I don’t imagine the phrase “semi-retirement” is a term of art having a specialized industry connotation. It is however a step up from jargon and shop talk. No doubt the expression was spawned by the business culture generally, so for example it isn’t what you’d expect to hear from a housewife in her late fifties. Apart from that limitation the scope of the observation is fairly broad, dignifying everything from the former cop who works three days a week in the local hardware store to the 90 year old former CEO of a gasoline distribution company who insists on regularly checking the washrooms of its various outlets for cleanliness. Some might argue that even those who continue on full salary and who make an appearance five days a week are already semi-retired, a more flattering description than being called redundant.

It might offend certain industrial leaders and business entrepreneurs to think about semi-retirement either because they are currently too busy even to contemplate the subject or because they consider it an affront to their capacity for productive output. The truth is that there really are people whose sole source of meaning in life is making money, which at first appears to speak to the hardness of their very soul but which in fact is probably little more than an indication of their general shallowness. Hobbies (as these often serious cerebral diversions are euphemistically called) are not developed overnight. It is much safer for the unimaginative to refrain from such adventure and to prolong the monotony of what they already know, having practiced it tirelessly since the age of fourteen when they made their first two dollars selling lemonade on weekends at the hockey rink.

For others anything approaching the description of retirement is something to be ardently desired. This after all is the foundation of the “Freedom 55” mantra which until recently plagued the work force to the point of intimidation and embarrassment, making early retirement the object of idolatry, couched in images of smiling grey-haired couples on white sailing yachts in turquoise waters off remote Caribbean islands. This is an image which hardly coincides with the reality of a deteriorating house requiring long overdue maintenance, accompanied by a crumbling and rusting motor vehicle, while the proprietors are clothed in nothing more fashionable than sweat pants and polyester. The determination to race to early retirement suffered a global shift when the sub-prime asset-backed securities began to fail in the United States. All that cheap money came at an extraordinary cost to the ambitious investors who, like the NASA officials counting the seconds after lift-off of its latest shuttle, were oblivious to the fact that it had already blown up in mid-air. It is no surprise we haven’t heard from London Life recently and that its annoying refrain is no longer universally touted on overhead signs and the internet.

Somewhere between these two extremes lies the true meaning of semi-retirement. If one removes the whimsical image of Freedom 55 from the landscape the reality is that many of Canada’s work force, whether employees, sole proprietors, directors, managers or others, are quite prepared to work until what was once considered the respectable age of 65 years or even longer. In the context of sole proprietorships, closely-held partnerships and private corporations, it is not uncommon to see the owners working into their early eighties, as seldom as one hears of it. The attrition of workers in those environments is the natural product of physical decline and the very real need to structure a transfer of both wealth and management from one generation to another before it is too late to do anything about it. Given some realistic planning the process can become a thoroughly pleasant venture, vitalized by new, foreseeable and achievable objectives. Semi-retirement becomes merely a new way of doing business, not necessarily withdrawal from it. It is less about giving up than giving in. Let’s face it, after a certain point in one’s career it is no longer fun to do anything hard. Fortunately for us when we were young, we were incapable of distinguishing what was hard from what was new, so both challenges were treated with equal magnanimity. But the generosity of one’s spirit understandably wanes with time, and there is even prudence adopting a more restrictive scope to one’s undertakings if it translates into greater efficiency. The only reason we’re inclined to trivialize our own talents in later years is because we’ve performed them so often and learned so much by doing so. Likewise casting off the complicated undertakings to others more experienced is nothing more than admission of practiced skill, not one’s own inability.

To the dedicated industrialists and money-makers semi-retirement offers a sophisticated approach to what might otherwise be viewed as mere defeat. Keeping a paddle in the water is far from putting oneself in dry dock. Most of us lack the ability to see ourselves as anything other than the robust individual we’ve always known ourselves to be; however, assuming the years have not been entirely kind, a small concession to limitation is likely not a bad idea. The enthusiasm of middle-age must eventually give way to the modification of time and maturity. Besides, how much more elegant it is to leave the room on one’s own two feet rather than upon a stretcher!

