extraordinary high drop out rate - over 90% in many cases. I had remembered Oscar Wilde's comment about the misfortune of losing one parent.

I left the Legion in the Summer of 1976. I flew into Dublin on a hot July afternoon sweltering in an Aran Sweater. In September 1976 I joined Clonliffe College with a view to continuing my studies for the priesthood for the Dublin Dioceses. For the first year I was assigned the job of attending a Legion of Mary Group in Dominick Street - a very poor part of Dublin.

I was intrigued by the Legion of Mary. The coincidence of names did not strike me at the time. I asked for a meeting with the founder of the Legion of Mary, Frank Duff. I was granted a meeting without fuss within a few days. I have an abiding memory of Frank, a frail man in his eighties arrive at the centre on his black bicycle. I can still see the stooped man with the clear blue honest eyes, carefully take off his bicycle clips and stand the bike aginst the wall in his office. He gave me as much time as I wanted. I met him four times in total and typed my notes in duplicate on a typewriter with the money I had saved from working on the ferries for the summer. I gave a copy of the notes to the history department in Clonliffe. I hope the notes still survive to this day.

I no longer have any time for the Legion of Christ who to me and many others seemed interested only in money - all for the greater glory of God, no doubt. All I can say - be careful what you work with - much of it stains your fingers and nails. Even then I could not subscribe to the Legion of Mary which seemed quaint and from another era. But my admiration for Frank Duff has grown over the years and for the Legion of Mary.

Within a year I had encountered two very different Legions, but it took me almost thirty years to find the words and the perspective.

We men can be kind and wonderful. At times we can be incredibly stupid. When Lorraine and I first became friends I took her to both the Legion of Christ and to Clonliffe. Strange way to woo a girl, I suppose. Within five minutes she had worked out exactly the differences.

More women in the boardroom is all I can say and in the Church when we are at it.

You're not the man I married

How often have we heard this statement?, and wondered. Of course I am not the man my wife married thirty years ago. I was young then, I could run a marathon, stay up drinking all night. I am nothing like the man I used to be, I hope.

I used to be a big fan of Cliff Richard. I preferred him to Elvis in the fifties and sixties. We will never know how Elvis might have aged. It certainly wasn't looking too good. But am I the only one upset by Cliff's apparent inability to age gracefully? There is nothing wrong with wrinkles, crows feet and grey and receding hair - well yes if you're 20 but not if you're 60.

But on a more profound level are we spiritually the same people we once were? The Greeks spoke of the river that was never the same - the water we see now is different to the water two minutes ago and different again to the water in two minutes time.

We rightly keep our sense of inner self - to protect our sanity if nothing else. But at times do we guard it too closely? Do we become parodies of ourselves? Surely we need the inner courage to change - hopefully for the better.

I wonder if we have a number of selves during our lifetime. Not at the same time or we develop twin or multiple personalities. It might help to explain why people do change. If there is a heaven and if we get there, which self will we bring? The 10year old version or the 90 year old version.

I don't have an answer to these questions - as usual.
For now, Shalom! Be kind to yourself (ves) and others.

What's left is not all right

I am proud to be a leftie - to write and do other things with my left hand. It is surmised that about 9% TO 18% of the population are naturally left handed. In this age of super science and super communication you might think someone would work out a more accurate figure. The generally accepted figure is 10% although my own observations would suggest that the true figure is about 20%.

It wasn't always easy to be a leftie. The Romans gave left the name 'sinister'. The French use the word 'gauche' and in Irish 'cle' can also mean evil. In many modern cultures with old roots the left hand is supposed to be used for the less attractive duties while the right is to be used for eating and other important chores.

I count myself lucky. In 1956 at the age of 5 I went to a progressive school called Ardtona in Churchtown which survives to this day. The teachers did not insist I change hands when writing. When I graduated to primary school I found that some of my left handed colleagues were not so lucky and had been forced to write with their right (wrong) hand. One boy in particular had developed a very bad stammer attributed to this enforced change that lives with him to this day.

Overcoming the prejudice against left handed people took centuries and suspicion still exists in certain parts of the world today. Primitive man needed some hard and fast rules to survive. The rules had to be black and white. At various times it was decided it was best to shun or even persecute people from different villages, of a different sex, of a different religion.

