Dear reader, you may share with me the privilege of having witnessed the estimable conduct of a hero commanded by the adversities of life. Regrettably there are among us those who have been dealt a bad hand, whether the hardship pertains to life or death, health or sickness, marriage or dissolution, business adventure or misadventure, wealth or bankruptcy.

The purport of these troopers is of mixed report. Harsh personal struggles are all too regular. Knowing that makes one wonder when the random nature of life will in time visit the same tribulation upon one’s own head. Even if we are philosophic to adjudge that the ultimate closure awaits us all we persevere in skillfully ignoring the immediate possibility preferring instead to see life as an open road. Paradoxically there is much virtue that emanates from those who brawl with their tough state of affairs. The grace of the sufferer is routinely exponentially higher than the depth of their gloom to the point where the chance observer wonders not about his own eventual loss but his ability to compete with such distinction and worthiness were he to suffer the same dreadful fate. Maintaining a watchful eye upon the progression of others who writhe under duress is a ready reminder of the triviality of our present complaints and of the stalwartness of others less lucky.

Apart from temporary set-backs which surely must affect us all on occasion, the bad luck (and make no mistake, it is only luck) which attends some people is often of a prolonged and determinative effect. For those luckless few, every minute of the day from beginning to end can be an inexorable challenge. If they are not driven mad or worse by their troubles, they remarkably learn to accommodate the affliction. One recalls Rudyard Kipling’s poem “If”, that epic evocation of the British virtues of the “stiff upper lip” and stoicism in the face of adversity:

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same

How succinctly this captures the nub of the matter! How deftly it accentuates the rank of our disposition not our position. How insightfully it pierces the machinations of humanity. It directs us from the dead-end preoccupation with winning and losing and cautions us not to be distracted by the two pretenders. We are inspired to aim for a greater dignity.

What is missing from the uninformed glimpse of the distress of others is the recognition of its brutality. Life is blunt for some. When once one has confronted the ruthlessness of one’s predicament there yet awaits the acceptance of it. This instills its own further rage, the recognition that things will not change – a hard conclusion. But one thing life is not is a game. There is no alternative of throwing down one’s hand and awaiting another luckier draw. Neither can you bluff your way into a royal flush. Yet, as Kipling intimates, the value we assign to the cards we’ve been dealt depends very much on us not any inherent worth.

Even if it is your good fortune not to have suffered greatly in life, I suspect you have nonetheless endured the challenge of moving on. I reckon no one is spared the occasional trial. We all have something we’d prefer to leave behind. It really matters very little that the strength of one’s particular encounters with fate are of comparatively weak intensity; in the end, accommodating a tribulation of any degree exacts some measure of duress. The consequence of moving on is letting go; the two concepts go hand-in-hand. One concept (moving on) is prospective; the other (letting go) is retrospective. You cannot move ahead if your foot is on the brake.

Moving on is no passive transition. We’re not a disinterested tourist watching the transient fields from the window of a train. Moving on is a cognitive process, one which is rife with often disturbing connotations, innuendo like moving past something or letting go of something, ridding oneself of a burden, obliterating memories and hoping for better times.

Without even entertaining the merits of moving on, the simple truth is that all the analysis in the world will not put the pieces back together and as such it is just as well to “leave the pieces on the floor and move on” (Tupac Shakur). No one can tell you how to mourn a death or rage over a personal assault “but you can’t move forward until you break that chain” (Leymah Gbowee). Sometimes moving on is not so much a rejection of the past as a departure from it, the natural progression of one’s development. In those instances “you keep the wonderful memories but find yourself moving on” (Nicholas Sparks). Letting go means the realization that “some things are a part of your history but not a part of your destiny” (Steve Maraboli). And remember that “keeping the baggage of the past will leave no room for happiness in the future” (Wayne L. Misner).

Whatever the reason for moving on there always remains the query whether one cherishes the past or ignores it altogether. Oddly the debate doesn’t turn on the question of agreeableness. Sometimes hanging onto the past because it was agreeable can precipitate future disadvantage. On the other hand, burying the past because of its plights can be just as ill-advised if for no other reason than that it represents a mistaken effort to obscure what may have been an influential part of your life. Moving on is about neither resistance nor denial. It is about evolution.

