A Work Question and an Answer

Two posts today, I think, as I have been asked a questioning the combox that looks more like a cri-de-coeur than random criticism, so I answered it to the best of my ability.  

Here are question and answer, with my answer made more readable and slightly corrected.  

Anonymous said: 

I agree we need to be careful with what the Internet is doing to our brains. How do you square that sentiment with LSN sensationalism? My mom spends a couple of hours reading it every night and we barely speak anymore because she is so caught up in what I see as conspiracy theories. My aunt, who used to hardly be online at all, is caught up in it too along with apocalyptic sites. The fear and outrage really hook people and are dividing faithful Catholic families.

Reply

Replies

1. 
   Mrs McLean6 May 2021 at 03:58

   Normally I don't respond to anonymous comments, and I try to keep this blog totally* separate from my work. However, I think you deserve a response. 

   First, it's the medium we need to be very concerned about, more than the content. "The medium is the message," as my fellow Canadian McLuhan had to say. One of the problems with internet news is that is it VERY hard for people to read all the way to the end, and often all they remember is the headline, the first paragraph, and maybe the most electrifying sentence or idea they perceive in the article. (I noticed yesterday that a reader in the LSN combox totally misremembered an article I wrote.) 

   Second, there are many voices out there, and different publications are giving space to different voices, just as the Toronto Sun (for example) has a different editorial stance on things than the Toronto Star (or to use a British example, the Telegraph vs the Guardian, and in the USA, WaPo vs. the New York Post.

   LSN definitely marches to the beat of a different drummer, as it were. It is one of the few online news sources that will, for example, refuse to recognise same sex legal arrangements as marriage. It is probably also the most-read online journal that asks uncomfortable questions about governments' responses to COVID-19, including the emphasis on mass-vaccination instead of on treatment. A free press means journalists and editors asking questions other journalists and editors don't want to ask. 

   Third, we are going through a very, very bad time--as Catholics, as Westerners, and as human beings, frankly. We've been frightened to death by governments and mass media for over a year and yet even a liberal literary magazine like The Atlantic has published evidence that we are very unlikely to catch COVID outdoors or from surfaces. A lot of the MSM (and governments) have simply got [some] things wrong and violated our rights in many places without need--or even evidence. In Scotland we were illegally (a court finally decided) stopped from attending public worship---openly, that is, since in Scotland as in other places some people simply went underground. 

   So. It's a bad time, and therefore I highly recommend not being part of the division. Listen to what your mother and aunt have to say, say that you are sorry that they are so frightened/upset, and ask them to go for a walk or do some other activity that will take their minds off what you see as conspiracy theories. 

   Personally, I do not discuss the controversies of the day with my family--and if we do talk about the Covid-19 vaccination program, I judge which information or opinion is least likely to upset a loved one. This is not as hard as it sounds, for in fact my family is "mixed"--my mother's parents were Protestants, and my sister-in-law is from the Orthodox tradition. Therefore, I am used to certain subjects being off the dinner table, as it were.

   
   

   *Not always successfully.

The Aching Wrist

Hello! Benedict Ambrose and I have returned from the seaside. That is to say, we have been staying at a place far enough east along the Firth of Forth to count as a shore of the North Sea. My internet fast began a week ago last Saturday, but we did not go away for the first two days. First, residents of Scotland were not free to rent "self-catered accommodation" until Monday, April 26, and, second, my idea of a rest involved tidying our home and then getting the garden sorted. 

But a funny thing happened after sorting out the garden on Sunday, April 25. I woke up at 4 AM Monday with shooting pains in my right wrist. I first developed "overuse syndrome" in my right arm when my then-office got a new computer system in 2000, and sometime it comes back. Well, by Monday it was definitely back. I got out of bed, took the wine bottle sleeve out of the freezer, and popped it on my arm. And my part of Monday's cleaning and packing session mostly involved giving B.A. advice and instructions. 

It was another lesson in what "resting" means. My first lesson was on Saturday when I felt positively tearful that I had got so little cleaning done. The most I was able to do was clear off my desk, which I haven't been able to use for actual writing for months. It has been a combination bookcase and filing cabinet. We were having a walk, and B.A. suggested we have pizza for supper, and tearfulness gave way to barely suppressed rage. I had been trying to eat healthily for weeks, and the very first day I stop working, yada yada. 

