<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2009-11-14:/</id><title>Belfast Thoughts</title><link rel="self" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/feed/atom/posts/"/><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/"/><subtitle>Stories and thoughts of a Belfast taxi driver</subtitle><generator version="1.0">MokoFeed</generator><updated>2009-11-14T13:28:54+01:00</updated><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-08:/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170245/</id><title>Escalator angel</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170245/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-08T22:46:36+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-08T22:46:36+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Escalator Angel &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Live in such a way that those who know you but don't know God will come to know God because they know you."&lt;br&gt;
- Anonymous &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The crisp February morning chilled the crowd that waited to catch the MARTA, Atlanta's public rail system. When the train arrived, I moved with the others toward vacant seats. Mechanical sounds punctuated the trip: the humming of electric motors and the loud bell before the doors slid shut.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;As we settled into our parallel journeys, I looked around. I work at home, and consequently don't often take public transit at rush hour. This morning I was on my way into the city for a seminar. The size and diversity of the crowd on the train surprised me. In our single car, there were African-Americans, European-Americans and Asians -- a generous representation of world society.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But there was no interaction. Business men and women had their briefcases open, poring over papers filled with charts and columns. Casually dressed students studies books. On young man had on headphones and swayed in a slow dance to his private music. I'm a fiction man, myself. I travel with a novel handy.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But today I didn't open it. I was too busy studying those around me; something felt strange. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I didn't realize what it was until I'd disembarked at Five Points, the connecting point for the east and west trains. In this cavernous space, I joined perhaps a thousand commuters waiting for their trains. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Here I realized what was so eerie: the total silence. One thousand people, packed cheek to jowl, looking straight ahead, pretending the others didn't exist. And I, a 50-year-old white man, wearing a blue suit and glasses, was one of them. The only sound two stories under Atlanta's streets was the hum of the escalators.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;And then came a woman's voice. "Good Morning!" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The greeting echoed through the station. A thousand heads snapped up in unison, scanning the space. The voice had come from a woman riding the descending escalator on the far side of the platform. "How y'all this morning?" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;She practically sang her words, punctuating her speech with long vowel extensions. People began to turn toward her. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The petite African-American woman reached the bottom of the escalator and walked purposefully to the edge of the throng. She grabbed a surprised businessman's hand, shook it and looked him in the eye. "Good morning! How ya doing this morning?" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The man looked at the small woman who had him in her grip. He broke with a smile. "Fine, thank you."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Her clothes were a little ragged, but her purposeful smile overcame her stature and appearance as she moved through the crowd, shouting greetings, shaking hands and laughing freely. Finally, she looked across the tracks at the crowd on my side of the platform. "How ya'll folks over there this morning?"&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Just fine" I shouted back. Others answered with me. We surprised each other so much that we broke out laughing. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"That's good," she said. She paused and looked around. Now everyone was listening. "God sent me here to cheer you up this morning. And that's the God of the Jew, the Christian, the Muslim and any other religions ya'll brought or didn't bring along."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;From where I stood, I could see a twinkle in her eye. Amazingly, the train station came alive with good-natured conversation. As we chatted with each other, few noticed the slight woman quietly ascend the up escalator.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;When the northbound train arrived, I squeezed into a car already stuffed with riders. I didn't get much past the door and grabbed a chrome pole that already had hands of every racial color gripping it. My face looked straight into that of an African-American woman about my age. She wore a light yellow business suit. I sensed she didn't like the press of people around us. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Before I could stop myself, I said, "Good morning."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"What?" she seemed surpised.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Good morning. How are you doing?" A few people watched us. A smile overtook her. "Fine," she chuckled. "You know, nobody's asked me that this morning. Really, nobody ever says hello." &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I grinned and told her about the unexpected visitor back at Five Points, wondering aloud if she might have been an angel. "Isn't that what angels do? They're messengers. That woman demonstated the goodness of simply greeting each other, sharing our humanity, instead of guarding it."