We shall never be able to “start over again” completely. Our previous decisions, conversations and expectations are coming with us. We must accept that we’re not merely going through life but unfolding our personal destiny by imperceptible gradation. This isn’t going to be a stunning reincarnation. There may even be the further horror of having to relive one’s past or similar experiences so we may as well prepare for the worst! No amount of running will ever put sufficient distance between us and our past. Like it or not the past is a part of us. The idea is to keep moving and to avoid allowing the weight of our past to drag us to the bottom. In fact the continued attachment to our past is nothing more than a race to the bottom because it undermines or destabilizes who we are.

One sometimes hears of dramatic instances of moving on, such as the husband who goes to work one morning never to return, the criminal who moves to another continent and changes his identity, the child who cuts herself from her parents and alters her family name. For most, however, the transition is less histrionic: the alcoholic who stops going to the pub with his buddies, the spendthrift who starts saving money, the full-figured girl who loses weight and the father who spends more time with his children. For still others, much of what happens actually goes unobserved. For them the act of moving on is less about actions and more about thoughts: coping with a loss; thinking about one’s self or others in new ways; forgiving, accepting and understanding.

If one were to ask you whether it is reasonable to expect life to remain static, you would no doubt have no hesitation rejecting such a patently foolish proposition. Yet we unintentionally impose such an expectation upon ourselves. We convince ourselves that our current state is somehow inalterable, whether for good or bad. Either way, we shackle ourselves to immobility, something which is both counter-intuitive and naturally impossible. If we once abandon the concern that moving on is an obliteration of the past we are better positioned to see it as a growth into the future. While we won’t shed our spots we may nonetheless improve our performance. Perpetuation of current limitations and expectations can be another form of imprisonment. I am not suggesting we come screaming out of our past into the future, but at least allow life’s featureless modulation.

Some truths are by nature unmerciful and therefore hard to withstand though their communication to the affected party is as often both necessary and preferable. The same however does not hold so readily for the truths of the Dutch uncle.

Lately I was addressed by such a person, the so-called Dutch uncle, that aberration of the traditional avuncular kind, intent not upon indulgence of one’s personal quirks but rather upon administering some harsh (though quite possibly well-deserved) medicine. Pointedly the skirmish was introduced by a puzzling enquiry about whether the practice of caning was extant when I was a Prefect in prep school some fifty years ago, but the discussion quickly turned to an intent cerebration of my personal problems. The encounter being quite unexpected and not exactly a slap on the back (which like anyone I would have much preferred) was initially somewhat distressing. I mean to say, I fashion myself rather a private person and therefore unaccustomed to round conversation which comes annoyingly close to the bone. And even if it were true that from time to time I have openly confessed such failings to those I account among my dearest friends, I am not yet convinced that I welcome others so enthusiastically embracing the intelligence and taking up the standard to lead the charge for purposes of my own vilification notwithstanding the educational value of the comments.

Yet as I say these were only my first and largely unconsidered impressions. I knew of course better than to contradict the smear as that would only feed without much difficulty a subsequent accusation of denial. Indeed I went so far as to congratulate my mentor for his unsparing severity and frankness as I acknowledged the troublesome feature of anyone having to do so. I laid it out how easy it is for others simply to ignore a condition which cries for attention and therefore how gallant it is by comparison that one prefers instead to engage is some critical though ultimately encouraging assessments. When this tact appeared to meet with substantial approbation I thought I may as well continue the zestfulness by dilating further upon my own many short-comings, an indulgence which met with additional approval. We therefore concluded the congress with a good deal of fraternity.

Latterly I have had my own further reflections upon being spoken to by one like a Dutch uncle and I regret to say that I am less inclined to be so magnanimous about the treatment. The rhetoric which is attributed to the Dutch is for example not limited to an illusion to their sternness and sobriety, characteristics which I suppose are sufficient licence to say just about anything to anyone. There is on the other hand a line of thinking which suggests that the Dutch, not lacking in self-esteem, are caught up in a cycle of endless envy and always speak their mind bluntly, metaphorically thriving on “shaking their fingers at and scolding each other”. Naturally I do not for a moment believe it is possible to speak so generally about the people of any nation; these observations are made only to illustrate the alternate view of what might otherwise be characterized as well-intentioned admonishment. If nothing else it highlights the precarious nature of such a predisposition and the unusual way in which even the best motivations may become distorted.