Fortunately, it was a silent yada yada. Before the devil could take over my tongue, I  recalled that bad things usually happen to people early in their holidays from work. They cry a lot. They get sick. Their minds and bodies take revenge for all the abuse and neglect their owners have put them through. So I said "Yes" to supermarket pizza, and when we got home from our walk, I went for a little lie-down. I was dog tired. 

On Sunday my right arm felt a little achy, and as usual I ignored it until--We've been over that. My arm continued the freezy-sleeve treatment all Monday (including on our train) and Tuesday, and I was deeply, deeply grateful I would not have to type or scroll or do any fine hand movements for the next ten days. I read an amazing book about the problems with the internet, and it never once mentioned the damage constant tapping and scrolling does to our actual hands and arms. 

That said, The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brains is a must-read. It has scared me into pledging to be online only eight hours a day. I will also be taking a lunch-break from now on, plus two 15 minute breaks, as if I were back in ye olde government office again. I will go into the garden and stare glassily at the lawn and my veggie trug. 

In short (for my posts will be shorter from now on), surfing or just actually reading the web is the intellectual equivalent, author Nicholas Carr says, of doing a crossword puzzle while reading a book. You are constantly, subconsciously problem-solving ("Do I click this link or not?") when you are trying to read. Therefore, you don't really read. You skim. And that, brothers and sisters, is why you and I feel so frustrated sometimes when we use internet sources for our actual work. It is cognitively much harder work than just reading a book, making notes, and typing up a report. Also, you think you are taking it all in, like you do when you read a book, but you're not. Your working memory effectively transfer it to your long-term memory, for the internet is presenting, quite literally, too much information.

But I began The Shallows a week last Tuesday. On Monday evening, after we arrived at the seaside, we just went for a walk, listening to the rigging of little ships chime against the masts in the wind, and bought fish and chips. Although the walk to and from the railway with backpacks and folded canvas garden chairs hadn't been that onerous, I positively wolfed the fish and chips. 

As for the internet fast, I will cut to the chase and say that apart from a pronunciation recording on Facebook I used a few times, and the Youtube or pay TV that B.A. streamed into the rental flat's TV and the Skype app on B.A's computer to talk to Mum and Dad, I did not use the internet for ten days. Oh, I sent a Facebook message to Nulli on his birthday, too. But that was it for social media, and I did no surfing or staring at pretty things on Pinterest, eBay, etc.

Yesterday, to ease myself back into the modern world, I checked my work messages. One colleague has had a baby, another has successfully bought things in Virginia while maskless, and Milo Yiannapoulos has thrown a ring into the sea. I then checked my personal email. Of all the dozens of emails, only seven held any interest for me. Two were from our priest, one was from my accountant, one was from a friend in Canada, one was from a young friend wanting references, and two alerted to me to articles I actually wanted to read. Therefore, I have spent part of my eight-hour daily internet allowance today unsubscribing from various companies. 

Dear readers, be careful with your brains and, indeed, your wrists. 

The Internet Fast

At noon, I am putting down tools for a multi-day break from the computer. I do not believe I will have  gone so long without the internet since 2006, so this has all the seriousness of an experiment. However, it is intended as a form of rest--a deep rest. I need it very much, especially now that "overuse syndrome" has returned to my poor right arm.  It will be interesting to see if I feel withdrawal symptoms.  

Meanwhile, I am not going to watch the news or anything but the most soothing of entertainments. In fact, I wish to return, for that period, to a state of innocence in which I am not conscious of any evil in the world. Let's see if I manage it.

Meanwhile, here are some photos from a walk Benedict Ambrose and I took yesterday. Speaking a state of innocence, we found a paradise not too far away. I was just thinking that it was close to my childhood idea of what Scotland must look like when, from somewhere nearby, we heard the whinnying of a horse. Definitely idyllic. 

Along  the route home.

Childless versus "Child free"

My eye fell upon the expression "child free" today, and I felt the usual thrill of annoyance. In short, a man who saved and invested cleverly enough was able to retire at 45, and he believes his decision at 20 to remain "child free" was the best guarantor of his financial independence. This was not, I gather, a decision to practise chastity in continence, for although he is not married, he writes of a "lady friend." 