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Others around the pole joined the discussion, and smiles spread through the car.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The woman across from me, now grinning, said "If It weren't so crowded in here, I'd give you a good hug. You've made my morning."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;When the train arrived at my stop, I moved toward the door. "I hope you have a good day!" I called back to my fellow traveler.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"I will, and thank you."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;As I looked back into the car, I saw lots of smiles. People were chatting. Someone else touched my shoulder and waved goodbye. I felt happy and alive.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Since then, I've often wondered who that woman was. She didn't have wings; she ascended and descended an escalator and she spoke in a Southern drawl. But silent people who were temporarily buried two stories below Atlanta began to talk and laugh. A chilly February day felt warmer, and a shy guy like me suddenly hasn't been able to keep himself from greeting and talking with strangers on subway trains, elevators and airplanes. But isn't that what a more famous angelic message proclaimed: "Good will to all"?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In other words, good cheer is contagious. Pass it on. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;by: Richard Stanford &lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170245/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-08:/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170244/</id><title>Escalator angel</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170244/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-08T22:46:12+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-08T22:46:12+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Escalator Angel &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Live in such a way that those who know you but don't know God will come to know God because they know you."&lt;br&gt;
- Anonymous &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The crisp February morning chilled the crowd that waited to catch the MARTA, Atlanta's public rail system. When the train arrived, I moved with the others toward vacant seats. Mechanical sounds punctuated the trip: the humming of electric motors and the loud bell before the doors slid shut.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;As we settled into our parallel journeys, I looked around. I work at home, and consequently don't often take public transit at rush hour. This morning I was on my way into the city for a seminar. The size and diversity of the crowd on the train surprised me. In our single car, there were African-Americans, European-Americans and Asians -- a generous representation of world society.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But there was no interaction. Business men and women had their briefcases open, poring over papers filled with charts and columns. Casually dressed students studies books. On young man had on headphones and swayed in a slow dance to his private music. I'm a fiction man, myself. I travel with a novel handy.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But today I didn't open it. I was too busy studying those around me; something felt strange. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I didn't realize what it was until I'd disembarked at Five Points, the connecting point for the east and west trains. In this cavernous space, I joined perhaps a thousand commuters waiting for their trains. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Here I realized what was so eerie: the total silence. One thousand people, packed cheek to jowl, looking straight ahead, pretending the others didn't exist. And I, a 50-year-old white man, wearing a blue suit and glasses, was one of them. The only sound two stories under Atlanta's streets was the hum of the escalators.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;And then came a woman's voice. "Good Morning!" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The greeting echoed through the station. A thousand heads snapped up in unison, scanning the space. The voice had come from a woman riding the descending escalator on the far side of the platform. "How y'all this morning?" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;She practically sang her words, punctuating her speech with long vowel extensions. People began to turn toward her. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The petite African-American woman reached the bottom of the escalator and walked purposefully to the edge of the throng. She grabbed a surprised businessman's hand, shook it and looked him in the eye. "Good morning! How ya doing this morning?" &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The man looked at the small woman who had him in her grip. He broke with a smile. "Fine, thank you."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Her clothes were a little ragged, but her purposeful smile overcame her stature and appearance as she moved through the crowd, shouting greetings, shaking hands and laughing freely. Finally, she looked across the tracks at the crowd on my side of the platform. "How ya'll folks over there this morning?"&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Just fine" I shouted back. Others answered with me. We surprised each other so much that we broke out laughing. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"That's good," she said. She paused and looked around. Now everyone was listening. "God sent me here to cheer you up this morning. And that's the God of the Jew, the Christian, the Muslim and any other religions ya'll brought or didn't bring along."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;From where I stood, I could see a twinkle in her eye. Amazingly, the train station came alive with good-natured conversation. As we chatted with each other, few noticed the slight woman quietly ascend the up escalator.