Category Archives: About Dorothy

Welcoming Mr. Fox

About Dorothy

During my rural childhood, it was rare to see a fox. More often than not, the presence of a fox was heralded by the loss of a chicken, leaving blood and feathers in the farmyard, or by the sudden cackling of the hens at night. There was no denying the beauty of the fox when we saw one and still they were not the most welcome of neighbours.

In London, foxes are easy to spot. The commuter’s glance will often fall on foxes playing on the banks on either side of the railway tracks. The foxes wander with confidence along London’s back streets at twilight. In the breeding season their sometimes almost human screams can be heard at night. And all the while, they are comfortable amidst their human neighbours, watching from only a short distance.

When I first moved into my current home the springtime often brought a nursing mother and her young into my garden. This changed when the unruly plot of land behind the house became first a building site and then a block of flats surrounded by a garden. I was sad to lose the presence of my urban country friends. This summer, however, has seen the arrival of a new visitor to my garden, a young male fox. Whilst many urban foxes have poor skin and hair Mr. Fox is muscular and sleek.

This evening I complete my last call of the day with my coach and, after a walk, set about preparing supper. Mr. Fox enters my garden as I am preparing vegetables at the sink, nonchalantly exploring my garden and leaving his mark. He stands watching me for a few moments before climbing onto the low wall and then jumping onto the high fence and into my neighbour’s garden. I watch him, too, enjoying his presence in my garden and his masculine beauty.

In this way, my evening begins.

Ramadan, a time of spiritual reflection

About Dorothy, Your personal and professional well-being, , ,

The sun set at 18:39 this evening, here in Dubai. This is significant, for today is the first day of Ramadan. Sunset is the time when Muslims break their daily fast.

The Gulf News has been preparing for Ramadan. Yesterday it ran an article with advice for those people who, during Ramadan, experience a variety of symptoms which, together, might simply be labelled “indigestion”. The problem, a dietician advises, is not the fasting during the day. Rather, it is the choice to eat high cholesterol foods as part of the evening celebrations. A simple solution is to eat plenty of fruit and vegetables.

The hotel has also been preparing. A single sheet is distributed under doors throughout the hotel on the eve of Ramadan, offering advice for guests on etiquette at this time. The hotel’s restaurants have also been preparing. Even in Dubai’s relatively liberal regime, the bulk of restaurants and cafes are closed during the day throughout the month whilst the hotel has special dispensation to continue to serve its international clientele with certain provisos. (The commercial opportunity that this represents is not lost on the Restaurant Manager). Normally highly visible, the Brasserie has been cloaked with curtains to reduce visibility. The evening buffet will be an Iftar throughout the month of Ramadan.

Some concerns remind me of home. An article this morning, again in the Gulf News, outlines the number of people arrested last year during Ramadan for begging. Some of them were found to be living in hotels. This reminds me of the ongoing debate in London about whether or not to give money directly to the homeless. It seems that here in Dubai, there are people who are ready to come forward to receive the gifts of Muslims at a time when the focus is on acts of kindness.

For the non-Muslim, maybe even for the Muslim, it is easy to be cynical, to make light of everything that Ramadan brings (from the tetchy tempers in the workplace – beware your smoking colleagues at this time – to the fasting followed by – in some cases – excessive consumption), perhaps even to feel anxious: there are so many ways as an outsider, unknowing, to offend.

I take time to reflect on the purpose of Ramadan, recognising the opportunity it represents for a spiritual homecoming, a time to reflect on one’s values and what they mean in practice, a time of kindness and charity. And as I reflect I wonder if, whether Muslim or not, we are not all alike in grappling with the fundamental question: “How shall we live?”

Bonjour Dubai

About Dorothy

Even at 7am in the morning when my plane lands the heat is fierce in late August in Dubai, providing confirmation – in case I need it – that I will not be seeking out the midday sun.

It is my first visit to Dubai. I have been reading my guidebook on the way and am ready to find out which of Dubai’s myths are grounded in truth. One bare fact is that 20% or fewer of Dubai’s residents are originally from Dubai, whose phenomenal growth in recent years has been fuelled by immigrant workers, from the armies of builders working in the fierce heat for fewer than 175 US dollars per month to a diverse population of foreign national executives who are here to help Dubai execute an ambitious commercial strategy.

I decide to test the reality of this and, wherever I can do so whilst seeming polite, I ask the people I meet where they come from. My taxi driver from the airport is from Pakistan, soon to reach the end of his three year visa. The young man who serves me lunch with impeccable manners and a winning smile is from Nepal. In the textile souk which I visit on my first day, Indians abound.