It seems to me that it is not particularly original for a 20 year old man to decide he doesn't want children. What 20 year old these days feels ready to have children? Of course, in another sense the decision is entirely original to the past 60 years, for pre-Pill, the only way anyone could be sure of not having children was not indulging in activities that invite them into existence. No wife or mistress for you!  A decision to be sexually active and yet perpetually frustrate the powers of generation is thus both banal and moderno-creepy. It is sterile in all senses. 

Meanwhile, the expression "child free" annoys me very much, for it implies that children are an encumbrance, an expense, an environmental catastrophe on par with mass-ownership of automobiles. (N.B. Mr Child Free has a car, new.) The adults who throw around the word were, ahem, children themselves, so this self-congratulatory rejection of children smacks of hypocrisy or, worse, a tinge of self-hatred. 

I wonder if children so unlucky as not to have brothers and sisters are more likely to long for this child-freedom? My love for children springs, I think, from my love for my brothers and sisters, who were all cute babies and then lovely children. We all lived lives strangely independent of each other--we often went to different schools, and when we didn't, we didn't much socialise there--but we still lived, always ate, and often played, together. (Outsiders thought we were bizarrely formal with each other.) At any rate, like Anglo-Canadian culture, our ties are subtle but real.  

Perhaps "child free" people don't like the expression "childless" because they bridle at the idea that someone might pity them for their (brave? bold? unnatural?) "choice." Speaking as a genuine childless-not-by-choice person, I don't mind. Go ahead and pity me--I can take it! Even better, say a prayer for your humble blogger that she may better rejoice in her spiritual children, her godchildren, and the younger generation of her family. Pray that post-Mass coffee in the parish hall may resume, so that I may once again amuse myself in rationing out Tunnock's Caramel Wafers to  children and lawyers alike, to save the rest for everyone else. 

One of the very real and valid worries of Christian singles (especially women) is that they might never have children, and they might never marry until it is Too Late. The only solution to this growing problem, I think, is to raise young people in such a way so that they are obviously marriageable, and also willing to take on the joys and challenges of married life, sooner rather than later. Eligibility implies not being blithering idiots, of course. Who among us does not look back on our 21-year-old selves with a certain amount of horror? 

But in the meantime, I can attest that eventually the pain of personal childlessness--which is more like the death of the hope of having children--goes way most of the time and only comes back at odd moments. There is, too, a sort of martyr's crown about it now, for there is an entire industry dedicated to making money off artificial conception for women like me. Rejecting it, though not as dramatic or satisfactory a decision, no doubt, as returning to marital relations after giving birth for the fourth time, is in its own way a victory of life over the culture of death. 

Update: Incidentally, some of the stars of the financial independence, retire early (FIRE) community have children. I suspect the trick is to bring up your children just as penny-pitching canny as yourselves. It brings joy to my east-coast Scottish heart to imagine a playground quarrel in which one child brags that HIS father has bought an expensive new car, and the other retorts that HIS dad says anyone who buys such a car new is a patsy, for its sale value depreciates by 40% the moment it is driven off the lot. 

Update 2: Technically, we are also "car-free" although this too is not really anything to feel smug about, since we can't afford one. Ha ha! 

Happy Surprises

Thursday already? The week has flown by with wings of coffee and lovely walks outdoors. When the younger generations ask, "What did you do in the pandemic, Auntie?" I will say, "I went for walks. I planned meals. I gained but then lost weight, and I took a lot of vitamins. In short, I tried to eliminate as much stress from my life as possible."

It has been a week of happy surprises although the first surprise was rather mixed. Great was the consternation of the congregation of St. Trad of Invertradling this Sunday when not our pastor but young Father Novus processed from the sacristy. I had heard rumours that Fr. Novus had been learning the Old Rite, but I did not expect to see the evidence so soon. It was Good Shepherd Sunday; where was our own good shepherd? Was he on holiday? Was he ill? Was he dead, and no-one had seen fit to tell us? 

