Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen
Ich sitze in Starbucks an einem der seltenen Sonnentage in Belfast; der Poststreik geht in die dritte Woche, sodass weder Geburtstagswünsche noch Schecks durchkommen. Mein E-Mailserver scheint auch immer wieder Post zu verschlingen, sodass mein Lebensgefühl immer mehr die Züge Robinson Crusoes annimmt. Nur dass Robinson -zumindest im Roman- gesund war und das Wetter auf seiner Insel nicht Pudelmützen und selbst im Juni Strickpullis erforderte. Nein Depression habe ich noch keine, aber ich arbeite daran...
Da stieß ich auf ein Gedicht von Friedrich Rückert, welches in seiner Vertonung durch Mahler bekannt ist: „Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen“. Manche Verse beschreiben nur allzu gut, was ich derzeit erlebe. Die Welt „mag wohl glauben, ich sei ihr gestorben denn sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen“. Tatsächlich braucht es gar nicht lange, um den Anschluss zu verlieren: ein paar Wochen ohne Post, einige nicht beantwortete E-Mails, und man ist nicht mehr „in the loop“.
Doch am deutlichsten erlebe ich das „Sterben dem Weltgetümmel“ in meiner fast vollkommenen Arbeitslosigkeit. Zwar befolge ich die Ratschläge, die ich seit Jahren arbeitslosen Freunden gegeben habe: brav in der Früh aufstehen und nicht den Tag verschlafen, eine tägliche Routine abspulen, sich in der Volkshochschule in einen Kurs eintragen, Beziehungsarbeit leisten usw. Aber die harte Tatsache ist es, dass wir durch unsere Arbeit definiert werden, durch andere und durch uns selbst. Wer nichts arbeitet ist auch nicht wirklich was wert, oder?
Aber diese Auszeit hat mir auch seit langem erstmals die Gelegenheit verschafft, mit etwas größerer Distanz Das „Weltgetümmel“ zu beobachten. Es ist erstaunlich, wie schnell manche Tätigkeiten und Gremien ihren Glanz verlieren, wenn man nicht mehr dabei ist. Man fragt sich, warum man dem Dabeisein so viel Wert beigemessen hat und wieso man sich für so unersetzlich gehalten hat.
Ein letzter Baustein für meine Depression war letzte Woche der schnelle und überraschende Tod eines 28jährigen Freundes an einem Schlaganfall. Solche Ereignisse haben die heilsame Wirkung, uns auf das Wesentliche zu fokussieren. Stephen Covey stellt regelmäßig die provokante Frage: „Wer sagt schon auf dem Sterbebett „Ich wollte, ich hätte mehr Zeit im Büro verbracht“?“ Wir alle sterben früher oder später dem Weltgetümmel, die Frage ist nur, ob wir es zufrieden oder unzufrieden tun. Werden wir dann wünschen, vieles anders gemacht zu haben? Insofern bin ich dankbar für eine Generalprobe und hoffe, bald auch Rückerts letzten Vers zum meinen zu machen: „Ich leb´allein in einem Himmel, in meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!“
Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben,
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!
Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält,
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.
Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel,
Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!
Friedrich Rückert, 1788-1866
Da stieß ich auf ein Gedicht von Friedrich Rückert, welches in seiner Vertonung durch Mahler bekannt ist: „Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen“. Manche Verse beschreiben nur allzu gut, was ich derzeit erlebe. Die Welt „mag wohl glauben, ich sei ihr gestorben denn sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen“. Tatsächlich braucht es gar nicht lange, um den Anschluss zu verlieren: ein paar Wochen ohne Post, einige nicht beantwortete E-Mails, und man ist nicht mehr „in the loop“.