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;When the northbound train arrived, I squeezed into a car already stuffed with riders. I didn't get much past the door and grabbed a chrome pole that already had hands of every racial color gripping it. My face looked straight into that of an African-American woman about my age. She wore a light yellow business suit. I sensed she didn't like the press of people around us. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Before I could stop myself, I said, "Good morning."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"What?" she seemed surpised.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"Good morning. How are you doing?" A few people watched us. A smile overtook her. "Fine," she chuckled. "You know, nobody's asked me that this morning. Really, nobody ever says hello." &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I grinned and told her about the unexpected visitor back at Five Points, wondering aloud if she might have been an angel. "Isn't that what angels do? They're messengers. That woman demonstated the goodness of simply greeting each other, sharing our humanity, instead of guarding it."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Others around the pole joined the discussion, and smiles spread through the car.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The woman across from me, now grinning, said "If It weren't so crowded in here, I'd give you a good hug. You've made my morning."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;When the train arrived at my stop, I moved toward the door. "I hope you have a good day!" I called back to my fellow traveler.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;"I will, and thank you."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;As I looked back into the car, I saw lots of smiles. People were chatting. Someone else touched my shoulder and waved goodbye. I felt happy and alive.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Since then, I've often wondered who that woman was. She didn't have wings; she ascended and descended an escalator and she spoke in a Southern drawl. But silent people who were temporarily buried two stories below Atlanta began to talk and laugh. A chilly February day felt warmer, and a shy guy like me suddenly hasn't been able to keep himself from greeting and talking with strangers on subway trains, elevators and airplanes. But isn't that what a more famous angelic message proclaimed: "Good will to all"?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In other words, good cheer is contagious. Pass it on. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;by: Richard Stanford &lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/08/escalator_angel~170244/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-07:/2005/09/07/dream~168409/</id><title>Dream</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/07/dream~168409/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-07T23:10:53+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-07T23:10:53+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I've had the same dream/nightmare for many years with little variation.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I walk up a dark hill at night time to a large, tall old fashioned house. I walk into the house whish is half derelict and scarey as hell. At the top of the house in a large room is the devil.As I enter the room  he attacks me. Sometimes he goes quickly, sometimes we fight a long time as I pray and pray and pray.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;At the end of the dream I find myself in a very old Byzantine Cathedral with a most beautiful golden mosaic in the apse. Sometimes I float upwards, looking down at the people in the Church.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I guess for most people it would be just a dream. But I believe in the devil and the struggle between good and evil.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Also I believe in dreams. They are our great teachers. In them we conduct conversations with ourselves, with God and with all the other spiritual forces we encounter in our sleep.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The Shamans understood this. So too the prophets in scripture which team with accounts of dreams and dreaming. Of course we're too smart now to pay attention to dreams. A pity. For how else is God gonna grab us by the shoulder and give us a shake in our oh so busy lives???????&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/gl-dreams.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/gl-dreams_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/07/dream~168409/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-06:/2005/09/06/getting_introspective~165734/</id><title>Getting Introspective</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/06/getting_introspective~165734/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-06T17:59:25+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-06T17:59:25+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;My fiftieth birthday in November. I'm getting all introspective and maybe a little grumpy!! &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The changes I've seen in my life time are incredible. Its not just technology or the way folks dress. Its more about the way people think about things and look at the world.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In one respect I feel very isolated and left behind. For me God remains everything. I pray all the time. Attend Church every day. Basically for me God is my life. I think as it says it scripture, 'You shall, love the Lord your God with your whole strength and your whole heart and your whole being'. I guess this sums me up. I revolve in my little life like a tiny moon round God's sun.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Yet this is not an age that accepts God. Explicitly or implicitly they have left God far,far behind. An antique. An embarassing maiden aunt. A relic of the past.