Evidence of the executive diversity in Dubai greets me in the form of a large weekend lunch party on the table next to mine. An American shares his store of favourite local phrases. “You know when you ask a Brit how they are and they answer ‘I’m fine'” (there is laughter, perhaps at the dour tone he adopts to say “I’m fine”) “the locals say ‘I’m on top of the palm trees'” (The voice is upbeat. More laughter). “I really love that phrase”. An Indian talks about the latest outsourcing venture in India and I have to listen to his unfolding narrative to believe my ears: did he really say “rent a womb“?

Welcome to Dubai.

The joy of blogging

About Dorothy,

It does me good to get out every now and then, both literally and metaphorically.

This weekend I celebrated the marriage of my dear friend Kenny Tranquille to his soulmate and partner Karen, now Karen Tranquille. They married in the walled garden of the Rowhill Grange Hotel in Kent, a wonderful setting for the most personal of ceremonies. As I write this posting I get to celebrate all over again.

Whilst I was there, I had a conversation which – to keep things uncharacteristically brief – led me on my return to go Googling to learn more about a man called Hugo Schwyzer. I discovered Hugo has a blog and I dived in. A fairly random browse quickly led me to the discovery that he has been married and divorced three times and is engaged to be married for a fourth time. His blog also had an index of postings so, curious, I looked for “divorce” and read what he had to say about this.

Now, following the conversation I mentioned, I had hoped to hear Hugo speak this evening at the Kabbalah Centre in London. However, by the time I got home to check my diary I remembered that I’ve already arranged to have supper with my friend Andy. This is tucked between my return from Japan and his departure for Australia and something I don’t want to miss.

Still, reading Hugo’s blog reminded me of the facility to label postings so that readers can easily search for topics of interest at a later date. This is the first posting I am labelling in this way.

I am curious about the what this might lead to in time.

The Spice of Life: where Monday night is feast night

About Dorothy

Almost twenty years after moving to Lewisham, the Spice of Life Indian restaurant remains a firm favourite. In recent years, the Spice has established Monday night as feast night, turning an otherwise quiet night into a busy local attraction. On feast night visitors enjoy a starter, main course, vegetables, rice and bread – not to mention the restaurant’s usual friendly and efficient service – for a special price of just ten pounds a head.

During the summer, my nephew Edward has been living with me whilst preparing his final portfolio of music as part of the MA he has been taking at the Guildhall School of Music. We have been regular visitors during his stay to the Spice and this evening we enjoy feast night.

Our conversation is wide-ranging. The food, by contrast, speaks for itself.

Saying goodbye to Japan

About Dorothy

4 a.m. on Tuesday. Whilst my alarm is due to go off at 4.30 a.m., my body’s inner clock kicks in and I wake up in advance, no doubt fearing that I’ll fail to get up in time for the series of trains that will take me to Tokyo airport to catch my 10.30 a.m. flight.

Once aboard my flight, the weather deals a Joker. We sit on the tarmac amidst rain, lightening and thunder. Three hours later, when the weather has cleared, we return to the stands for refuelling. It’s best not to have the “time to refuel” red light come on in mid air.

My neighbour on the flight is a young Japanese man. The Japanese are said to be shy and still he greets me in English and later in French. He asks me how I got on with chopsticks and later he asks me for a tutorial in using a knife, fork and spoon which I gladly give him. It’s his first visit to Europe and I’m glad to help him to prepare.

He tells me about a new trend amongst the older people of Japan. Choosing to leave their homes so that their children can move in, they have nowhere to go, so they commit crimes that will land them in jail where the accomodation is free of charge. So widespread is this practice that some prisons are adapted for the elderly, with railings, for example, to support inmates in walking.

Our flight arrives late in Paris and I have missed my connection. The ground staff arrange for me to stay over and I rise at 4 a.m. to prepare to catch my 7.30 a.m. flight to London City Airport. It’s Thursday morning and I’m nearly home.

I savour the experiences I have had during my stay. I smile especially as I think of the children we have encountered: the two small girls in Nakamachidai who greeted Judy and I with a look of shock and then kept popping their heads around the door of the shop we were in to say “goodbye”; the little girl at the train station who asked my brother if he was in Japanese. It has been a visit rich in new experiences.

It’s time to say goodbye. Goodbye Japan. I wonder whether I am saying au revoir.

Taking the waters in Japan

About Dorothy

Whether visiting the museums and memorials of Hiroshima or the temples, pagodas and shrines of Nikko, there is one sure way of winding down at the end of the day. A visit to an onsen.

The onsen is a bath, which may be a public bath or a smaller, more intimate affair. It is a product of the volcanic activity which continues across Japan, producing many hot springs as well as the occasional earthquake. It is also reflected in the landscape which is flat with hills and mountains rising up from the flatlands – like Holland with hills.

Once you arrive there is clear etiquette. Bathers are expected to wash down before getting into the bath. The bath is not a place for washing in! Showers are provided with low stools to sit on, soap and shampoo. Only then is it time to join other bathers in the deep hot waters of the bath.

