Scientific Spirituality

Edwin and Andre entertain Theo

We had a warm fathers' day: warm in the presence of family as well as a meteorological sense. Lucy, Andy and Theo stayed above The Globe in Clare, a remarkable flat built into the roof of the 16th century pub, while Edwin and Andre came to share the day with us. Theo loved the two boys, who enjoyed entertaining him - Edwin by telling stories of ancient Greece, and Andre by making an Origami bird whose wings flapped when the tail was pulled. Little Theo was entranced.

If asked what I believe in, a rare enough question, I would describe it as Scientific Spirituality, a faith more akin to science than religion. It is driven by a spirit of inquiry, not dogma. It is open to individuals to seek, but does not wish to convert or proselytise, though it rejoices when someone genuinely wants to know how something really works at the deeper level. It accepts people for whom they are, not for what they believe. It seeks to encourage not to punish. It has no group organisation nor church, yet is taught in nature's harmony. All the distractions of the world, our concerns with status, fame, the latest laptop or phone, are but empty moments when compared to the experience of inner peace and the calm revealed by the unifying wholeness of understanding and wonder at the miracle of the natural world. 

Scientific Spirituality does not preclude religion, or organised prayer, or group worship. But it does preclude religious exclusivity: the insistence that there is only one way, the intolerance of alternative thoughts or beliefs, the insistence that one book or one person's opinion holds the key to the Universe to the exclusion of all other thought. All religions may lead to Spirituality, but without the virtue of Scientific inquiry, they become rigid and exclusive rather than seeking to be open, expansive, and inclusive.  Girders in the Sand was my attempt to bring the historical development of Scientific Spirituality into context, through centuries of spiritual development paralleling scientific advancement, building toward the frontiers of universal understanding. 

On Sunday, Edwin and Andre were formally welcomed into the Methodist church in Bury St Edmunds, which they have been attending for some time. Ann and I went to witness this, with a lovely lunch of snacks provided by the congregation in the hall afterwards. Between them, they certainly bridge the concept of Scientific Spirituality.

Any death inspires reflective thoughts, even so modest an end as our Guinea pig, Bartok. Following his death, I penned a few thoughts, leading to the poem The Empty Cage.

The Empty Cage

For briefest moment, behind wired bars,

Some creature stirred -

Lent sight and movement, warmly furred,

more than food or drink metabolised: 

Imprisoned here, by whims and chances bound,  

A vast complexity of artful wonder

Given for a moment to our pleasure - 

Then death, its ailing body ripped asunder.

I, too, with complex form appear

To talk and dance awhile in chances’ cage

‘Til age and death soon everything will take;

In these tight bonds I can but hopeless rage.

John H. Marr

A delayed birthday meal, and memories of Florence

Outside the window, a thrush grasps a devil creature, or snail, and is busy thrashing it against the pavement until the shell flies off and the thrush triumphantly flies off with the morsel to its nest. Byron lies moodily in the heat, unable to pace round his old friend Bartok the guinea pig. Ann has placed an advert for the cage on the Hundon Facebook and someone is coming for it this afternoon. Edwin had been working all day in London on Ann's birthday, so last night he made up for it by taking us to a new restaurant in Bury - The Lark - which served the most unusual but delicious combinations of food. 

With Andre's family in Florence

We returned from our Florence trip last week, but it already seems a distant memory. Having determined this may have been our only chance to meet Andre's parents, Ann fought the consultants to try and get her treatments sorted before we went, but circumstances were otherwise, so we went "at risk". Andre has the most wonderful family, very close and affectionate with each other, and welcoming us in as part of their group. They had rented a capacious, six-bedroom apartment in Florence, and invited us to stay gratis with them: his parents, two sisters and their husbands. All are greatly talented, but although the parents speak a little more English than we do Portuguese (i.e. a few words to our zero words), we got by mostly by universal body language and translations by the children. 

Andre told us of his grandmother, a dramatic character who, unless her children phone her regularly, says "no one loves me anymore. No one cares if I'm still alive!"  She believes the plants in her garden protect her from evil spirits. When her fern died, she said "Someone must have wished me ill. My fern absorbed the hate and sacrificed itself to save me." She had been born on a large farm and was her father's favourite, but he had a vendetta with farming neighbour. The grandmother fell in love with the neighbour's son, but her father said if she ever married him, he would kill him and his family, so she married someone else under duress, but still talks about her lost love. Then Edwin then told us of the mother of a friend of his who was having a big birthday celebration and deliberating over who to invite. She finally made the choice based on the postage used to send her Christmas cards. If they used second class stamps, they clearly thought of her and posted their cards in good time, but a first-class stamp meant they had forgotten, and posted the card at the last minute, so they were not invited to her special party.