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Oh maybe I'm rambling. I don't know. But somethimes, it seems to me, for even the people who still go to Church its often a form and a convention.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Ha! How cynical I sound. But I'm not really. There is always hope. It's us that need God. Not God that needs us. A springtime will come when men will see the need for God again. A rebirth of faith. I hope this twilight time of faithlessness ends soon. That I live to see the new dawning. A dawning that, however will be bought at the price of great pain.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/step-out-on-faith-by-WAK.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/step-out-on-faith-by-WAK_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/06/getting_introspective~165734/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-05:/2005/09/05/hell_and_judgement~164543/</id><title>Hell and Judgement</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/05/hell_and_judgement~164543/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-05T23:20:17+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-05T23:20:17+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;When I was young it was still fashionable to talk about Hell and the final Judgement. Some of the priests would have turned your hair white with sermons containing first hand reports of the terrible time you would have if you ever got there.&lt;br&gt;
Times changed and all you ever heard about was God's love, mercy and forgiveness. Hell , punishment, God;s Justice were all put on the back burner.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But there has to be a balance here. Life is not a vacation. It has meaning and purpose. Justice is written in to every second of every day. There is a hell. Now in this present life and also in the world to come. Wars and disasters are not simply accidents. All things have meaning. If we cannot love God we should fear Him. For the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/hell.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/hell_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/05/hell_and_judgement~164543/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-04:/2005/09/04/stones_ripples_ponds~162531/</id><title>Stones, ripples,ponds.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/stones_ripples_ponds~162531/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-04T22:01:04+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-04T22:01:04+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Just a quick response to the comment on my last post.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I do not see God as an angry old man throwing thunder bolts at a sinning world.  Each action of ours, good and bad is like a stone thrown into a pond and causing ripples of effect to spread everywhere. Now as we as a whole, mankind throw negative ripples, such as greed, consumerism, selfishness into the pond of the environment the ripples or Tsunamis we cause may simpy overwhelm us all. This is what is happening in our world. We are entering a time of great darkness. The end of the technological era.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Of course the innocent will suffer. But that is the effect of our sins, our negative ripples, not Gods.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/pondlife.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/pondlife_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/stones_ripples_ponds~162531/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-09-04:/2005/09/04/hurricane_katriona~161588/</id><title>Hurricane Katriona</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/hurricane_katriona~161588/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-09-04T14:56:58+02:00</published><updated>2005-09-04T14:56:58+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I suppose you can look at the killer hurricane from many levels. Firstly politically in asking questions about why the  Federal Government was slow in responding. In questions of racial equality in why African Americans bore the brunt. In enviromental terms in what part gobal warming is playing in this. And so on.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But the biggest question in all this, for the believer is what part God plays in this.&lt;br&gt;
The simle answer for many believers is no part at all. God is an etheral figure up in the sky who plays no part in lived reality. Cetainly He is someone to pray to. To act as a kind of spiritual bandage and little else.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Scripture however points to something else. That when God's people leave God they face destruction. Sodom and Gomorrah to Noah's Ark. Call it justice, call it punishment call it cause and effect call it retribution call it what you will. Sin leads to destruction.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;New Orleans, the epicentre of the disaster, was a "sin city" which harboured few rivals.  The New Orleans "southern decadence" festival which was to take place Labour Day weekend, is described by a French Quarter tourism site as "sort of like a gayer version of Mardi Gras" which is "most famous (or infamous) for the displays of naked flesh which characterize the event," with "public displays of sexuality . . . pretty much everywhere you look." &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The city is also renowned for occult practices, particularly voodoo.  Voodoo is also common in violence and crime saturated Haiti.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The American Spectator reports that "New Orleans has one of the highest murder rates in the country. By mid-August of this year, 192 murders had been committed in New Orleans, 'nearly 10 times the national average,' ...New Orleans was ripe for collapse. Its dangerous geography, combined with a dangerous culture, made it susceptible to an unfolding catastrophe. Currents of chaos and lawlessness were running through the city long before this week, and they were bound to come to the surface under the pressure of natural disaster and explode in a scene of looting and mayhem". &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;It was no accident, I believe that the hurricane hit New Orleans, nor, do I believe it an accident that other 'sin cities' and countries are very vulnerable to the same destruction. The Netherlands with their below sea level situation. San Francisco, which sits in the San Andreas fault and a whole range of cties such as London and New York which are vulnerable to global warming.