However one views the actions of the Dutch uncle, whether as practical or as thinking one is always right, the remaining issue is whether one should ever canvass the project of weighing in upon the conduct of another. Some for example adopt the position that no one can tell anyone what they should do, that improvement must always be self-motivated. Others say that standing by idly while another withers on the vine is inhuman and uncaring. Somewhere down the middle of these two avenues is the further debate which is quite apart from the utility of the action; namely, whether one should ever take the liberty of commenting upon another’s furnishings. Some things are just too personal and in the end the auditor may not give a pinch what you think. This I know sounds harsh and unfeeling (and maybe even more than a bit testy) but I speak in generalities only. To be honest, the allusion to my particular circumstances by my Dutch uncle has been nothing other than salubrious (quite literally as the thrust of much of his comments related to my need to lose some weight). Besides I consider it quite flattering that one such as my esteemed advisor cared to take the time to say so.

When at last one has ploddingly attained the dizzying pinnacle of one’s career there is recognizably only one way to go – down! Eventually even the most accomplished of us is overwhelmed by the perpetual furtherance of knowledge and advancements of technology. It becomes both undesirable and impossible to keep up with the unrelenting pace of change. We begin to lose our footing, freshness and vigor, and the prospect of vanishing and disappearing altogether becomes all too real.

Technology is perhaps the readiest barometer of change and of our exponential dissolution. As much as I flatter myself that I have kept abreast of technology I admit that my aversion to so-called social media like Twitter, Facebook and Linked In works against me. I have for example even read in certain job descriptions that facility with social media is a necessity though I am strained to know why. The closest I have got to text messaging is to have an airline send me a note that my flight is delayed. Apart from that I have no idea how to “follow” somebody or “like” or “tweet” or “endorse” them nor do I wish to accumulate a meaningless collection of “friends”. The only occasion on which I acknowledged any possible utility to social media was during the initial stages of the Arab Spring and that was hardly a commotion I pined to attend.

It is of course perfectly natural that one should fall into decay and decline with age. Whether however the process is more of a deterioration than a degeneration is a matter of some speculation. Graceful fading would for example be far more preferable though ascendancy of one’s atrophy requires both skill and dedication. The essential elements of diet, personal hygiene and exercise spring to mind. To forego those concerns amounts to double-dyed capitulation not to mention the lubrication of that very slippery slope. I am assuming that the wallpaper of one’s life – intellectual capacity, professional skills and emotional fervency – remain constant (at least during the initial stages of diminishment). In fact it is at the very moment when one has reached the peak of this spiraling descent that life affords an entirely unique though admittedly probationary opportunity of indulgence and expression. I know of many people who rejoice in the liberation which aging furnishes, everything from the freedom to say precisely what they think to the smug satisfaction of sharing with gusto their hard-earned wisdom.

Having reached one’s peculiar elevation in life is also the chance to resile from the more difficult and complex undertakings and instead to dwell upon that which comes most easily and efficiently. Such luxury it is to do exclusively what one likes! By this time the idea that you must “prove” yourself is utterly preposterous. The unalloyed commitment must rather be to the delectation of life. Any derailment of that absorption smacks of carelessness and downright error! I am even tempted to suggest it amounts to some kind of moral deficiency.

The conclusion therefore is not that we accede abjectly to the sere and yellow leaf of old age but rather that we should savour the view from the top of the withering heights and hang onto our hat for the gripping ride down the other side!

There is little that contends with the chore of admitting you’re wrong. Such an oily exercise to be sure! So thoroughly unbecoming!

Or is it? We’re all familiar with the fable of the wolf who, when clearly overpowered by his adversary, humbly resigned himself to his fate and threw up his head, exposing his neck to the jaws of the other. Of course, the dominant party did the respectable thing and withdrew from the contest. The fight was over in an instant.

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It is difficult to escape the constant urging to “live in the moment”. The popular adage – while promoting such laudable projects as “dancing like nobody’s watching” – paradoxically warns against the seeming ability to live otherwise than in the moment, though in my opinion the capacity to do so defies logic and is therefore counterfeit. The only way to attribute any sense to the admonition is to suppose there is indeed a dichotomy between the mind and the body, that our head can somehow be in one space while our feet are in another. For those who are inclined to flirt with such philosophical conundrums the question is perhaps open to investigation; however, for those who are less theoretical and who haven’t the need to accommodate the ideological gap between the ethereal and the terrestrial, I am guessing we’re willing to accept that living in the present while pining for the ambitions of the future is not so great an inductive leap. Matters spiritual after all travel considerably faster and more fluidly than one’s corpus normally affords. Let’s just put it down to anticipation, that emotion characteristically involving pleasure (and sometimes anxiety) in considering some expected or longed-for good event. In its most general terms anticipation is excitement, waiting eagerly for something you know is going to happen. The agreeable attribute of anticipation is that one of its most common ingredients is delectation, imaginative and propitious speculation about the future. In spite of all that has transpired in our lives and in the world we are remarkably capable of supplying ourselves a delicious view of what is to come.