Doch am deutlichsten erlebe ich das „Sterben dem Weltgetümmel“ in meiner fast vollkommenen Arbeitslosigkeit. Zwar befolge ich die Ratschläge, die ich seit Jahren arbeitslosen Freunden gegeben habe: brav in der Früh aufstehen und nicht den Tag verschlafen, eine tägliche Routine abspulen, sich in der Volkshochschule in einen Kurs eintragen, Beziehungsarbeit leisten usw. Aber die harte Tatsache ist es, dass wir durch unsere Arbeit definiert werden, durch andere und durch uns selbst. Wer nichts arbeitet ist auch nicht wirklich was wert, oder?
Aber diese Auszeit hat mir auch seit langem erstmals die Gelegenheit verschafft, mit etwas größerer Distanz Das „Weltgetümmel“ zu beobachten. Es ist erstaunlich, wie schnell manche Tätigkeiten und Gremien ihren Glanz verlieren, wenn man nicht mehr dabei ist. Man fragt sich, warum man dem Dabeisein so viel Wert beigemessen hat und wieso man sich für so unersetzlich gehalten hat.
Ein letzter Baustein für meine Depression war letzte Woche der schnelle und überraschende Tod eines 28jährigen Freundes an einem Schlaganfall. Solche Ereignisse haben die heilsame Wirkung, uns auf das Wesentliche zu fokussieren. Stephen Covey stellt regelmäßig die provokante Frage: „Wer sagt schon auf dem Sterbebett „Ich wollte, ich hätte mehr Zeit im Büro verbracht“?“ Wir alle sterben früher oder später dem Weltgetümmel, die Frage ist nur, ob wir es zufrieden oder unzufrieden tun. Werden wir dann wünschen, vieles anders gemacht zu haben? Insofern bin ich dankbar für eine Generalprobe und hoffe, bald auch Rückerts letzten Vers zum meinen zu machen: „Ich leb´allein in einem Himmel, in meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!“
Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen,
Mit der ich sonst viele Zeit verdorben,
Sie hat so lange nichts von mir vernommen,
Sie mag wohl glauben, ich sei gestorben!
Es ist mir auch gar nichts daran gelegen,
Ob sie mich für gestorben hält,
Ich kann auch gar nichts sagen dagegen,
Denn wirklich bin ich gestorben der Welt.
Ich bin gestorben dem Weltgetümmel,
Und ruh' in einem stillen Gebiet!
Ich leb' allein in meinem Himmel,
In meinem Lieben, in meinem Lied!
Friedrich Rückert, 1788-1866
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Washington's little flame
Labor to keep alive in your breast that little spark of celestial fire called conscience. (George Washington)
You are lying in bed, and the doorbell rings: you know it is the neighbour who wants something from you, but you pretend not to be in. A cheque arrives in the mail from the credit card company, reimbursing you more than they should have: do you keep the money? Your mother calls you to ask whether you want to come over next weekend. You really don’t want to go, but you are afraid that she might make a scene: do you tell a “white lie”? We have all been there, when we are put in a moral dilemma, and the question is whether or not we are going to do what is right, or “chicken out”. Quite often there is a little voice inside our head telling us what to do, but do we obey it?
In his most recent film ( Match. Point see http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0416320/) Woody Allen spells out his philosophy of life: life is all about luck, just like when a tennis ball hitting the net can fall in either half of the court, thus making the difference between victory and defeat. The whole story of Chris Wilton is one of a man from a poor Irish background who starts as a tennis coach and ends up running a company in the economic empire of his future father-in-law. So far it’s the basic rags to riches story, but then Chris has an affair, gets his lover pregnant and his life comes close to unravelling. So he sets his Nola up to meet him, kills her in cold blood, and makes the whole murder look like a drug crime. Scotland Yard suspects that he had a motive, but “lucky circumstances” point them in a different direction, and Wilton is never found out.
The moral of the story: you can get away with murder, if you are lucky. Is it really that simple? Is life all about what you can get away with? And even if you do, will that really make you happy? Was Chris Wilton really able to just go back to his wife and kid, pretending that nothing happened? Only very hardened murderers do not wake up in the middle of the night asking themselves what they have done. Wilton might have gotten away from the police, but he cannot get away from himself. The little voice, which catches us in quiet moments to remind us of right and wrong, is called conscience. Whether our moral dilemmas are small or great, our conscience is there to help us do the right thing, and to accuse us if we didn’t.