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Man has to change. Our world appears to be rejectinbg us as a dog will irritant fleas. Man will change, I believe, but not before our world is radically altered.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/streets-of-New-Orleans-.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/streets-of-New-Orleans-_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/09/04/hurricane_katriona~161588/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-24:/2005/08/24/choices_2/</id><title>Choices</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/24/choices_2/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-24T09:10:06+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-24T09:10:06+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;What we find ourselves today is not an accident, but arises through a series of choices. Those that tend towards the good and those towards the bad.None of us, unless we be that purest of creatures a great saint or sinner, make pure choices of great good or great evil.Even are finest acts are tingest with self interest and  are worst with mistaken goodness. Few of us are tempted to do evil for the love of eveil. Few of us to good through any lack of sekf interest.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Life even to the wisest can seem simple shaded grey, we often grope to goodness through mists of confused, confusing greys.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But at the every evenings of our lives we are in essense the sum of all our choices , to the good and the bad. But God through His goodness and Most Holy Spirit guides these choices throungh grace. Grace the sharing in His very self.His love. Thus guided and nourished by the rains of grace, of love our reason becomes our concience to whisper gently in our ears, if open. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;How fortunate we are, if at the even time of life we find ourselves still children. So that when we peer at ourselves in the mirror in the morning, we can smile and be a little happy, to find the child, who, through wrinkles, smiles back.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/old-woman.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/old-woman_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/24/choices_2/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-20:/2005/08/20/loyalist_feud/</id><title>Loyalist Feud</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/20/loyalist_feud/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-20T10:45:05+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-20T10:45:05+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I see on the news this morning that another Loyalist has been shot this morning. This time in Newtownards a country town just outside Belfast. The fued has been going on some time now. with the major Loyalist Ulster Volunteeer Force vowing to eliminate the much smaler and more lightly armed Loyalist Volunteer Force.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Both paramilitary groups are heavily involved in drug dealing, with (maybe) the LVF being more heavily involved. They're all making oodles of money out of it with gold chains, fast cars monthly holidays and wicked attiude poblems galore. They all wear snide sports gear, do lots of body building, take steroids and are covered from head to foot in ghastly tatoos.Not only gangsters but tasteless gangsters to boot. You could drop them in Moscow and I guess the Comrade gangsters and them would be hugging in no time.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The Loyalists paramilitaries were founded and run by small time gangsters, recruited and run by British Intelligence as a counter measure to the insurgency of the Irsh Republican Army. Now that the IRA have gone defunct the British are left with a really hot potato, hundered of heavily armed,very violent Loyalist paramilitaries with time and money on their hands.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The answer?? Well it appears to be keep them busy killing each other. Thus they wipe themselves busy and univolved in the peace process and they self solve the problem.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I don't want to sound nasty but this isn't really a problem for me. These filks truly are nasty pieces of work. The only problem being that when they are busy firing all them guns they are inclined to get a bit antsy. The question that is inclined to enter their drug crazed minds is, 'Why aren't I killing Catholics??' And for myself being a Catholic this is a BIG problem.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Still they look like they are enthusiastic at the big wipe out. Getting more and more enthusiastic every day. Some of their leaders recognise that this is all part of a British extermination processs. But they are all on a drug crazed, hate mad slide to destruction. Death after death.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I should be happy I guess. They'd all kill and torture me laughing and smiling. But, I dunno. As they say here, 'They're some mothers sons'. All drug dealing cannon fodder. All walking dead men. All fools.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://images.