Human School

note: one of one | 07.20.2022

I know my characteristic long pause in writing these notes has yet to mature, but I wanted to write again, so here I am.

I have been of late researching a perennial subject of fascination: education. What is it, truly; what should be its aims; by what means is it undertaken etc? For a different tomorrow, logically something must change in the present. Over the years I have dabbled in the thought experiment, if one were to design a syllabus for attending human school, what would it entail? Intellectually, spiritual, physically, what would be the way to cultivate human beings that feel that living is an exciting, hopeful and fundamentally, ennobling experience? From a conversation over the weekend, I was reminded to look at the work of J Krishnamurti, especially this collection of ideas. From the scores of notes taken, one line of thought I share with you here, on the importance of cultivating fundamental, deep care which acts beyond creed, colour, tribe:

"The more you look after things, the more sensitive you become…If there is such affection, then behaviour is dictated by that affection and is not dependent on environment, circumstance, or people."

It put me to mind on the care I see all around me. Take my mum who came to visit. I had some old flour, that was on its way to the bin but before I could take the action, she told me to pack the flour in a bag. For what reason, you may ask? She would take it home, make a dough from it, and then cook some rotis, to feed the birds in the local park that she passes on her daily walk. All that effort, that care.

I was also reminded of a walk, as London was very slowly reemerging after the pandemic. As my gaze flitted from sky, to trees and along the facades of houses, my attention was caught by a scene of an elderly man, in a bed in the front room connected to various drips, and by his side sat family members, cradling his hand. On this same walk, I had chanced to pass by The Blyth - Centre for Music and Visual Arts, at Imperial College, and in the uncanny silence of the streets a perfectly anonymous, mellifluous melody poured out of one room; a delicate piece played on the piano. I sent that flutter of melancholic beauty that I experienced in that moment, to that bedside. Did it arrive? Who knows. I hope it did. That bedside scene surfaces every so oft' in my mind's eye, which represents millions out there, who show their care in the most overt and discreet of ways. Perhaps this subject matter at human school is so intrinsic, we may not need it on the syllabus. What do you think?

Another melody here, that I chanced upon, that I am listening to, as I write this. People walking passed my window can hear it too, just in case someone is in need of a little care.

Over and out,

H