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There are some for whom the daily habit of counting and weighing one’s wealth is highly desirable, right up there with the morning constitutional and cold showers. For others the accumulation of wealth holds less precise attraction, among them the spendthrifts who view the primary purpose of money as its expenditure. The impulsive urge to throw some serious money at the current object of one’s craving is however not exceptional. Nor is it solely the fixation of those who have the money to throw (notable historical spendthrifts include Karl Marx, George IV of Great Britain, King Ludwig of Bavaria and Marie Antoinette). In that respect impetuous spending is both egalitarian and universally indiscriminate irrespective of the means one has to accomplish the goal of one`s enterprise, cash or credit, it matters not. Like any other appetite disbursement is merely a hunger we need to satisfy, some would say even a manifestation of our need to substantiate ourselves. Commingled with that vulgar desire is the complementary passion for the article of purchase, the worth and charm of which in our mind at least normally trumps any ignobility of the engagement. Whatever it is to which you have so intensely attached yourself it is branded as some kind of compulsion, both a necessity and even an obligation. More often than not the enthusiasm has matured over time. It is a yearning which has blossomed from innocuous incubation, at first a frivolous and passing temptation but one which latterly becomes pure inevitability. There will of course be the tiresome echoes of those who abhor covetousness and who shrewdly counsel restraint in matters of financial soundness. Such worrywarts! If on the other hand you have once tasted the exhilaration of a spree, you know well its spiritual unassailability. Like it or not, in spite of the economic persuasiveness of control of one’s capital resources, the unadorned fact is that from time to time a bit of luxury goes a long way to alleviate the throbbing of life’s trials. We end by effortlessly persuading ourselves of the respectability of being mollycoddled. The more inclined you are to accomplishment, the more prone you are to rewarding its burdens. Compensation is not a dirty word; it is the elevation of life’s successes.

Like so many other magnetisms and hungers, the experience of the longing is a good deal of the allure. Even with the speed of on-line purchases, there is always a wait, a fact all the more prolonged if the product is made-to-measure. This only achieves heightened pining. Rationality about parsimoniousness by degrees dissolves in the contemplation of what we seek to acquire. We view the thing in a clinical light, detached from the rough and tumble of our daily familiarity, conveniently forgetting that in the past there wasn`t once a purchase which did anything to lift us above the squalor of our being. As bright and shiny as it may appear to be, there is not a thing which will ever epitomize the perfection we initially harbour of it in our thoughts. Yet we persist. While we acknowledge there is no ship to take us away from ourselves, we invariably convince ourselves that at least there is some hopefulness of diverting our sensibilities howsoever briefly. It is that rush of trading our cerebral aptitudes for the visceral pleasures which energizes us. The product for which we ache may be a gentle incentive to keep on keeping on, the fuel of our dreams and the titivation of our home or person. Unless one chooses to live like a hermit, exercise of the bargaining tools is very much a part of the colloquial dialect. People enjoy their stuff. There is in fairness considerable personal pleasure to be wrought from material objects. Besides which the shopkeepers depend upon us to nurture their own survival, though frankly I doubt whether any materialist has ever considered his proclivity as altruistic.

Acquisition is for some a horrid illness – consider the notorious hoarders. For the most part however accumulation can be a pleasant undertaking especially if it is unique and not merely repetitive as with so many stashers who excuse their compulsiveness as the career of a collector. If instead one takes the time to deliberate upon the meaning of the article which one desires, and if one is at last convinced of its utility (for whatever reason), getting it is acceptable. While its procurement may not sanitize our existence, it may nonetheless provide moments of gratification.