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/765000/images/_765176_shootscene300.jpg&amp;imgrefurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/uk/northern_ireland/newsid_771000/771330.stm&amp;h=180&amp;w=300&amp;sz=16&amp;tbnid=oE2A7xjpE44J:&amp;tbnh=66&amp;tbnw=111&amp;hl=en&amp;start=19&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Dloyalist%2Bfeud%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official_s%26sa%3DG"&gt;http://images.google.co.uk/imgres?imgurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/olmedia/765000/images/_765176_shootscene300.jpg&amp;imgrefurl=http://news.bbc.co.uk/hi/english/uk/northern_ireland/newsid_771000/771330.stm&amp;h=180&amp;w=300&amp;sz=16&amp;tbnid=oE2A7xjpE44J:&amp;tbnh=66&amp;tbnw=111&amp;hl=en&amp;start=19&amp;prev=/images%3Fq%3Dloyalist%2Bfeud%26svnum%3D10%26hl%3Den%26lr%3D%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official_s%26sa%3DG&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/_765176_shootscene300.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/20/loyalist_feud/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-19:/2005/08/19/the_past_the_present_and_the_future/</id><title>The Past, the Present and the Future</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/19/the_past_the_present_and_the_future/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-19T17:10:36+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-19T17:10:36+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;When I was sixteen I saw someone walking in the distance. At once never having met him the thought came to my mind, 'This guy will be your oldest and dearest friend. You will be really close'. So it has turned out to be!! 33 years later we are still bosum buddies!! I told him about this a couple of years later and he was amazed. When he saw me he thought the exact same thing.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;At the same age when I was at boarding school I suddenly got a very bad feeling one morning that something very bad had happened at home. So I borrowed a bike and rode the twenty miles home. There I found my mother crying. My older brother had been very badly beaten up.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Once I got a strange looking old lady in the taxi who I got weird feelings about. It turned out she was the 'Rose of Sharon'. Irelands greatest psychic. She is booked out years in advance. She charges plenty too. I was nosey and asked her to do a 'reading' on me. But she wanted the money up front. I told her I was psychic too (you can see I am not stupid) and would read her if she read me.&lt;br&gt;
She told me I came from a family of seven brothers and three sisters which was true and the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise.&lt;br&gt;
She told me that two of my brothers were dead and were sitting beside us. True again both dead. Hairs on back of neck bolt upright!!&lt;br&gt;
She told me that I loved all animals particularly dogs and that I owned tow. Once again right!!! Hairs not only upright but snow white!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;She asked me to do a reading on her and I said I saw a lion and a blade of blood on a rose.&lt;br&gt;
She went away muttering to herself, maybe she didn't think she got her thirty pounds worth.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Anyway both this psychic, Sharon and another top psychic from another part of Belfast told me that the war here is not over and that, 'The streets of Belfast will run red with blood!'&lt;br&gt;
Cheerful stuff, like the witches in Macbeth. But I love this kinda stuff!!!!!!!!!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/ReneeChristineYates_FaeryWicca.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/ReneeChristineYates_FaeryWicca_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/19/the_past_the_present_and_the_future/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-18:/2005/08/19/time_11/</id><title>Time</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/19/time_11/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-19T00:03:54+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-19T00:05:51+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;When you are young a year seems like a life time. When you get a little older, though the years fall like Autumn leaves. I cannot believe my school friends now look like such old foggies, fat and grey.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I have always loved and respected the old. Even when I was very young I knew they carried a special something. Now I know the special something is the weight of wisdom. That that wisdom is bought in the coin of suffering. For I know of no other way to buy wisdom. Only through pain. We make mistakes we learn and in making those mistakes we suffer.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Sixteen years ago I was taxiing. I was called into the depot. All the drivers in the depot looked shocked. I knew something terrible had happened. It was my mother on the phone: my brother, sister in law and their two year old child had all been killied in a car accident. My mother cried. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I drove home in deep shock. An awful cloying numbness. Not pain, something out beyond pain.&lt;br&gt;
I drove down to the morgue in the hospital to identify them. The doctor pulled back the sheets and I saw their crushed bodies. Beyond pain. Beyond suffering. All things stopped.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I was a frozen statue. Now I understand Psalm 30, the De Profundis for I have said it.Ah I have lived it many times.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;De Profundis&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I place my trust in the Lord, I am certain of his word.&lt;br&gt;
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.&lt;br&gt;
Lord hear my voice!&lt;br&gt;
O let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleading.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;If you, O Lord, should mark our guilt, Lord, who would survive?&lt;br&gt;
But with you is found forgiveness:&lt;br&gt;
For this I revere you.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;My soul is waiting for the Lord more than a watchman for daybreak.  Let the watchman count on daybreak and Israel on the Lord.&lt;br&gt;