The country to first and best overcome this prejudice was the US where it is almost mandatory to be left handed to become president - Obama, Clinton, Bush Senior, Ford and Regan to name a few (Regan was actually ambidextrous but generally believed to have been a natural left hander). To paint a balanced picture we should mention other presidents who were right handed including George Bush (junior) Nixon..unfair, I hear you cry!!

I feel part of a minority who have had to work that little bit harder to fit into the world. I played tennis every July (yes, only July) in my early teens and would spend the first week transferring the racket from one hand to the other, trying to work out which felt right (that word again!). I can blame my poor golf on the fact that I have played golf both left and right handed with equally disastrous results. I play table tennis mostly left handed but not always. Finally I played squash right handed but when caught in the left hand corner of the court I could switch to the left handed to the amazement of the opposition. Generally I won the point not through skill but through confusion (Is it legal to change hands?).

Maybe the moral of the story is that we should embrace obstacles as part of our development. Maybe we shield our children from too many problems and cosset them too much in the wrong belief they won't work things out for themselves the way mankind has done for the past few hundred thousand years.

I think I may start a Facebook Campaign to get a new word for left in those languages that associate it with clumsiness and evil. Come to think of it, why should right handed people be always right?

Let's celebrate the difference! Vive la difference!

The Queen's English

Like all would be-writers and aspiring bloggers I am fascinated by the written word. I am equally captivated by the spoken word. I love regional accents - as long as I can understand them.

I clearly remember when the Australian soap 'Neighbours' was screened on TV at home over twenty years ago. Initially I could not believe that anyone could mangle the English language so skillfully. Two years ago we visited my daughter who is living and working in Melbourne and we didn't need to use an interpreter.

Who are we the Irish to mock other peoples accents? What many outside of Ireland do not realise is that there are at least dozen very distinct accents in the small country of Ireland - sing song from Cork, staccato from Belfast, soft Scots in Donegal, flat Wicklow/Wexford, Soft quiet Galway, and a myriad of accents in between.

Britain is encouraging a revival of local accents - Geordie accents have become popular on the back of Cheryl Cole and Ant and Dec; The Beatles made Liverpudlian fashionable, Eastenders instructed us on how to understand Cockneys and TV News Anchors tend to be either Welsh or Scots. Come to think of it, does anyone speak like Her Majesty any more?

When the English language travels the small pond to France, it becomes alluring and sexy. When it travels in the opposite direction to the Americas it often develops a nasal twang. Words like flavour lose the u. My spellcheck will not accept anything other than US English as a result my RAM has been saved thousands of 'u's and other defunct letters.

They say if alchol were discovered in the last fifty years it would have been banned as the most harmful substance known to man. But we don't need scientists to tell us that. Our hangovers are proof enough. If you were given the task of inventing a common world language fifty years ago - you would never have thought of English. It is such a mad language. For a start vowels can have no sound or different sounds. Compare English with Spanish where the vowels always stay the same - an 'o' is always pronounced the same, and so on.

English has been a good language for elliptical writing and the same applies to the spoken word. Whereas Spanish might have five or even fifty funny accents, English can boast of hundreds or even thousands. My guess is that most native English speaking people would not succeed in learning English if it were not their mother tongue.

I hate laziness. I hate the way characters in the Coronation Street soap fail to finish sentences, or even words. There is after all a distinction between regional accents and bad English. Other languages often suffer the same fate.

French is a most wonderful language - it is enchanting when spoken well - and it usually is. But what about all the redunant letters? - C'est in English would become - say - and in Spanish - se. Think of the thousands of letters that could be spared by leaving out the ones that are not pronounced. Think of the rain forests that cold be saved - maybe even the Bois de Boulogne, who knows - que sais je? (Montaigne)

But at the end of the day the Engliszh language will do whatever it wants. People have treid to control and cordon it - with 100% lack of success. English does not boast a committee of experts like in France to tell us how to spell and how to pronounce. That is the joy of English - it is the most anarchic language in the world while aspiring to be the most proper.

To give the Queen her due, she certainly speaks 'proper' English - but does anyone else?