The decision to entertain semi-retirement commands as much thought and planning as it did to open one’s business in the first place which paradoxically can mean either a great deal or nothing at all. In either case it may amount to a leap of faith, which is to say there are undoubtedly adjustments to be made along the way. The former business models will no longer sustain an alteration. Whether the conviction and confidence required is any more or less than in one’s early years of business is unclear, though my personal belief is that reliance upon one’s instincts is a safer bet now than then. It must of course be admitted that current fortunes tend to buoy our more arrogant views of the future and what it has in store for us, although such prospects are really quite extraneous to the altered and pressing demands of aging. In the end semi-retirement may be only a new way of looking at an old thing. It does however have such a nice ring to it!

Evan (who hated his name even though there really wasn’t much offensive about it) sat outside the large downtown hotel on a damp concrete wall with his small leather suitcase beside him, waiting for the bus to the airport. Meanwhile he intently scratched at a piece of rampant fingernail on his right index finger. If anyone chanced to notice him as they passed by, they would have taken him for someone enjoying much the same preoccupation which attends picking one’s nose. At last he was able to catch the shard of nail and dislodge it quickly, but painfully, leaving a bubble of blood behind. He instinctively stuck his finger in his mouth to soothe the throbbing.

Looking up from his erstwhile duties, with his finger still stuck in his mouth, Evan scanned the geography about him through squinted eyes. It was a sunny July day, and it promised to be hot, though at 7:30 a.m. it was still pleasantly cool. He had already had his breakfast at the small and uninspiring restaurant in the hotel, and a good bowel movement afterwards. Because he had nothing but the prospect of the flight back to Nova Scotia, he really didn’t care much about the weather. What did it matter? He wouldn’t be here to enjoy it anyway. And once you’re on a plane and above the clouds, the weather is always sunny. Evan finally withdrew his finger from his mouth and examined the damaged keratin. Even with his finger in his mouth, Evan could never look preposterous. His incredibly thick and perpetually messy yellow hair, off-set by a summer tan which he acquired from being out-of-doors constantly or sailing, immediately distracted everyone from anything but his handsome features. His legs were unusually long, making his narrow torso seem rather wispy. There was almost something sylph-like about Evan, as masculine as he was in every other way.

It had been a short and speedy weekend as usual. He wasn’t sure how many more times he could convince himself to make what were fast becoming expensive monthly jaunts to be with his girl friend, Pippa. It didn’t help that they had had a disagreement last evening, walking back from the Gallery. It was one of those stupid arguments which are more the product of sleep deprivation than anything else, where one’s body is just screaming to be let alone and to retire. But, given enough lubricant (they had each had too much to drink at dinner), the irksomeness assumed a dimension far beyond what was merited, and before long they were blowing their stacks. He knew that. He had called her this morning (she refused to stay at the hotel last night) to apologize. She said she was sorry, too, but both of them lacked the energy to bring the matter full circle. They were drifting apart, and they knew that too.

As Evan pondered these matters, he stared blankly across the boulevard at the water fountain in the park beyond. He hardly blinked, so mesmerized was he. All his life Evan had been more visceral than cerebral, responding to life’s messages more out of instinct than rationality, much as an animal would do. Something was telling him now to flee the territory, for good. It did, however, break his heart to think that he was being so harsh with Pippa, who by all accounts was an extremely generous person and someone whom many considered to be the best thing that had happened to Evan in years. For all his charms, Evan was essentially a selfish person, and the older he grew, the more he reluctantly accepted his faults, though he knew not how to overcome them. It could nonetheless be said of Evan that he was no free-loader, and he had no intention whatever of riding on Pippa’s coat tails to redeem himself. His independence simply wouldn’t allow such a concession, no matter how useful it might be.

Indeed there had been other instances in Evan’s life when he had turned away from paths which, on the face of it at least, offered calculable rewards of the kind to which most aspire, having chosen instead something which was not only more personally digestible but certainly less “driven” by the mere prospect of monetary or social gain. The effect of such decisions was partly to distance him from society, but also to cultivate a burning and generally uncompromising individuality, sharpened by his commitment to detail in all that he did. He knew that it was that and that alone which distinguished him, so he clung to it.

