When, out of the blue, I was diagnosed with the blood cancer, multiple myeloma, back in 2010, and told I was unlikely to live more than a couple of years, it came as a massive shock, both to me and to my family. It did not, however, affect my desire to write; on the contrary, it gave renewed inspiration. I wanted, if at all possible, to write something special – something that would speak to people of all faiths and none, offering words that might inspire them in turn. My overwhelming desire was to leave behind me a book that would challenge and encourage, comfort and strengthen, move and nurture.
The result, several years on, was The Teacher – a book that means more to me than any other I have written, and into which I invested not only my time, but my emotions, my hopes, myself. It is not an overtly religious book, nor is its aim to entice you into some sort of religious commitment via the back door. Rather, it is intended simply to offer reflections on key aspects of our everyday experience, in the hope that these may prove to be of help and inspiration. Exploring different facets of daily life, ranging from friendship, anxiety, wealth, time, happiness, laughter, patience and relationships, the book is structured in the form of dialogues, as though I am approaching the Teacher directly, seeking help and instruction. I have paraphrased the Teacher’s responses and, in each case, added further thoughts of my own. Not that I claim any special wisdom. Far from it: my insights are as fallible, as flawed, as inadequate and as culturally conditioned as the next person’s. You may agree or disagree with my personal observations, but if they set you reflecting in turn then they will have done their job, for that is where deeper perception so often begins: in making time to pause and ponder.
I am no sage, presuming to hand out nuggets of wisdom. Rather I am a fellow-seeker with you, the reader, looking for deeper understanding but forever conscious of how little I have truly grasped. Yet that is the way it should be, for – to me at least – the chief lesson that the words of the Teacher repeatedly bring home is that, when it comes to the big questions of life, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth will always elude us, genuine wisdom lying precisely in accepting the limitations of our understanding.
Quotes from The Teacher
On worry:
And I realised that though we must plan for tomorrow, we must never brood about it; that it is futile to dwell on what the future might bring, or on things we cannot change. For while our fears may come true, they just as well may not, and what is certain is that worrying about them will make no difference either way.
…
My conclusion, then, is this: worry does not help us deal better with the future; merely makes us less able to cope with the present. Never ask, then, ‘What if ?’ Celebrate rather what is. And let that be sufficient for the day.
On contentment:
The lesson, then, is this: instead of brooding about what you haven’t got, give thanks for what you have, for when we have learnt to be content in all circumstances, then we will be content in any.
On despair:
For there are no easy answers, no magic words to spirit despair away. The sun still shines, but holds no warmth. The flowers blossom, but have no beauty. The birds sing, but their tune is bland. Though life is rich, yet it feels poor. And I understood that what the despairing need is not advice but understanding, not to listen but to speak; to open up and be heard without judgement or condemnation, impatience or expectation, so that, however isolated they may feel, they will know they are not alone.
On forgiveness:
And I saw that until we forgive, we cannot forget, and unless we forget we cannot forgive. For, like grit in the eye or a stone in the shoe, a hurt remembered constantly plagues us, refusing to be ignored. Yet if we cannot forgive, why should we expect forgiveness? And if the pardon we receive were to depend on the pardon we give, where then would any of us be?
On friendship:
So then, my conclusion is this: like a shower in the desert, a harbour in a storm, a flower in the wilderness, so is a true friend – a rare and precious gift.
On happiness:
And I understood that true happiness lies not in what we have but in what we have understood; in discerning the beauty in the ugliness of life, the good in the evil, the special in the ordinary; in living each day, each moment, for what it is.
I saw also that happiness cannot be measured in terms of pounds and pence, prestige or possessions; that it cannot be owned but is a gift held in trust, a feast to be savoured rather than a commodity to be stored. And I saw that if we attempt to hoard it, its beauty will fade like that of a meadow flower, here today and gone tomorrow. It is a fountain from which we must drink afresh each day, and if we seek instead to fill our bottle and carry it with us, it will bring sorrow rather than joy, pain rather than pleasure – the bitterness of loss and ache of nostalgia.
On hope:
And I saw then that, despite all that counts against it, we must keep faith, trusting in the future – not just of our world but of ourselves, what life holds in store for us. For without hope there is no meaning, no life, no anything. Though dreams are dashed and confidence shattered, we must still believe that life can change; that next time will be different. For as daffodils bloom afresh in the springtime and swallows return once more, so will hope rise again, refusing to be denied. And as the nightingale sings even in the darkness, so shall our soul sing even through the deepest night.
On laughter:
So then, whenever you can, greet life with a smile and a little laughter, for when you do that, life will smile back at you. And whatever you do, never be too serious, for if you make that mistake, something is seriously wrong.
On love:
I saw that compared to love, all else is but an empty husk beside a priceless kernel, a shadow of the one thing needful. Yet I saw also how easily we replace this gift with pale substitutes – a moment’s lust, a brief infatuation, a fleeting desire, a passing relationship – and I realised that though these may bring their own delight, love alone is the alchemy able to turn base metal into gold.
On quarrelling:
The lesson I have learnt is this: better to be thought wrong than to insist on your rightness. Better to douse a quarrel than to fan the flames. Better, above all, to lose a quarrel than lose a friend.
On religion:
And I understood then that religion has a place, but that it must know its place too; that it is a searching after truth, never a quest that is finished. And I realised that whenever religion claims to be wholly right, it is deeply wrong; that it is better to have no religion than to believe ours is the only one worth having; and that in striving to protect truth, religion often destroys it, as much obscuring as revealing the face of God.
And what is the face of God but the face of love? Without love, religion is nothing: like night without day – a tyrant that brings death in the name of the giver of life. And those who condemn in the name of faith, who persecute and destroy, demean not just themselves but also the God they claim to worship.
Overpriced? Definitely, but you can help
Many people have said to me that they would buy a copy of The Teacher if only it weren’t so highly priced. I agree entirely, and, what’s more, so does the MD at Kevin Mayhew Ltd. Both he and I feel the book would be better in paperback, using attractive typography and priced at around £5.99. That’s how I originally envisaged it. The problem is that he needs to know there is sufficient interest out there to justify such a reprint. And that’s where you come in. If you could find time to write to or email David Gatward, the managing director of Kevin Mayhew’s (either at Kevin Mayhew Publishers Ltd, Maypole Farm, Buxhall, Stowmarket, Suffolk, IP14 3BW or sales@kevinmayhew.com), asking about the possibility of producing a cheaper paperback, it would make a real difference. Twenty or thirty such messages might be all it needs to see such a new edition published.