Where are you Going?

'Where are you Going?' This strange title of a famous painting by Gauguin which I saw recently in the Amsterdam Hermitage Museum is apparently based on a traditional Tahitian greeting and it set me thinking.

There are times when our language usage and especially our sayings can reflect a lot of our culture and national view on life. In Britain we say formally 'Good morning', Good afternoon' or 'How are you?' Informally we say simply 'Hi there!' But to me 'Where are you going?' seems at first sight a strangely intrusive question to use as a common greeting. It made me wonder what kind of a culture gives rise to such a question and why they spend their time asking each other where they are off to. The Tahitian culture portrayed in Gauguin's colourful paintings seems laid back, natural, unsophisticated and primitive. Scantily clad young women with flowers in their hair adorn his works, suggesting a relaxed and exotic lifestyle with a touch of '60s free love thrown in. However, we are looking at the nineteenth century with our modern mindsets in a foreign land about which most of us know little. The question could perhaps imply instead a focus on activity and a purposeful, work-orientated people. On the other hand it could simply suggest a friendly, inquisitive sense of community spirit and neighbourliness. 'Where are you going? How are you doing? Are you OK? Can I join you?'

We are accustomed to our own greeting style, I suppose. 'How are you?' sounds, to our modern ears, casual and is often simply returned without being answered: 'So how are you?'. 'Hi there!' is even more relaxed and undemanding, asking nothing of the other person at all, just a friendly acknowledgement of their existence. However, if taken at face value, the question 'How are you?' could be threatening - similar to that famous counselling question: 'So how did that make you feel...?'  Demanding to know how someone is might be interpreted as a rather intrusive insistence on personal and private information. I remember once being asked by a perceptive friend as I arrived at church on what was for me a very bad day: 'How are you?' I could think of nothing truthful to say without exposing the specific anguish I was going through at the time and, rendered speechless, I floundered and said nothing. 'Oh, that bad!' said my friend, smiling sympathetically, without waiting for any further explanations. His response caused me to laugh, alleviating the embarrassment of the situation and saving me the trouble of explaining. British humour at its best!

Certainly, ' how are you?' puts the focus on our physical and mental state in a way that 'where are you going?' does not. It puts us on the spot if we are in fact having one of those days we would rather not talk about, unless we have learned to lie bravely. 'Where are you going?' presents no real problems unless, of course, we are off to commit murder or play truant from school. For us, 'Fine, thanks' is probably our most popular response and actually means nothing any more. We are now free to go on to discussing the weather - our next favourite subject of conversation. Many people are content to make do with such a shallow response as their question was not interested in eliciting the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, which would probably bore them and cost far too much time out of their busy lives.

So, after all that, I will save you the trouble and content myself with telling you that I'm off to the kitchen to make a cuppa! Thank you for asking. 

Perspective

It was blue. It was sparkling blue and idyllically pretty when I sat transfixed, watching it, from my wooden bench beside the water’s edge. I saw the sun reflecting in the shallow waters as they trickled slowly across the yellow beach down to the shining blue expanse of the estuary. I saw it and it was blue like the sea, as it glittered between the brown rocks and the fronds of seaweed and reflected a perfect blue summer’s sky.

I watched the children, playing by the water, perching on the smooth, flat, grey slate that formed a bridge where the water emerged from the hill and out onto the sand. They tramped about in the stream, their sandals wet and muddy, and gathered round the slate bridge for a moment’s rendezvous to decide what to do next.

I got up. I wandered aimlessly along the grassy bank and peered more closely at the stream bed. To my amazement, the blue vanished. Green mossy pebbles mingled with bronzed iron-tinged rocks. Rivulets of gold glistened between the rocks and over the muddy surface beneath. The scene had changed and with it the mood, from summer to autumn, from brisk, bubbling joy to calm serenity. Gone were the dancing, sparkling lights, gleaming on the bluest of blue water. Instead, as I looked down into the stream, I saw mossy green banks and the golden glow of the bronzed stones beneath the calm, unruffled surface. I marvelled at this instantaneous change – not a real change, but a change in perspective, brought about simply by the change in angle, from sitting to walking, from one direction to another. I began to wonder how much of life and our changing mood is a matter of perspective.

What is This Life if Full of Care?

'What is this life if, full of care,

There is no time to stand and stare...'*

Today, as I hurried to catch the tram, I passed a scene that caught my imagination and sent me scurrying back into memories of my childhood. In the early morning sunshine a workman had set up on the pavement, ready for his day's work, two trestles with a piece of new, white wood balanced across them. A small pile of wood was propped up by the open door of the house and a little boy with a smart green T shirt and the blondest of Dutch hair looked out from the window, eyes wide with anticipation. The youngster had evidently found his own morning's work, spellbound at the window, watching the odd-job man's every move.

The scene sparked something in me as I remembered simultaneously the lines from W.H. Davies' poem and a morning that I vividly recall from my childhood. It was raining torrents and I wanted to go out to play. Five years older than me, my sister was already at school. My mother was busy with baking. It was up to me to amuse myself for a while. Frustrated because I wanted to play in the garden, I began to idly watch the rain droplets as they gathered on the window of our half-glazed back door. The watching turned into a game and for a long while I stood in a happy daydream gazing at the rivulets of water pouring down the glass, gathering together, receiving tributaries of water from other parts of the window, joining, dividing and transforming themselves into patterns before they finally slid down the window and disappeared off the bottom. Isn't it amazing the capacity one single solitary child has for inventing playful activities and filling time in a totally non-productive but enjoyable way? It's a gift.

As an adult my success at this is somewhat limited. Mostly life passes as a series of tasks, achievements, deadlines, crossed-off lists and more or less productive pastimes. Only at odd moments, weekends and holidays does it take a more frivolous turn and life can be enjoyed simply for itself with no particular end in view. These moments are wonderful - why on earth don't we do them more often?! Children really have the right idea before we grown-ups complicate up their lives. But life is busy and opportunities are limited.

On holiday recently I experienced once more something that only happens to me when I have time - time with no agendas, no necessary programme of things to do. I love to walk, enjoying the scenery and wildlife as I go. I love the countryside and I love coastal walks. I also love (and need!) to sit. For me the two go hand in hand and there is nothing better than walking till I am tired out and then flopping onto a well-positioned bench, donated in memory of someone who enjoyed the place, on a remote hillside with a view stretching out beneath me or beside a glorious stretch of coastline with the dark blue sea shimmering in front of me - just stopping there and drinking it all in. After a while, when I have got my breath back and looked all around me in wonder at the views, there often comes a moment when I think 'I'll get up now. It's time to get on...'

But I don't. I've learned now. I just sit there. I look at the view again. I focus on a clump of trees and admire the variety of colours. I shut my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun on my back and the breeze blowing in my face. I watch a lamb feeding from its mother, buffeting her mercilessly and drinking its fill in the self-absorbed, greedy way of the young. I gaze out to sea and spot a tiny yacht on the horizon. And then it happens - I knew it would. I get that feeling: 'I could stay here forever!' I've found my rest, my inner peace, as well as the rest my body needed. 'I could stay here forever!'

As Mr. Davies said:

'A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare'.

* Leisure by William Henry Davies