I can meditate upon a geranium. That is, I can spend a long time gazing at one. (And while I was gazing at mine, there came a phone call from my accountant informing me that it was time for me to start preparing my income-tax return. And thus, the harsh realities of life intrude upon our poetic fancies ¡ª but I shall return to the subject of geraniums at the first opportunity.)
Uma Kadam/BCCL
And as I can get geraniums to flower in my sunny bedroom, summer and winter, I have every opportunity to do so.
The geranium that has done best is the one I have grown in a large plastic bucket standing on the chest-of-drawers and facing the early morning sun. Here, protected from wind and rain (both of which are anathema to geraniums), this generous plant has produced no less than eight florets of soft pink confetti. Pastel shades have always appealed to me. And there is something alluring about this sensual pink. Other shades are appealing too ¡ª the salmon-pink, the flaming red ¡ª but this pale pink is restful, intimate. From my bed or desk, I can gaze at it and have pleasant thoughts. Is that meditation? Or is it contemplation? The latter, probably. I am really the contemplative type.
I suspect that meditation is something that you do deliberately (hence the need for practice), and contemplation is simply what comes naturally.
Brinda nilesh/flickr
When we meditate, we look within, and hopefully there is something to find there. When I look at a flower, I am looking without, contemplating the miracle of creation. I suppose I should do a little of both, just to get the right balance.
It¡¯s so easy to fall in love with a nurse. The gentle touch that most of them possess, and their patience with human frailty and vulnerability wins our gratitude and respect. And they look so smart in their clean white uniforms.
TOI
As a patient, I was often falling in love with nurses. Some 15 years ago, the local mission hospital had some difficulty in sending me home, although I had fully recovered from minor surgery. I had been well and truly smitten by one of the nurses, and I kept delaying my departure, complaining of vague aches and pains and fevers.
She had held my hand all through the surgery, and I was reluctant to let go. She had a nice sense of mischief too. In charge of the maternity ward one night, she had been called to the telephone and had promptly plonked a newborn babe on to the pillow beside me, saying, ¡°Look after it until I¡¯m back!¡± It took her a long time coming back. And when she did, I had a screaming baby and a wet pillow on my hands. Never mind, I felt she had placed her trust in me ¡ª as indeed, she had! Not every middle-aged male patient was prepared to help out in maternity ward.
Uma Kadam/BCCL
Naturally, not every nurse has the soft and caring touch. After many years of dealing with difficult patients, there are some who become a little tired, a little impatient.
My school ¡®hospital¡¯ consisted of a three-bed ward looked after by an elderly matron who snapped and scolded us for being sick. If we were really ill, we were sent off to the Ripon hospital in town. Our school hospital was meant for minor ailments such as mumps, dysentery, and vague fevers.
Three of us went down with mumps and had the room to ourselves. We could make all the noise we liked, because our nurse was stone deaf. We sang, shouted, screamed obscenities; it did not bother her.
In many ways, she was the ideal nurse for a boys¡¯ ward. But if we needed her at night ¡ª for a glass of water or an aspirin or anything urgent ¡ª it was no use shouting for her; she would sleep through your agony! A bell was no use. Banging on her door was equally futile. After many complaints, a method was devised for rousing her. This involved tying a string to her big toe and leading it into our ward where one end would be placed on the locker of the boy who was more mobile than the others. If Nurse was wanted at night, he had only to give the string a vigorous tug, and Nurse would spring out of her bed ¡ª not without threats and imprecations.
palmbeachpost
Needless to say, a good deal of string-pulling went on ¡ª most of it quite unnecessary as the more wicked among us took a delight in getting her up in the middle of the night by feigning a stomach ache or fever. By the end of the year, Nurse¡¯s big toes were much longer than they had been originally.