BEL MOONEY: How silly my petty trials of the past now seem

Dear Bel,

In January, I emailed you about the fires here in Australia and wrote: ‘It’s unspeakably awful, lives lost, thousands homeless.

‘Australians are pretty good at pulling together, but these are times like no other.’

I described the situation as feeling like ‘the end of times’ and what seemed then (to me, in my 70s) like incompetent politicians. I was pretty disillusioned.

When I look back, how silly seem the petty little trials and tribulations I mentioned, of growing old in the modern world, compared to the real disaster that faces us all now.

I’m not really worried for myself, but terrified for the young ones. You must be the same.

I’ve been reading the 1947 French classic novel, The Plague by Albert Camus, which has given me more insight into what is happening than acres of newsprint.

Essentially, the plague merely compresses into a shorter space what is the normal, tragic human condition — that our own life, and the lives of those near and dear, can be randomly cut short at any moment, by a sickness, an accident or a malevolent act.

This means we live in a state of absurd and cruel meaninglessness, and our only weapon against it is kindness and decency.

This is being demonstrated every day by the health workers in our hospitals, the workers in supermarkets and those driving trucks etc — all people doing their jobs in spite of the neglect and greed of people in high places.

Anyway, have you read the novel? Here are two quotations: ‘I have no idea what’s awaiting me, or what will happen when this all ends. For the moment I know this: there are sick people and they need curing.’

And: ‘I know that man is capable of great deeds. But if he isn’t capable of great emotion, well, he leaves me cold.’ What do you think?

DON 

Your original email, which I remember well, was one of the many I’m sent just telling me what people think, rather than asking for advice.

In January, we watched footage of terrified koala bears and kangaroos fleeing towering walls of flame and imagined how it would feel to have a home under threat. Your summer sun was hidden by a baleful orange glow and clouds of smoke . . . yes, like an Australian apocalypse.

Now here we are — this time the whole world sharing the pain, this fear, doubt and confusion, these restrictions, this storing up of privation for the future, and these heart-breaking losses.

Nearly 100,000 people dead worldwide. No end in sight . . . not yet, at least. And, as you say, it is far worse for our children and grandchildren, who will suffer long-term repercussions, just as they chafe under lockdown now.

Actually, although I’ve read two other novels by Camus, I have never read The Plague. There’s plenty of time to do so now, especially as (checking a synopsis online) it does seem relevant to the situation we’re all in.

It shows how human beings will always respond to any situation in different ways and that each heroic soul is balanced (or should that be weighed down?) by the mean, the cowardly, the vicious.

In fact, this very week we saw that phenomenon played out on social media — when the tsunami of generosity people display in their brave, funny, loving, creative, mutually supportive posts was counterbalanced by cruel waves of the vilest, most wicked hatred from the hard-Left, wishing our Prime Minister a painful death from the virus.

I can honestly say that (much more than worrying about the young) this had me on the brink of despair. Such disgusting people are a pollution — a plague in themselves.

Then I thought about Valerie’s red shoes (today’s second letter). And the heart-breaking courage of Glynis and her family (see ‘And Finally’). And all the people you mention who, like the doctor in that quotation from the Camus novel, know that the sick need to be cared for and the rest of us require food to be delivered to shops, and other things we have bought online brought to our homes in vans. These are ‘great deeds’ — and small.

And then I remembered that the good people always outnumber the bad ones. ‘Neglect and greed’ have always been with us, but so has philanthropy. Most politicians, driven by public service, try their best. As do we all.

Yes, the human condition is full of pain. We are born in order to die; there’s no escaping that process.

There’s a medieval poem which has as its refrain: ‘Timor mortis conturbat me’ — the fear of death disturbs me. That’s how many of us feel right now. Nothing to be done about it. The ‘virus’ of mortality runs in our blood.

But so does love. This is where the ‘great emotions’ come into play. We have no means of knowing how long each of us will live, but what we do have power over is the way we conduct our lives.

Although we may not believe in immortality, we can behave as if St Peter and all the angels were waiting to greet us in eternal welcome. So we see the choir of ‘ordinary’ Italians singing, and ‘ordinary’ Brits clapping and dancing in the streets, and musicians in so many countries (including Australia) playing to entertain others at their windows, on rooftops and online. And so on.

All the ‘ordinary’ people displaying the majesty of their extraordinary souls.

So, Don, I refuse to believe in the ‘end of times’. I prefer to think of new beginnings.

Am I bad for wanting new shoes? 

Dear Bel,

Just thought I would run something by you in these strange, scary times. It’s not a problem but rather a dilemma.