Because Evan had moved about so much during his life, from one educational institution to another, his private world was oddly like a patchwork or collage, colourful but lacking in continuity. As a result, even the people in his life, as close as they may appear to have been, were for Evan easily estranged when the utility or meaning of the relationship was exhausted. It bothered Evan that he could be so seemingly callous about people, but at the same time he cushioned the sting of the observation by satisfying himself that it was best for all concerned. Evan became attached to very few things in his life, preferring to view everything (things and people) as temporary delights at best. It was perhaps for this reason that he particularly enjoyed small, expensive items, things which were possibly portable if need be, though he acknowledged he had never been compelled to put the theory to the test. Yet he often found himself interested to hear about what people removed from their burning dwelling, or how the persecuted Jews secreted some of their objets d’art or fine jewellery. This all further exemplified that, apart from very few items, everything in Evan’s world was replaceable, a concept which at once disturbed and pacified him. In one respect, it made little sense to become needlessly attached to anyone or anything, although he wasn’t entirely convinced of the propriety of such philosophy.

Even unpremeditated consideration of life in mid-January in Canada must inevitably include an allusion to the misery of the weather, the sodden grey clouds, dirty yellow light and blackened urban snow. I supplemented the trial by visiting my aging father at his “retirement” institution on Sunday morning. It is of course ridiculous to label the singular feature of his residence as one of retirement. He is almost 96 years of age and has been retired for over 30 years. His room (hardly up to the elevated nomination of a “residence”) is in the Alzheimer wing of the hospital. It is impossible to escape the babbling and occasional wails of the surrounding “residents” (another nicety). The drably clad nurses and service staff perform their duties with practiced distance from the disheartening surroundings. It is useless to glamourize the scene. It’s not a home or a residence; it’s an asylum, a last stop, a safe haven for the frail and failing from the methods of the outside world.

Remarkably I am not persuaded by the gloom of the place. In fact I make an effort to look into the eyes of the people whom I pass in the hallway. The ones who still have life in their eyes are eager for communication even if it is nothing more than a silent regard accompanied perhaps by a polite “Good morning!” They have something to say, I know; they have a story to tell if only I had a moment to enquire. But I have my own relative to attend upon and I mustn’t erode the few moments allotted for the weekly visit before my father falls asleep mid-conversation.

On my way back from collecting a parking pass from the Commissionaire’s desk – a lengthy walk down exceptionally wide corridors flanked by empty rooms with chairs and a chapel set up for what might in any other circumstance be a wedding – I spy a piano in the dining room where some downcast residents have already set their wheelchairs at small square tables in preparation for the mid-day meal. I cannot resist a piano, it begs to be played. I redirect my objective and march with purpose into the dining room, past the several people waiting at their tables, tossing a careless Hello! They can’t imagine what I am about.

As usual the piano (which bears a sticker proclaiming who donated it) is hopelessly out of tune and many of the keys do not function properly. Nonetheless I play on. Even without turning around to examine my audience I can tell they are captive, awakening to the private sentiments which a chord here and a chord there has struck within their weary souls. Music always does that, lifting people from their forlorn thoughts. I know too the congregation is increasing, not just because it is lunch time but because I am the Pied Piper leading them to fields they haven’t contemplated for a long time. Because I have played these ancient pianos in similar circumstances more than once I even have a repertoire with a crescendo. I know the introductory pieces which pull on their heart strings. I know the violence of the last piece which will lay before them the power they no longer have in themselves but which they still can feel in the music.

With a flourish I hit the last bass note to punctuate the finale of the piece and stand up from the bench, nourished by immediate applause from the people in the room. The performance is at an end. As I prepare to leave the room I greet my humble admirers, discovering as so often is the case that more than one of them once played the piano or taught it. There is always one gentleman sitting alone who refuses to look at me as I search his face. He doesn’t want to admit to sentimentality, nothing will improve his day. It is for him a bleak winter day.

While it may astound young people to hear it, many older people are still adjusting to the presence and use of the internet. Likely it is the combination of the advent of “word processing” and the “information highway” that causes the bewidlerment. These were astounding technological advances at the time;  the two were so overwhelming that they became melded into one gigantic change. It requires refinement of thinking to distinguish the “processing” element of the internet from the “information” aspect of the internet. It is for example one thing to be able to compose and send a text message or email to someone; it is quite another to know that depending upon the forum used the entire world may be able to share it. The disorderly jumble of course arises from the very public way in which much of our otherwise private information is now paraded on the internet, social media being the paradigm.