Andre's father is a pastor and said a moving prayer before we left, wishing for health and save travel, which was much appreciated. The family walked each way into the centre each day, and Ann walked once or twice but I used taxis, although only a couple of kilometres. I am not a great admirer of multiple, seemingly repetitive, pictures of the virgin and child, so the contents of the Uffizi were a little wasted on me, although to see the originals of so many paintings such as Botticelli's “Birth of Venus” known only through art programs or modern pastiche was worth the effort of the long, hot, crowded corridors. But the David of Michelangelo in the Accademia Gallery is breathtaking in its monumental scale, its symbolism, its sculptural beauty, and the shear artistry of the representation. 

We also visited the Museo Galileo that holds many of his experiments and inventions, things I had only seen pictures of in schoolbooks when we were learning basic physics. Again, to see the originals was remarkable. To comprehend the originality of calculating the parabolic arc of projectiles, or the arrogance of thought that could demolish belief in the earth as the centre of all creation by demonstrating the heliocentric system with systematic observations, is inspirational to the power of thought to change the world. Galileo had his equipment built by the finest craftsmen of Florence, so even a demonstration of the path of a rolling ball is made of elegant wood with inlaid marquetry and polished brass.

Galileo’s Parabolic Demonstration Apparatus

Ann celebrates a special birthday.

Happy 70th birthday

Yesterday was Ann's seventieth birthday - significant in years, and worthy of celebration; also noted to be the hottest 13th June since records began. Edwin, alas, was working all day in London, but Mary-Anne and the two girls came round unexpectedly and we shared a cake and broke open a bottle of Prosecco. Because of her heart problem, Ann has not been drinking lately, but did let slip she would like a Prosecco to toast the day, so I slipped out just after seven o'clock to walk the dogs and buy a bottle. I finally got to the counter of the Co-op with the bottle in my hand, but the girl took it from me and said, "we aren't allowed to sell alcohol until eight o'clock!" so I went back into the park for a second dog walk, grabbed a cup of coffee from the platform cafe, and waited. Finally, at two minutes past eight, I could take another bottle through the checkout.

To say I am good at speeches is to say a rubber duck is good for going out to sea. The best I could offer was how much Ann meant to each of us and long we had all known her, "Especially you, Mary-Anne," I added without thought. "Yes," she said, "all of my life, actually." I had intended to cook a meal, and even went on to Tesco to buy the ingredients but for some reason, Ann chose to prefer a meal out so we settled on Carluccio's, but they turned us away as they no longer serve food after seven p.m. but at least Byron's Burger Bar opposite was open, and their veggie burgers were delicious. We could even take a desert there - but coffee was too much, as they don't serve hot drinks. No wonder everything in Bury is shutting down. But overall, it was a very good day.

Today was less happy. Our guinea pig, Bartok (all our animals are named after poets or scientists, or heroes from opera), has been wilting in the heat for a few days. Yesterday, he lay down all day not eating or drinking, and Ann put ice bags in his cage to cool him, but to no avail. I looked for him in his hidey-hole this morning but he had died in the night. Byron loved that guinea pig, spending each day running round the cage or even nudging it if he was hiding. When we brought in fresh grass, Byron would run ahead to tell Bartok in some way, and he, Bartok, would start an excited squeaking before I even came back in through the door, so I had to shut them into the room while I carried the cage out and emptied it. The ground was too hard for me to dig easily, so later I took him in the car to a country field, and hid him in dense undergrowth to return to nature as I muttered a few words of remembrance over him. 

Then we had to go yet again to Addenbrookes for Ann's cardiograph. She should have had her cardioversion this afternoon, but got a letter to say it was postponed because the doctors were on strike; and sure enough, there they all were outside the hospital waving their banners. "Oh look," I joked, "there's your cardiologist. Perhaps we should drop you off here for your next consultation." We feel sympathy for their low pay and work conditions, but at times like this it does impact on the health of real people and very real suffering, as Ann gets so tired and breathless now.

My mother

My mother has grey halr,

A small, button called a nose,

Her skirts are long, flouncy,

Always wearing cardigans pink and grey,

She wears gold hoops in her ears,

And pearl necklaces, sometimes real,

Sometimes not.

She wears black, leather shoes and patent,

Her hair is short, and sometimes curly,

Sometimes not.

She wears a smile,

Unless tired,

Then her forehead, like a writhing sea,

Grows into a mountain,

And her lips, the opposite, grow down.

She is patient, mostly,

And tall, elegant, rarefied,

She loves life,

It does not always love her,

She has a kind, non-apathetic nature,

And sometimes that's a fault.

People can take advantage of such a nature,

And, like the threshing machines thrash it,

Take her nature and abuse it,

Still, she is my mother and as my mother she is loved.

Edwin Marr