Israel indeed will he redeem from all its iniquity.  &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But at the end of the day, wait long enough and suffering passes, yet leaves etched on our hearts in lines of gold hard bought wisdom.  &lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/e1p297m.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/e1p297m_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/19/time_11/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-17:/2005/08/17/drifting_thoughts/</id><title>Drifting Thoughts.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/17/drifting_thoughts/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-17T21:53:06+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-17T21:53:06+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Usually when I write my blog I have a very good idea what I am going to write. But to-night I haven't a clue, so lets go were the Spirit moves me. Let's just hope its to somewhere wise and kind!! Let the winds blow, Lord and take me home to you!! (As indeed they always seem to, thou the light and joy and love and centre of my life).&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The light grows dim here. Summer dappled twilight. The dogs head sits on my lap impatient to return to the park, which I shall gladly do, the evening shadows kissing both ours heads, dogs and mans.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I love this time of day. I have just returned from Church. What joy!! To encounter again the God man in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Communion with the divine. Startling miracle of love. Never boring ever new. Fire in the heart. Filled hunger of soul. Blazed love of the divine. Gateway to heaven. Shouted joy. Infinite compassion.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Ah dear God why should I wait for heaven when I have found it in my heart? A heart which has become Thy tabernacle. Even the deepest of my pains swim in the joy, the sea of joy of loving and of being loved by you.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Amen.Amen.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/God--s_Window.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/God--s_Window_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/17/drifting_thoughts/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-16:/2005/08/16/holy_places_of_power/</id><title>Holy places of Power</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/16/holy_places_of_power/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-16T18:01:53+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-16T18:01:53+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;There are places of holiness and of power in the world, many of them very ancient. I have often walked with my dogs over the Cavehill mountain beside Belfast and at one particular spot dog after dog has gone crazy with what I can only call joy. They turn and rool madly on the ground, they leap and play. I have seen this for many years and my only explanation is that the animals can see or feel something there that I do not. For to me the place seems perfectly normal.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;There is a place in the deep lichen covered old boulders and trees under the cliffs which I have often thought is special. There is a feeling there of great peace and timeless age. A feeling of ancient holiness, were the olden ones worshipped there many shaped Gods.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;If you ever visited Jerusalem you will find it there, The city shines with it. At the catacombs in Rome. In Bethlehem In the ancient Island of Iona.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Sometimes too this feeling is localised into a particular room or urban area. A street or a house. People I believe give off vibrations, especially were they give of vbrations of great good or evil.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;My brother one time told me he visited Dachau Concentration Camp. He told me that there is a legend there that the birds never fly ovr it. He said the Camp is surrounded by forest with thousands of singing birds, He said that the whole time he was in Dachau he never saw a bird fly over. He also said that the place is covered with what looks like white sand. He asked the guide what the 'sand' was and was told that it was human bones. &lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/dachau-arbeit-56.4.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/dachau-arbeit-56.4_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/16/holy_places_of_power/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-15:/2005/08/15/a_laughing_baby/</id><title>A Laughing Baby.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/15/a_laughing_baby/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-15T23:30:01+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-15T23:30:01+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Its the Feast of Our Lady's Assumption body and Soul into heaven so I went to mass at Clonard Monastery, venerable and beautiful, for me the holiest place in Belfast City. I guess most people go to church to meet God and I did, I did!!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;There is a part of the service were we all shake hands together. Well in front of me stood and old grandmother with a baby in her arms. I shook hands with the old lady and she held the baby out to me. It was the most lovely looking wee creature!! Bright, bright blue eyes and wonderful dark hair. The baby and me shook hands then myself and the baby started chuckling and laughing together and those around us joined in!!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;So, yeah I met God in the Church. I laughed and chuckled with him and shook his hand.He surprised me as always.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt; &lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/faery-baby.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/faery-baby_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/15/a_laughing_baby/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-14:/2005/08/14/the_hound_of_heaven/</id><title>The Hound of Heaven</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/the_hound_of_heaven/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-14T22:13:55+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-14T22:13:55+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;HOUND OF HEAVEN&lt;br&gt;