Fortunately, there was a homily, always a reliable source of news at St. Trad of Invertradling. Fr. Novus revealed that Fr. Vetus had taken ill. The congregation's silence of curiosity turned into a silence of sharp concern. Naturally I thought first of the vile germ and then of my mother's explanation for the Reformation, which was that the Black Death had killed all the good priests who bravely ministered to the people and spared the bad ones who ran away to their country estates. The prayers of St. Trad of Invertradling went up and into eternity and helped get Fr. Vetus out of hospital, for--behold!--when we emerged from the church, there he was in the carpark under a beanie, looking wan and thin but most definitely alive. 

So that was the first happy surprise. 

The next happy surprise was that a Canadian accountant had vanquished the Canadian Revenue Agency on my behalf and wrested my 2017 money from them. Round two should see the return of my 2018 money, for valiant is my Canadian accountant. 

The third happy surprise was the sheer beauty of Edinburgh's Old Town on an April day. Benedict Ambrose and I have had no reason to be in the Old Town for months and months, and it is still largely untouristed, which means that the lovely streets and buildings are uncrowded. We went to the Princes Street Gardens to see the Polish Soldiers' Memorial, aka Wojtek the Bear. The Gardens were utterly lovely. 

B.A. and I were in the Old Town to make little videos for my workplace, for someone had the excellent idea of stressing our international reach. Naturally I didn't think our garden was quite as iconic as Edinburgh Castle, so that is where we went before visiting Wojtek. I borrowed Wojtek to stress my own international reach. On the way to the Castle, we stopped by another local monument. 

Here is Princes Street Gardens. So lovely! 

I now feel inspired to offer some life hacks I have found particularly useful this week: 

1. Wear the same hard-wearing skirt for ordinary daily wear and have one good suit for work occasions (like above).

2. Plan out meals for the week and write shopping lists. 

3. Spend an hour in inspirational reading and prayer before turning on the computer. 

4. Write down every penny you spend and make a note of why you spent it. 

5. Leave battles with the taxman to a good accountant.  

6. Conversations in foreign languages are really very relaxing once you know how--and with whom--to have them. 

7. Always leave time for a walk in the woods, especially on a sunny day. 

8. Foldable exercise bike. 

9. Wellness journal. 

A Simple Walk and a Funeral

Yesterday was sunny, both here on the east coast of Scotland and at Windsor Castle. I set the alarm on my mobile phone for 3 PM, so Benedict Ambrose and I could participate in the one-minute National Silence for the Duke of Edinburgh. 

This walk was along the south shore of the Firth of Forth to "Edinburgh's seaside", which means Portobello Beach. The shores of the Forth have rocky stretches and sandy strips, and on a lovely day like yesterday, families and friends rush to the beaches with their dogs to sunbathe, dig, cook meat with disposable BBQ kits and, very occasionally, run into the water. 

The most obvious wildlife in this stretch are the birds, especially the orange-billed sandpipers oystercatchers who sound like squeaky toys when they chat together. 

The colourful windscreens on the beach look amusingly old-fashioned, like something on postcards from early 19th century holiday towns like Brighton. However, if you want sun and no wind, on a springtime Scottish beach, a screen in necessary. 

There are many, many dogs. I'm not sure they don't actually outnumber the children. The dogs are almost invariably pure-bred and solidly recognisable as terriers, retrievers, bulldogs, etc.  Scotland's birthrate is something like 1.37 children per woman, which makes me nervous about the dog : children ratio.  An estimated 485,000 Scottish households have dogs, at 1.3 dogs per household. For me, the "perfect" home would spill over with riotous life: human children, a dog or two, a cat or two, spider plants, parlour palms, geraniums, a kitchen garden by the back door, a lawn, trees, perhaps a miniature pond with gold-fish, a small chicken run. 

Portobello Beach was full of riotous life but not crowded, as if everyone was at least acknowledging the outdoor social distancing advice. 

At 3:02 PM in Bellhill Lane, I realized that my phone had been too-quietly ringing for two minutes. We decided that we hadn't said anything in the past two minutes, so that counted as our participation in the National Silence.