Once one embraces popular technology it is difficult to resist the inclination that the communication of information of almost any description is within the public sphere. This however is rather like assuming that if you drive your automobile in public you are open to a running exchange of communication between you and any others on the highway. Of course this is absurd unless one were in an open landau and traveling at very low speed through a highly populated area in which case your indiscrete display virtually invites public participation.

Similarly within the vernacular of the internet, preservation of privacy is easily clouded by having an ostensibly public presence. This is especially true of individuals who maintain private web sites. The private web site is to be distinquished from the commercial web site maintained by a retail enterprise. Oddly though the more personal the web site the more inclined people are to presume public participation. Involvement in commercial web sites is generally restricted to ordering products and possibly “sharing” what are usually highly monitored testimonials. Private web sites on the other hand seem to invite nothing but public opinion. The reaction is not entirely unappreciated; after all the author of the site is proclaiming himself or herself on the new world’s stage. Further it is one of the standard features of any web site to include a “Contact” page which must be taken to have some meaning. Compared to the automobile metaphor, the contact information is quite different from the licence plate; one invites communiciation; the other merely identifies the proprietor.

Increasingly there is disparagement about social media. More and more people have less than positive things to say about social media. Even when the concept is translated from what has historically been the playground of youth such as Facebook and Twitter to more “adult” forums such as LinkedIn, the condemnations persist that the information is little more than self-serving and not highly informative or dependable. It makes one wonder therefore what advantage there is to the maintenance of a private web site if it is touted as a reliable resource but one is yet so wary of involvement of the public.

The driving force of technology, while it may see its initial public manifestation as mere amusement (recall Pacman for example), will invariably be productivity and utility. I expect that one day a private web site will be as common as any other household appliance but for the time being its novelty and lack of understandable purpose work to assure the ambivalence of its expression. This mustn’t however deter the engagement with technology. It takes many hours of experience to discover the personal devices and applications within the larger framework; and as long as the technology is driven by utility it will eventually be molded in such a way to satisfy that career. Cultivating the individuality and uniqueness of a private web site will hopefully raise the character and quality of the private web site above the inanity of what one sees so regularly on social media. The tenor of conversation on a private web site must distinguish it from other public forums. It is after all a private conveyance not a bus.

Strong word, hate, implying as it does odium, disgust and revulsion. Charged too it is with a respectable portion of malice, far more heavy-duty for example than mere dislike. Nevertheless hate is the very expression I have in mind. And lest there appear to be any indecision in my usage of it, I employ the word in the context of people I really hate.

For the longest time throughout my life I have struggled to ignore the reprehensible conduct of others not so much as an effort to dilute my perturbation rather as an attempt to divert myself from the nasty subject. In doing so however I comprehended that the effect was ultimately to mollify the irritation those people have caused me, an object which was clearly not intended. It is one thing to overlook discreditable behaviour, it is quite another to improve its character unwittingly and without any merit whatsoever. Better to stay the course and reignite the horror whenever possible.

The hatred I have for some people is not the result of trivial bias. It is a studied process of vilification. I hardly flatter myself to say that long ago I learned to tolerate the eccentricities of family, friends and associates, their often trying idiosyncrasies which cause little more than minor astonishment but seldom abhorrence. Hatred is instead the product of critical violation of social probity, usually striking at the essence of the human congress – things like lying, cheating, baseness, breach of trust or other fundamental desecration.

You needn’t scold me for flying in the face of the Christian directive for forgiveness. Too often such action achieves nothing more than an unintentional and undeserved camouflage for the culprit. There are certainly no thanks for having turned the other cheek, a metaphor more aptly suited to turning a blind eye. The violator is more likely than not mistakenly inclined to distort your oblivion as a sanction of his reprehensible actions. No, ignorance of culpability does nothing to strengthen the community as a whole much less to conciliate one’s instinctive loathing of it.

