St Basil and the Hedgehog of Regret
Thoughts on regret, animals and forms of geriatric emotional compression.
This way or no way
You know, I’ll be free
Just like that bluebird
Now ain’t that just like me
David Bowie, Lazarus
Now that I am retired, getting older increasingly feels as if everyone and everything is receding from me. I am far from the first older person to notice this. But as the space clears, other things rush in.
Recently, I keep finding myself feeling unbearably sad and guilty about an animal I hurt over half a century ago, kicking a hedgehog in a field one night as a teenager with my equally unpleasant teenage pals across a field in Wyken, Coventry. I’m sorry to say that it is not the worst thing I ever did, but it seems that, in old age, all the unhappiness you've had, all the dubious things you've done, all the people you have hurt, may return to haunt you, compressed into the wounding image of a hedgehog you will never be able to say sorry to.
Thinking about my sacred little hedgehog again today led me to this prayer, from the Liturgy of the Cappadocian Father, founder of Eastern monasticism, St. Basil the Great (329-379 CE), who did not live long enough to retire, but knew what he was talking about anyway:
The Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof. O God, enlarge within us the sense of fellowship with all living things, our brothers the animals to whom thou has given the earth as their home in common with us. We remember with shame that in the past we have exercised the high dominion of man with ruthless cruelty, so that the voice of the earth, which should have gone up to Thee in song, has been a groan of travail. May we realise that they live, not for us alone, but for themselves and for Thee, and that they love the sweetness of life.
St. Basil1
Liturgy of St. Basil, quoted in Andrew Linzey and Tom Regan, Compassion for Animals, SPCK Press, 1988, p34.
Heavens that's wonderful.
Fortunately my mum taught me to love animals, so my regrets lurk in other areas... at my Secondary Modern School in the early 70's Whiter than White London suburbs one day there appeared two new kids - Roma kids. John Smith and Aaron Duval. Of course these two kids were the butt end of endless abuse from the moment they set foot in the school. I watched on knowing that the racist bullying and name calling was deeply wrong. I liked these two outsider kids a lot, probably because I identified with their 'otherness'. As a proto Queer kid I kept my head down and pretended to be like everyone else. One day the chief bully took the taunting too far and ending up enlisting a group of kids to beat the shit out of Aaron. It ended up with Aaron throwing his books down and walking out never to return. John went after him. Although I took no part in the beating I watched on, doing nothing to help Aaron, too much of a coward to get involved. There was also an incident involving a Black student teacher, which I knew was deeply wrong but... I said and did nothing. The guilt and sadness over not standing up and speaking out against wickedness remains a stain you can't wash out. In the first weeks of the genocide in Gaza I asked my friend Shadi if it was respectful for me to wear a kefiah in support, he said of course I could and he gave me one of his, made in Gaza. I still feel powerless but at least, these days I raise my voice.
Over the years I've come to think of life, here on Earth, as some kind of training. I'm pretty certain if you don't have regrets and remorse then you didn't learn anything...