I guess we’ve all had our fair share of the good and the bad (and the ugly, I mean the really bad). Not sure about the school system these days, but in ‘the bad old days’ many teachers could be described as yes, bad. This includes plain bad, badass, too bad, and far gone. (Best left for another discussion).
Occasionally there were exceptions. But rarely. So rare in fact, they stood out like shining beacons in a stormy sea. Somehow you instinctively appreciated their value and actually paid attention. And yes, they seemed to share universal traits. Patience, understanding, empathy, respect and encouragement.
You remember them so many years later as they form part of your understanding and inevitable appreciation of the world.
There is no single method to this, no magic formula, as the best teachers are as different as the subjects they teach.
Ultimately there should be no communication obstruction, no inhibition. This would surely be the communication between mother and child, as ideas and thoughts are conveyed as if by osmosis.
How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?
There is a moment when you realise you have to unplug when you start exhibiting strange or unusual behaviours. It’s surely better to unplug well in advance but as is so often the case the ‘red flags’ are often ignored. Considering the rather strange and ever-changing world we inhabit I guess it’s to be expected.
Nevertheless some of these distraction strategies are a bit weird. Sucking ice cubes, counting Pi (π) decimal places, cold showers, water submersion, obsessive cleaning, cracking nuts, fidgeting and nail biting, peeling glue from your hands, popping bubble wrap, hoarding, smashing glass, ceramics throwing, folding hot towels, watching gross videos on YouTube, listening to foreign languages (without understanding them), reciting recipes and polishing silverware. 😮 Some of these activities seem normal enough but the weirder ones are concerning.
So how do you unplug and what’s the best way to do it? While I admit to fidgeting, watching YouTube (but not gross videos) and buying stuff that I don’t need, the best remedy for me is physical activity whether it be stretching, yoga or just stepping out and taking a walk. Nothing beats a good book for distraction. But a real one and not some generic digital text generated by ChatGPT.
What is your favorite holiday? Why is it your favorite?
My favourite holiday was as a kid and I didn’t have to travel far for endless fun. Exploring the hills above our street or the gully behind the house was a magical playground for me and the neighbourhood kids.
The summer holidays seemed to go on for ever. But I wasn’t really aware of ‘holiday’ in the adult definition. It was just escapism. Today of course, we are hyper aware of the potential dangers of gullies and hills but in those days there was always an elder assigned to supervise any excursion.
If it wasn’t the backyard it was the beach. After a long drive we’d arrive at our destination where the river meets the sea. For a couple of weeks we would immerse ourselves in a place that could only be described as paradise.
Occasionally I revisit these places in dreams and while they seem distant and mysterious they remain with me as if printed on my cortex.
Yes, I do the annual holiday like others. South East Asia has become a favourite, especially Thailand as it seems to represent something special for me. The jungle, the temples, exotic aromas, different social practices. I am taken to another place. But travelling never really compares to those seminal experiences as a kid. Nowadays my favourite holiday is to lie in the grass and bury myself in a book:)
Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.
Turning the clock back and then turning it some more, like flicking through the yellowing pages of an old book, I remember someone who had a big influence on me. What I’m about to recall is still vividly etched in my mind as if it happened yesterday.
I can picture it now. I must be fourteen or fifteen and it’s just another day at school, just another class but this time they tell us to assemble in the school lecture theatre. So we all go over there and yes, we see it’s an opportunity to relax and ‘slack off’ shall we say. School is something that doesn’t figure much in my life. Apart from a couple of friends I find it a drag.
One of them, who happens to be seated next to me explains that we have to choose an extra curricular activity. I’m so zoned out I haven’t even registered. He’s decided piping – (that’s highland piping for God’s sake). Next he tells me I should sign up so I reluctantly put my name down. I find myself in this weird roundhouse at the side of the classrooms feeling shunted out and slightly neglected.
The teacher is this older guy who I vaguely see around the school but again, I haven’t registered. He is quietly spoken and modest. He gives me a single wooden pipe – known as a practice chanter so I can learn ‘the tunes’. I take the thing home and forget about it until the next lesson. I’m supposed to practice but arrive for the session unprepared and discover my friend has done the homework. Oh, I have to learn some notes on this instrument and locate them on the score in front of me. What a drag. Er, G, um C or is it? No, it’s A. Right (I’m not interested). And the teacher, Ernie Dowler probably notices, but nonetheless shows patience and enthusiasm.
Now, I’m supposed to be a music kid coming from a music family. But somehow this guy – this teacher is different. So I put in some practice for the next lesson and think nothing more of it. Ernie Dowler has a concrete mixer and tools in the roundhouse. There are boxes of stuff – what look like kilts and equipment all around. The place is relaxed – so not a classroom. He tells us (only two of us have turned up) that he’s going to demo out ‘the tune’ and so he pulls out his set of pipes. What follows is so profoundly effecting and impactual it marks a seismic shift that forever changes my life. It isn’t so much the volume levels (you can imagine within a confined concrete space) but the way he plays. A faultless rendition that is seamless and appears effortless with a level of expression that is transformative. I am transfixed. From a somnolent state to fully galvanised attention all in the space of two minutes flat. In that moment I understand what it means, what he means, to be real. Not merely to get away with stuff – there’s plenty of that going on next door in the classrooms. They teach what you need to know to pass exams and how to ‘get on’ in life. Here it’s how to be real and how to be hands on.
In the months and years that follow I hang out in the roundhouse. It becomes a home from home. School becomes interesting and enjoyable. I discover Ernie Dowler’s backstory, from his time in the navy and as a champion pibroch player. He teaches me to pipe solo at school assemblies, weddings, and public events and I will go on to study at the Conservatorium. I doubt this would have happened without his influence.
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