Enlightened psychologists would tell us that conscience is a medieval concept, devised to riddle us all with guilt. Truth is that without that little voice we are adrift and subject to the views and fashions of those very psychologists. So the lucky ones are the ones who can still hear that voice, and have not silenced it through disregard or busyness. Washington was right: we need to labour to keep this flame alive. If we do we will steer a straight course; and when we don’t this flame will give us the courage to make things right, whether with our neighbour, the credit company, or the police.
You are lying in bed, and the doorbell rings: you know it is the neighbour who wants something from you, but you pretend not to be in. A cheque arrives in the mail from the credit card company, reimbursing you more than they should have: do you keep the money? Your mother calls you to ask whether you want to come over next weekend. You really don’t want to go, but you are afraid that she might make a scene: do you tell a “white lie”? We have all been there, when we are put in a moral dilemma, and the question is whether or not we are going to do what is right, or “chicken out”. Quite often there is a little voice inside our head telling us what to do, but do we obey it?
In his most recent film ( Match. Point see http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0416320/) Woody Allen spells out his philosophy of life: life is all about luck, just like when a tennis ball hitting the net can fall in either half of the court, thus making the difference between victory and defeat. The whole story of Chris Wilton is one of a man from a poor Irish background who starts as a tennis coach and ends up running a company in the economic empire of his future father-in-law. So far it’s the basic rags to riches story, but then Chris has an affair, gets his lover pregnant and his life comes close to unravelling. So he sets his Nola up to meet him, kills her in cold blood, and makes the whole murder look like a drug crime. Scotland Yard suspects that he had a motive, but “lucky circumstances” point them in a different direction, and Wilton is never found out.
The moral of the story: you can get away with murder, if you are lucky. Is it really that simple? Is life all about what you can get away with? And even if you do, will that really make you happy? Was Chris Wilton really able to just go back to his wife and kid, pretending that nothing happened? Only very hardened murderers do not wake up in the middle of the night asking themselves what they have done. Wilton might have gotten away from the police, but he cannot get away from himself. The little voice, which catches us in quiet moments to remind us of right and wrong, is called conscience. Whether our moral dilemmas are small or great, our conscience is there to help us do the right thing, and to accuse us if we didn’t.
Enlightened psychologists would tell us that conscience is a medieval concept, devised to riddle us all with guilt. Truth is that without that little voice we are adrift and subject to the views and fashions of those very psychologists. So the lucky ones are the ones who can still hear that voice, and have not silenced it through disregard or busyness. Washington was right: we need to labour to keep this flame alive. If we do we will steer a straight course; and when we don’t this flame will give us the courage to make things right, whether with our neighbour, the credit company, or the police.
Merciful death?
On December 12th of last year England witnessed a watershed judicial decision: former SAS soldier Andrew Wragg was cleared of all charges by the courts after having smothered his terminally-ill son with a pillow. The judge commented that there was “nothing to be gained” from sending Wragg to jail.
Just over a month later, on January 25th, the British doctor Anne Turner travelled to Switzerland in order to kill herself in a hospital in Zurich, because she had been diagnosed with supranuclear palsy, a degenerative brain disease. Turner made her case very public in order to lobby for the need to allow doctor-assisted death in the UK.
The same day the Voluntary Euthanasia society changed its name in this country, and now operates as “Dignity in Dying”. Deborah Annetts, its chief executive officer, is pushing for legal reform in order to legalise what she thinks are about 3000 cases a year when doctors intervene in the UK to prematurely end the life of a terminally-ill patient.