Twelve Triangles, one of our favourite pastry shops, had been shut for an hour, so we stopped at the next most obvious pastry shop and bought a Turkish cheese bun and a Bakewell slice. We took them to the park next to the Catholic Church--whose 1960s wreckovation was, amusingly enough, stopped by the government department in change of preserving historical architecture. There we basked in the sun, were investigated by a snowy-white West Highland terrier, and ate our snack. The cheese bun was lacklustre; that £2 could have made me 12 p in the stock market yesterday, weep weep. 

We went home by bus and bought a week's worth of groceries according to our handy week's menu and shopping list. Then I made a baklava--not consciously to honour the Duke of Edinburgh's early life as a Prince of Greece, but I'm glad it could have done. Baklava turns out to be not all that hard to make (if you buy the phyllo), and it is absolutely more economical to make your own than to buy it from a shop, even given the cost of walnuts.  

After supper, at B.A.'s insistence, we watched the online recording of the BBC broadcast of the funeral ceremonies for the Duke. It was a very British thing to do.

"Nobody does funerals better than us," said B.A. several times, meaning the British, or the British Royal Family. 

"Look at that precision," he also said several times, meaning the massed, marching soldiers. 

It was actually very mesmerising, and I knew almost all the musical works the Duke, the BBC commentator reminded us, had chosen himself. It was a cheerful thought, to go with the sunshine, that the Duke had planned out all the details of his Windsor Castle funeral, and probably very much enjoyed it, too.

"He's chosen all the top Remembrance Day tunes," I said to B.A., who admitted this was true: "I Vow To Thee My Country", "O Valiant Hearts",  "Jerusalem", "Nimrod".

"I want "Nimrod" at my funeral," I said. 

B.A. seemed to doubt that I will get "Nimrod" at my funeral. He wants the "Flowers of the Forest" piped after his funeral Mass, maybe as his coffin is being carried (rolled, let's face it) out of the church. Well, naturally he will have the "Flowers of the Forest" He is a Scot.

The actual Funeral Ceremony (which included "Flowers of the Forest") was more than mesmerising, it was edifying. The Duke of Edinburgh had picked a reading and a sung psalm that were full of joyful meditation upon the natural world, as well as a Gospel passage proclaiming Christ as "the Resurrection and the Life." 

I forget that Anglican rituals can be really that beautiful, normally because when I am at one I am hot with embarrassment because there are women in clerical shirts standing around. This is a good thing because it means that, however gorgeous Anglican liturgies are, and however more impressive the Archbishop of Canterbury than various Catholic bishops, I will never be tempted to throw in my lot with the British schismatics Reformed tradition. Sometimes those ladies' clerical shirts are pink. 

Anyway, putting aside liturgical transvestitism (and there were no women in collars at the Royal Funeral), the Anglican Prayer Book is very beautiful and the Duke of Edinburgh has excellent taste. (I really don't know why we talk about the deceased in the past tense when human beings have eternal souls.) Meanwhile, the Royal Family was beautifully and tastefully dressed, and as always the Princess Royal, the Duchess of Cambridge, and Countess of Wessex looked impeccable. The Queen looked very elegant , too, and all I can say is that I hope I'm that mobile should I ever reach 94 myself. 

If you are 50-odd, you can't go wrong to emulate the Countess of Wessex in your attempts to look smart and stylish, and if you are younger than that, the Duchess of Cambridge should be your model.* 

Now I must scramble or we will be late for Mass.

  

*Update for ladies: Those stiletto heels, though. On the one hand, they are correct. My congratulations to those who really can stand and walk in them in comfort. But on the other, it is utterly ridiculous for human beings to totter along with their heels five inches in the air. 

Meaning and Purpose

Last Canadian Christmas (pre-covid)

I was intrigued and moved by this post by the talented but often irascible Steve Skojec of 1 Peter 5. It goes far to explain why ol' Steve roars like a lion at his critics instead of ignoring them, befriending them, or getting off Twitter. 

Many leaders among lay traditionalist Catholic men often express anger and disappointment in their writing, thus giving more fuel to the "mad trad" stereotype. But we live in difficult times, so it would be odd not to be angry and disappointed at least some of the time.  

By the way, I just thought of a priest-journalist's recent suggestion that children and young people be forbidden to attend the Traditional Latin Mass and laughed. I assumed, when I first heard about this, that he was either trolling or trawling for attention--or both. 