Learning to accommodate one’s hatred can lamentably cause unwelcome repercussions. It is safely assured that you will ransom at least some of your contentment to the focus of having to cultivate the virulence that is hatred. Hatred, like any other mental predisposition, exacts its own demands; it is a garden which needs tending. In our natural state we are I believe more inclined to avoid uneasiness whatever its source and prefer instead to harbour that which is agreeable and comforting. On the contrary, merely recalling the details of defilement is an unending struggle. This is especially true after a suitable distance has been wedged between us and those unpleasant details. The danger here is that by shying from the commitment to keep the hatred alive one surrenders his principles to the forum of the unrestrained nemesis. Still, bearing in mind the goal of personal satisfaction, capitulation may be tolerable in the end.

Perhaps the repugnance of others may turn out to be but a temporary luxury afforded only when the constraints of our many other private avocations permit. It is yet an indulgence to be cherished. Dwelling upon the inadequacies of others, upon their cumulative shortcomings and failures is after all uplifting in the result. Even if one hasn’t the opportunity to enlarge at length upon the many details of shortfall you are nonetheless assured of abundant reward for the most meager effort. The going becomes a bit thick when the initial cause of the animosity begins to dwindle in intensity, say after several months or a year or so or more. Hopefully however one can cling as long as possible to the fomenting source of enmity though admittedly it does require determination. Heaven forbid we should ever forget who it is we really hate!

No doubt there are those for whom the business of thinking comes effortlessly. For me, not so. I find thinking equivalent to any other form of exercise – hard and generally intrusive. I mean to say, it’s all about rigidly aligning one’s thoughts, ironing out wrinkles in a puzzle of bewildering details and having to shackle one’s natural buoyancy to arrive at some kind of pointed conclusion, hopefully one that coincides with the original mission of the ordeal. What a great deal of trouble! So unlike reading an alleviating book or listening to improving music, almost anything other than straining one’s mental bandwidth.

Thinking is such a letter-perfect undertaking. It is as uncompromising as Christianity. If one even dares to border on imprecision the entire point of the process is a lost cause. You might as well not think at all as to think sloppily. It is this hounding subjugation to detail that is so wearing. You wouldn’t for example suggest that something was well thought out if it lacked a discussion of its anticipated execution. Clear thinking demands preciseness and particularity. None of that global estimate or stab-in-the-dark stuff! One must unavoidably get down to it.

For me to do any credit whatsoever to the task of thinking I must first sort out the landscape of the problem. I say the “problem” because normally when I am called upon to exercise the little grey cells it is in response to a dilemma. Thinking is quite superfluous if there is no problem, one simply reacts to the native visceral instincts and thereby avoids the cerebral painfulness. Anyway, after having hesitatingly resigned myself to the anticipated toil I first dissect the constituent elements of the quagmire. This is the metaphorical procedure of spreading out the situation before one’s self, the hope being to penetrate the thickness of it all and highlight the separate pieces (rather like the “divide and conquer” motif adopted by a successful military general). Inevitably the various features of the now diffused landscape admit to connections or associations. I am a firm believer in the proposition that nothing happens by accident. Given sufficient examination one shall eventually discern the theory behind the otherwise mystical and ostensibly random affiliation of facts.

Here the path bifurcates. It might usefully be said that at this juncture the professionals are separated from the amateurs. What I am getting at is this: Although one might know the facts, the application of intelligence to those facts may nonetheless depend upon experience and training. Certainly there is room for anyone who is clever enough to assess the situation sufficiently to know that there is an issue, but the resolution of it may require that further advancement which derives only from instruction and tuition. This is the intellectual exertion of thinking;viz., applying the abstract to the particular aimed at finding an answer to a question or the solution to a problem. It is a performance which is taxing and one which flies in the face of everything intuitive. Consider how utterly unnatural it is to assess the merits of one course of action on the basis of entirely theoretical analysis! Small wonder thinking is hard! We’re required to make inductive leaps from the physical to the metaphysical, from grounded experience to complex imagery. How quickly one becomes tangled in this burdensome occupation that is thinking! Once engaged there is little hope of extricating one’s self from the complicated circumstances. The mere taste of mental refinement has the nasty tendency to trivialize one’s erstwhile innocent hobbies. And then the real application begins – seeing it to its ultimate end! More work! How preferable it is to avoid thinking altogether!