In our ryokan – a small hotel or guest house – in Hiroshima, the onsen are public baths, with separate bathing for men and women. Even the route to and from the baths are different, with men invited to take the stairs to their baths on the 4th floor, and women invited to take the lift to their baths on the 5th. As newcomers we are learning from a group of young Japanese women and observe what they do discreetly. They, however, show signs of embarrassment and uncertainty which suggest that they, too, are learners.

In Nikko, our small hotel has small baths with room for one or two bathers. The water is naturally hot spring water for which we pay 150 yen spring water tax. The water has a buoyancy which takes me by surprise. As do the queues – it seems there is always someone waiting to take the waters.

Friday night is kimono night

About Dorothy

Returning from a visit to Kamakura I board the train at a small local station. Together with Judy, my sister-in-law, I return to Kamakura, thence to Yokohama and on to Nakamachidai.

From the moment we board our first train, we are struck by the number of women who are wearing kimonos, the traditional robe that Japanese women wear with an elaborate arrangement of cloth around the waist (the word “belt” does not begin to describe what we see). I have seen these throughout my visit and still we are curious to see how many women are dressed in this way. On the train to Yokohama we also see a man dressed in a yukata. To Western eyes, he looks for all the world as if he has stepped straight from his bathroom onto the train. Both men and women wear traditional wooden clogs.

The word “traditional” evokes a bygone era and could suggest to the reader that these are men and women of mature age. But no, these are young men, young women. Their traditional clothes are also worn with the accoutrements of fashion. Men and women alike sport hair gel, jewelry and mobile phones. Some have dyed hair.

Searching for a reason for the number of young men and women dressed in this way we wonder. Could it be that Friday night is kimono night in Japan?

On visiting Hiroshima

About Dorothy,

Hiroshima.

As Viktor Frankl (in Man’s Search for Meaning) and others have highlighted, we are meaning-making creatures. The people of Hiroshima have had to make meaning, both individually and collectively, of their experiences. So it is for the visitor.

At 8.15 a.m. on 6th August, 1945, the Americans dropped the world’s first nuclear bomb, on Hiroshima. About 300,000 people are believed to have been resident in the city at the time and 350,000 people are believed to have been in the City on the day of the bombing. They included Japanese, many thousands of Koreans working as forced labour and American prisoners of war.

In the hours, days and months immediately following the bombing 140,000 men, women and children are believed to have died, whilst many more have died each year. Approximately 117,000 hibakusha (A-bomb survivors) are still alive today. The youngest of these were still in the womb at the time of the bombing.

One building, originally the Industrial Promotion Hall, has been preserved as a reminder of the near total destruction of the City by the atom bomb. In the Peace Memorial Park we visit the Museum which provides extensive information about the circumstances in which the bombing took place as well as about the bombing and its after-effects. The Peace Memorial Hall records the names and photographs of hibakusha along with extensive personal testimony. I watch a video with subtitles in English of a man, 11 at the time of the bombing, describing his life as a child in Hiroshima as well as his experiences of the bombing and of everything that followed.

The over-riding voice of Hiroshima, speaking through museum displays as well as personal testimony, is balanced and recognises many points of view. It includes the invitation to the Japanese people to recognise their country’s history in wreaking violence on the world. It also stands as a powerful voice for peace in the world, inviting exploration of what it takes to live in peace. Without war as well as without nuclear weapons.

Even as I am faced with the full extent of the damage to Hiroshima and its people I feel at peace. I recognise that, no matter what the actions of others, we get to choose our response and to set our intentions for the future. We get to share our intentions and to make requests of others. That the people of Hiroshima have chosen to learn from their experiences and to stand as a voice for peace in the world provides a powerful example and an inspiration.

Strangers: friends you haven’t met yet

About Dorothy

Nakamachidai, where my brother is living during his stay in Japan, is a new town. You could call it a suburb of Yokohama which in turn is a suburb of Tokyo.

The town’s newness is evident when I make my first gentle tour of the area: gentle because of the heat. Together with Judy, my sister-in-law, I walk through the bamboo forest close by, arriving quite soon in farmland. The farmland intrigues me. This is not an area in which you find paddy fields. Rather, plots of land look like large allotments or market gardens.

We visit several temples, from the large new temple just down the road to the tiny temple tucked away in the hills above the new main road. You quickly realise when you look at what Japan has to offer to the visitor that you won’t be short of temples to visit (or, come to that, of noodles to eat). And all on the way to Ikea.

I am reminded today of this recent history of local change. I take time to visit a small shop I have passed most days and buy four small bowls. The woman who serves me is selling edamame beans and gives both Judy and I the gift of a bag of beans, fresh from her farm that morning.

This is also a reminder that, wherever I go in the world, the kindness of strangers, freely given, has the power to cross barriers of language and culture and in this way to make friends of us all.