One gets the feeling that a tidal wave has just hit the shores of this country, washing away common sense, laws of the land, and venerable medical practice. If it is not murder to end the life of my terminally-ill boy, what about my old mother who just broke her hip, or my uncle who is in a wheelchair, or my brother who has Down syndrome? And what has become of the Hippocratic oath by which doctors promise “not give a drug that is deadly to anyone if asked”, if doctors themselves incite their colleagues to administer to them barbiturate cocktails? And why is it suddenly called dignity when we end our lives, but not if we endure suffering, illness and death with courage and hope?
In the movie “Awakenings” (based on a true story) Robin Williams plays a doctor who is instrumental in helping chronically-ill neurology patients to come out of their seeming slumber and for a short period to enjoy “normal life”. For the few weeks that these patients are able to get out of their wheelchairs, to walk around and to communicate normally, all the doctors and relatives realize that even in their slumber these patients were thinking and feeling, and any care given to them was appreciated. However short this awakening was, it taught the doctors and nurses that what had seemed as lives not worth living were fully and truly human lives.
The more the euthanasia discussion progresses the clearer it becomes that any decision to end a human life is quite arbitrary. Who can judge whose quality of life is sufficient for somebody to be kept alive? And who amongst us is safe if it is up to fellow human beings to decide who “makes the cut” and who does not. Jews, Muslims and Christians are united in the view that human life is sacred: man did not give it, and man cannot take it away. Only God, who is the author of all human life, can give and take life. And whatever we call human life, meaning the period between birth and death, is only a fraction of the life God intends for every man and woman, it is only a preparation for an eternity which all human beings are meant to spend with God. Therefore it is important how we go through this period here on earth, however easy or difficult it is; and only after death will we understand why our earthly lives turned out the way they did. So let us help our fellow men live their lives with dignity, and not to end them early.
Just over a month later, on January 25th, the British doctor Anne Turner travelled to Switzerland in order to kill herself in a hospital in Zurich, because she had been diagnosed with supranuclear palsy, a degenerative brain disease. Turner made her case very public in order to lobby for the need to allow doctor-assisted death in the UK.
The same day the Voluntary Euthanasia society changed its name in this country, and now operates as “Dignity in Dying”. Deborah Annetts, its chief executive officer, is pushing for legal reform in order to legalise what she thinks are about 3000 cases a year when doctors intervene in the UK to prematurely end the life of a terminally-ill patient.
One gets the feeling that a tidal wave has just hit the shores of this country, washing away common sense, laws of the land, and venerable medical practice. If it is not murder to end the life of my terminally-ill boy, what about my old mother who just broke her hip, or my uncle who is in a wheelchair, or my brother who has Down syndrome? And what has become of the Hippocratic oath by which doctors promise “not give a drug that is deadly to anyone if asked”, if doctors themselves incite their colleagues to administer to them barbiturate cocktails? And why is it suddenly called dignity when we end our lives, but not if we endure suffering, illness and death with courage and hope?
In the movie “Awakenings” (based on a true story) Robin Williams plays a doctor who is instrumental in helping chronically-ill neurology patients to come out of their seeming slumber and for a short period to enjoy “normal life”. For the few weeks that these patients are able to get out of their wheelchairs, to walk around and to communicate normally, all the doctors and relatives realize that even in their slumber these patients were thinking and feeling, and any care given to them was appreciated. However short this awakening was, it taught the doctors and nurses that what had seemed as lives not worth living were fully and truly human lives.
The more the euthanasia discussion progresses the clearer it becomes that any decision to end a human life is quite arbitrary. Who can judge whose quality of life is sufficient for somebody to be kept alive? And who amongst us is safe if it is up to fellow human beings to decide who “makes the cut” and who does not. Jews, Muslims and Christians are united in the view that human life is sacred: man did not give it, and man cannot take it away. Only God, who is the author of all human life, can give and take life. And whatever we call human life, meaning the period between birth and death, is only a fraction of the life God intends for every man and woman, it is only a preparation for an eternity which all human beings are meant to spend with God. Therefore it is important how we go through this period here on earth, however easy or difficult it is; and only after death will we understand why our earthly lives turned out the way they did. So let us help our fellow men live their lives with dignity, and not to end them early.