To countenance the expenditure of money naturally calls for some justification especially when the recommendation is conjoined with extravagance. Even the profligate spender harbours the shadow of concern for primary economic theory (though of course he seldom dilutes the strength of his initial devotion). By contrast the close-fisted penny-pincher buoys his preferred fiscal modesty with psychology, likening materialism to Philistinism. Between these two extremes of pecuniary dissolution and worldly deprivation resides the body of people who from time to time have what I believe to be a quite understandable need or desire to reward themselves. Nonetheless with all this talk of late about the incredible amount of debt being serviced by Canadians the idea of spending even funny money may be considered foolhardy. I think however that this is a proposition which needs to be re-examined in a context broader than mere economic principles or the loaded comparison of intemperance and frugality. It is my thesis that spending some money on yourself can be a very good thing indeed.

The place to start this re-examination is not with the value of ministering to one’s needs or desires, rather with the value of money itself. As trite as it may be to say it, money is only worth what we say it is. It has been my experience that the elemental and distinguishing feature of money and things is that you can’t have both, at least not if you’re other than among the very rich. It is for this reason that quirky monied people often appear to be penniless. We simply cannot see their material indicia of wealth – they don’t wear it, they don’t drive it, they don’t drink or eat it and they don’t live in it. And even if we were capable of seeing their balance sheet, it likely wouldn’t appear very interesting at all, other than containing a great many zeros at the tail end of numbers and referring to tiresome descriptions of Class ‘A’ and ‘B’ common or preferred shares. The assiduity with which these misers devote themselves to making and accumulating money is all about translating capital into more capital, assets available for use in the production of further assets. They really have a positive disdain for the perceived vulgar and trivial preoccupation of consumers with things. Having said that, I have known at least one avowed capitalist who did in fact know more than the “price of everything and the value of nothing” (Oscar Wilde’s famous definition of a cynic). Yet as much as he valued the painting in question (a typical wintry March morning scene of a horse-drawn sleigh painted by Frederick Coburn) he gave it to me because he knew his own son would merely sell it for the money. The painting held no particular importance for the capitalist but he didn’t dismiss its possible worth for others who would not equate its value with mere money.

If indeed I am correct in this admittedly simple rendition of the capitalist (the saver) and the materialist (the spender) then it is easy to see the reason for the divergence between the two species. Capitalists simply haven’t an appetite for expenditure, only reinvestment. Any materialism which might surround them is probably driven more by their family than themselves. Yet in an odd twist the spender and the saver are identical because neither of them is interested in money per se but rather only with what money can do for them, and each of them subscribes a different value to or purpose of the money they have. On the face of it, both spend money to acquire something else. By an odd paradox the investor sees only the value of the expected material return; the spender sees only the value of the anticipated emotional return. While the saver can see the predictable return of interest; the spender imagines the immeasurable pleasure of the thing acquired. In the result the entire matter is turned on its head. Both need money to get where they’re going and both have translated money into something else. Just as it is true that “money doesn’t disappear, it just changes hands”, so is it true that money is constantly transforming itself from one nature to another. In the hands of one consumer the diamond ring is a source of intense pleasure; in the hands of the younger woman who inherits it from her mother it is the seed money for capital investment. And so the cycle continues endlessly.

To really appreciate the preposterous value of money one need only consider the recent auction of British artist Francis Bacon’s triptych of close friend and fellow artist, Lucian Freud which sold for £90 million paid by a New York dealer on behalf of an anonymous buyer at Christie’s in Manhattan on Tuesday, November 12, 2013. As one reporter commented:

The prices paid for works of art at this level are, of course, beyond rationality, bearing no relation to inflation, the value of the components or even the concrete notion of investment – or certainly not in the short term. This kind of art buying has no relation to anything other than itself. But if you did have bottomless coffers and the desire to dispense some of their contents on a single object, why wouldn’t you go for something that embodies a chunk of what we sometimes still call “civilisation”, which sums up some of the things we think of as ennobling humankind as a species?

With respect I think this is pushing the interpretation of such lavish spending rather further than merited. What has melded in this instance is the very concept of money and things. The lines between the two have become entirely blurred and blended, and certainly the value of either is unascertainable.

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.