Power is such a persuasive word. In spite of its seeming clarity it plainly engenders notions of intrigue, secrecy and even sexuality, the natural though primitive features of life. Power manifests itself in many variants, not always the demonstration of obvious superiority or blunt disregard. Apparently for those in the know, power is preferred to money, though many mistakenly assume they go hand-in-hand. It is however when examining power in other than the realm of politics (the forum with which we are accustomed to associate power) that the nuances of power are more observable. Power for example plays out indiscernibly in the high-school classroom, upon the football field, between lovers and friends and crushes, between complete strangers whose paths cross ever so briefly, between landlords and tenants, bosses and employees, even between neighbours. Its application is no less seductive because of its pedestrian appeal. It can be just as beguiling and alluring in the context of normal mortal interplay.

Technically power is the ability to influence the behaviour of people not necessarily to dominate or to control them, though I believe the truth is more accurately captured in the sense of mastery even if one seeks to dismiss its reward as mere preference or competency. I could I suppose accept that power is nothing more than an appetite for success though that innocuous label instinctively opens the discussion of the means by which power is used, whether legitimate by social structure or evil by force or the threat of force. Power can be seen both as a constraint and as an enabler.

Amidst the delicate interaction of everyday people power is endemic, insinuating itself into our cyclical performance as human beings. For some it is a matter of constant and unyielding attention, the very drug and perquisite of life. It follows its binary nature that power mandates submission as well as authority. There are those who willingly submit, more especially if the application of power results in some palpable reward, though the mere act of submission is for some sufficient (perhaps a deference to leadership if nothing else). Whatever the outcome, the use of power inevitably weaves a complicated dance between its participants sometimes entangling them irrevocably.

It is generally accepted that those who wield power are by most standards entitled to do so, whether by virtue of being highly qualified or particularly robust or intelligent, or indeed by their very nature. Some people simply cannot sit on the sidelines of life as a spectator but must regulate and maybe even predict its course. For such people it can often be a lonely existence not only because power by its character separates one from others but also because so much energy is consumed in the maintenance of power that it estranges one from the more mundane features of living. Power is a jealous lover commanding its entire satisfaction at the expense of all else. Yet for those who crave it power is worth the exertion. To live otherwise is seen as a capitulation to mediocrity, a second-place finish. It must be recalled however that those who seek power do not seek it in all matters. The acquisition of power is always purposeful, with an object in mind. Condescension to the pleasure of others is never an admission of obedience if there is no conflict with the motive of power. Otherwise, watch out!

Who among us at one time or another has not woefully groaned and rolled over in one’s virginal lair attempting to bury one’s face and hopeless heart from the startling dawn in the goose down pillows, only to lament the forceful and unhappy recollection of the previous evening’s folly?

Pointedly this is not the domain solely of the reckless. Neither is it the forum of either the masses or the gentry. Neither will I suggest it is universal. There are admittedly some who are not profligate, who never speak a wounding word, some who do not smoke cigarettes or cigars or insist upon either fortified wine or double strength Cognac at the end of a nourishing meal to reward their own pitiful sense of accomplishment in this sometimes painful existence.

By and large people – at least those who I count among my personal friends – are more pernicious than pure and the inevitable corollary is the trouble to expiate the remorse at having been so.

The subject of regret is as plain and as unacknowledged as any other family secret. We feel the need to hide our shame from both ourselves and others. Acquiescence to failure is never a hot topic. There are few I know who can blissfully snap their fingers at the irresponsibility of such an event even though they may make every pretense to do so. Funnily enough the empowerment of this repentance is that it pushes one to recuperate any loss that one may have suffered. I have found that the succeeding necessity to recover one’s self or to compensate for the perceived inadequacies of prior performance outweighs the desire to sleep (or should I say to wallow unceasingly in the feather chrysalis).

So persuasive is the conviction of one’s errors that it at last stimulates one to split from the comforter and to plant the wearied feet upon the hardwood to commence both the physical and metaphorical ablutions of another day.

As a matter of pure lucidity, guilt – as clever a device as it may be – does little to advance the progress of mankind. It is rather a tool of ascendancy in the hands of wheeler-dealers. But it observably accomplishes little to alter the past, as if anything can! As a provocation for improvement or remediation I can see no useful purpose in its absorption in any event as it merely shackles what might otherwise be unrestrained dedication to the improving task at hand.
The admission of mischief, the surrender to the current state of affairs does not import the conclusion that alteration of one`s life-style is without merit. There is clearly forever room for enhancement.

But the prejudice against the history of one`s life does not by definition allow for its amendment. It is after all no more than an early morning reflection, a matutinal retrospection.