Western Civilisation is going through a very rocky time, largely because people want to get rid of the old certainties, which they blame for their disappointments in life. Sawing off the branch we sit on will not   make them happy although it has brought at least one of the founders of BLM a lot of moolah and some luxury properties Facebook does not want you to know about. 

There is also COVID-19, the lockdowns, the rushed vaccines, and the madness of people simultaneously trusting government propaganda and blaming governments for not solving the problems expressed in their propaganda. People are frightened of each other just for being--I flinch whenever I hear a cough on the bus--and families are being sundered into pro-vax/anti-vax, pro-lockdown/anti-lockdown, rule-following/rule-breaking halves. The trust between the police and the public must be at an all-time low in many countries. Worst of all, many of us cannot see our families and friends in person, which is a health disaster in itself. The number-one factor in living to a happy, healthy old age is strong, mutually fulfilling relationships. 

Therefore, we are living in very bad times, and I think we should go easy on ourselves and each other as much as possible. This does not mean binging on Netflix and food all day, for that is not true self-care. True self-care is reaching out to family and friends however one safely can, getting exercise, getting 7-8 hours of sleep a night, going outdoors, reading enriching books, doing the most essential housework, cooking and eating three healthy, filling meals a day, and very probably taking vitamin supplements, especially the medically recommended dose of Vitamin D. (Caveat: I am not a doctor, and this should not be taken as a substitute for doctors' advice, etc.) 

True care of neighbour is cutting them slack for their own way of coping with the international crisis, trying to see things from their point of view, and not adding to their burden of worry. Reaching out to family and friends to see how they're doing is crucial. Soothing the worries of your children is probably crucial, too. I know nothing about parenting, but I imagine telling children inspiring stories about children's heroism during other international catastrophes (the Black P|ague, the Second World War) might be therapeutic for everybody. 

Children definitely give you meaning and purpose. Both Steve and I, his reader, were struck by his memory of his wife thanking him by voice mail for the house he had provided for her, himself and their children after a long financial struggle. Fatherhood is so meaningful--fatherhood of all kinds. I am reminded of a war account in which Polish men in a Siberian gulag found purpose in sacrificing to keep the youngest among them--the then-teenage future narrator--alive.  

My sense of meaning and purpose, which collapsed when I was told I'd never have children and was  kicked by rejection letters from editors, publishers and agents, got up again after B.A.'s brain tumour reveal party. B.A.'s tumour told me that I had to stop pretending to be Lady of the Manor, writing amusing trifles for pin money, and get a job. And when B.A. got really sick and no-one knew why, I had two absorbing new tasks: keep my husband alive and make doctors keep him alive, too. 

Sorry to be repetitive, but it was traumatic, and traumatised people return to their traumas. I feel like I have been fighting non-stop since May 2017, not only because I am still haunted by the intransigence of doctors, but because I left the hospitals to fight with, among other tyrants,  agents of Revenue Canada. (Possibly the reason I can laugh at Fr. Reece's modest proposal for the TLM is because I didn't laugh when I got Revenue Canada's most recent letter.) 

Anyway, fighting The System in two countries for my husband's health and our money has given me a lot of meaning and purpose although it has also been very hard. It has been much harder--and more important- than putting up with the occasional expression of cozy Scottish (or North Irish) bigotry against Catholics. Fighting for health and wealth has much more tangible consequences than, e.g., smacking down a smug old man at a funeral tea. It includes a live husband under a roof we (increasingly) own.  

So what am I trying to say in this long-winded post? 

First, we live in very bad times, and so if we're angry and disappointed, no wonder. 

Second, we live in very bad times, so we need to focus on keeping ourselves and helping to keep our neighbours sane and healthy. This means diplomacy, expressions of love and support, tolerance and forgiveness. 

Third, we can find meaning and purpose in these very bad times by focussing on the good of the weakest members of our families. If you have children, that means the children. If you're single, that might mean your parents. In my case, that has meant my ailing or convalescing husband, who is now, thanks to the lockdown-nuking of his industry, financially dependent on me. 

That said, it has dawned on me that, breadwinner notwithstanding, the weakest person in our household at the moment is poor old burnt-out me. Can one get meaning and purpose from tending to oneself? I'm really not sure, but I guess I'll try.