I am a theatre nurse working in the private sector but yesterday volunteered for shifts at the new Nightingale Hospital — which is an easy drive for me. I’m not looking forward to it, but if needed I will gladly go.

It is the big 6-0 for me in May and obviously all the celebrations I was planning with family and friends will be put on hold, but that’s not important. It’s possible I may spend my birthday doing a 12½ hour shift looking after very poorly patients, which I will do without a second thought.

I do not want or need anything for my birthday, so was planning to ask everyone who can (and would like to) to donate to a charity in these hard times instead.

During the past two weeks I have been ‘window shopping’ online and keep being drawn to a beautiful pair of expensive red suede wedges. Should I buy them and be damned, clinging to the hope I can wear them on beautiful summer outings when life returns to some sort of normality?

I feel so guilty spending money on frivolous, needless accessories. What do you think? 

VALERIE 

This is an email I adore. First there is your willingness to serve your fellow men and women. We always need people like you! We have never been so grateful for the dedication of everybody who works in or services the NHS.

One thing is sure — when all this horror is over and you celebrate later than you planned, all those friends and family members who donated to charity at your request will also bring you the gifts you’re owed.

But perhaps not shoes. Still less ‘expensive red suede wedges’! No, girlfriend, those soft, scarlet beauties you must buy for yourself. What are you are waiting for? Give yourself a perfect ‘frivolous, needless’ gift as a firm promise to your essential, inner optimist that you will wear them on ‘beautiful summer outings’, just as soon as you can. Hope is what we must cherish.

Now, what does ‘needless’ mean? Some lines in Shakespeare’s great tragedy, King Lear, spring to mind.

The infuriating, pathetic old monarch has stupidly put himself into the power of two murderous daughters, thinking he could visit each in turn, accompanied by his gang of knights. But the poisonous pair don’t consider the retinue necessary — why does he need them? Lear bursts out: ‘O reason not the need. Our basest beggars / Are in the poorest things superfluous . . .’

He cries out that even the poorest have some small possessions they don’t really ‘need’ and if you allow people only what they must have to survive, then a human life is no better than an animal’s.

So do we ‘need’ music and pictures and books? Do we ‘need’ chocolates and a cup of tea or a crisp glass of wine?

Do we ‘need’ fish and chips when dry bread and water will do? And so will the serviceable old shoes you’ve had for ages. And a horrible hair shirt, so you don’t feel any guilt for indulgence.

No, no, no. We will not live that way! Down with denial and dowdiness.

Humanity needs beautiful treats — whatever form they take. Just visit a museum when our current turmoils are over and notice how the earliest peoples decorated objects they used each day — when, after all, they hardly needed a zig-zag pattern at the rim or a handle shaped like an animal.

At the moment, we’re stuck in our homes, waiting for the ever-present danger to pass. Yesterday, I ordered some of my favourite tooth-aching fondant dark chocolates online — and why not? Last week it was a £35 silver necklace which has six little stars. After all, there’s more to life in lockdown than loo rolls.

So lift your spirits by buying those shoes! Lord knows, you deserve them.

And I tell you what — email me the link and I’ll buy some, too.

Strength of spirit shines in all of you 

Many of you were moved and uplifted in equal measure by last week’s lead letter, from ‘Glynis’, whose husband was in intensive care with Covid-19.

Her words shone with lively courage and hope — summed up in the optimism of her statement: ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

But it wasn’t fine. It fills me with great sadness to say that Glynis wrote to tell me her brave husband lost his fight.

Typically, she thought of the NHS first. ‘The hospital have been wonderful — I am in awe of how they are managing this situation.’

Then came bleak realities: ‘The strange, sad, unreality of it all continues now as the funeral will be for six people maximum and we have to keep our distance . . .’

But her indomitable spirit shone through: ‘My family and friends are still holding me up, albeit at a distance . . . My husband Rick was a very special person and we’ll all miss him hugely. Facebook has been an unexpected joy, with an avalanche of kindness and reminiscences coming from people he knew. Some posts have made us laugh out loud.

‘He must be very touched and I’m sure is smiling. The funeral will be a grey vacuum but we will have a memorial service for him when all of this is over and I’m sure we’ll all be fine.’

Glynis and I have kept in touch privately; enough to say that I know her beloved Rick was wonderful and had the love of a remarkable wife.

This is just one story of loss, but it confirms for me the resilience of the human spirit. And I am grateful.

You see, it’s understandable to shy away from things you fear will be depressing — whether a TV documentary, or the endless troubles of a friend, or simply the news.

But writing this column has taught me that even though the pain of others makes you cry, it can also hold an extraordinary beauty. Tears of empathy stretch the imagination and fill the heart so full you can almost feel it grow . . . and grow.