by Francis Thompson&lt;br&gt;
(1859 - 1907)&lt;br&gt;
A failure for so-long; a one-time opium addict; died of tuberculosis.&lt;br&gt;
His poems, mainly religious, are rich in imagery and poetic vision.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;&lt;br&gt;
       I fled Him, down the arches of the years;&lt;br&gt;
    I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways&lt;br&gt;
       Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears&lt;br&gt;
    I hid from Him, and under running laughter;&lt;br&gt;
                Up vistaed hopes I sped;&lt;br&gt;
                And shot, precipitated,&lt;br&gt;
       Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,&lt;br&gt;
    From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.&lt;br&gt;
                But with unhurrying chase,&lt;br&gt;
                And unperturbed pace,&lt;br&gt;
    Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,&lt;br&gt;
                They beat — and a Voice beat&lt;br&gt;
                More instant than the Feet—&lt;br&gt;
    "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;                I pleaded, outlaw-wise,&lt;br&gt;
    By many a hearted casement, curtained red,&lt;br&gt;
    Trellised, with intertwining charities&lt;br&gt;
    (For, though I knew His love Who followed,&lt;br&gt;
                Yet was I sore adread&lt;br&gt;
    Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside);&lt;br&gt;
    But, if one little casement parted wide,&lt;br&gt;
       The gust of His approach would clash it to.&lt;br&gt;
       Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    Across the margent of the world I fled,&lt;br&gt;
    And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,&lt;br&gt;
    Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars;&lt;br&gt;
           Fretting to dulcet jars&lt;br&gt;
    And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    I said to dawn: Be sudden; to eve: Be soon;&lt;br&gt;
       With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over&lt;br&gt;
           From this tremendous Lover!&lt;br&gt;
    Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;       I tempted all His servitors, but to find&lt;br&gt;
    My own betrayal in the constancy,&lt;br&gt;
    In faith to Him their fickleness to me,&lt;br&gt;
       Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;&lt;br&gt;
       Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.&lt;br&gt;
         But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,&lt;br&gt;
    The long savannahs of the blue;&lt;br&gt;
       Or whether, Thunder-driven,&lt;br&gt;
       They clanged His chariot 'thwart a heaven,&lt;br&gt;
    Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet—&lt;br&gt;
       Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.&lt;br&gt;
           Still with unhurrying chase,&lt;br&gt;
           And unperturbed pace,&lt;br&gt;
       Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,&lt;br&gt;
           Came on the following Feet,&lt;br&gt;
           And a Voice above their beat—&lt;br&gt;
    "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    I sought no more that after which I strayed&lt;br&gt;
           In face of man or maid;&lt;br&gt;
    But He still within the little children's eyes&lt;br&gt;
           Seems something, something that replies,&lt;br&gt;
    They at least are for me, surely for me!&lt;br&gt;
    I turned me to them very wistfully;&lt;br&gt;
    But, just as their young eyes grew sudden fair&lt;br&gt;
                With dawning answers there,&lt;br&gt;
    Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    "Come then, ye other children, Nature's-share&lt;br&gt;
    With me" (said I); "Your delicate fellowship;&lt;br&gt;
           Let me greet you lip to lip,&lt;br&gt;
           Let me twine with you caresses,&lt;br&gt;
                Wantoning&lt;br&gt;
           With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses, Banqueting&lt;br&gt;
           With her in her wind-walled palace,&lt;br&gt;
           Underneath her azured dais,&lt;br&gt;
           Quaffing, as your taintless way is,&lt;br&gt;
                From a chalice&lt;br&gt;
    Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;                So it was done:&lt;br&gt;
    I in their delicate fellowship was one—&lt;br&gt;
    Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.&lt;br&gt;
    I knew all the swift importings&lt;br&gt;
    On the wilful face of skies;&lt;br&gt;
           I knew how the clouds arise,&lt;br&gt;
           Spumed of the wild sea-snortings;&lt;br&gt;
                All that is born or dies&lt;br&gt;
       Rose and drooped with; make them shapers&lt;br&gt;
    Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine—&lt;br&gt;
                With them joyed and was bereaven.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;                I was heavy with the even,&lt;br&gt;
           When she lit her glimmering tapers&lt;br&gt;
                Round the day's dead sanctities.&lt;br&gt;
                I laughed in the morning's eyes&lt;br&gt;
    I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,&lt;br&gt;
           Heaven and I wept together,&lt;br&gt;
    And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;&lt;br&gt;
    Against the red throb of its sunset-heart&lt;br&gt;
                I laid my own to beat,&lt;br&gt;
                And share commingling heat;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.&lt;br&gt;
    In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.&lt;br&gt;
    For ah;&lt;br&gt;
    we know not what each other says.&lt;br&gt;
       These things and I;&lt;br&gt;
    in sound I speak—&lt;br&gt;
    Their sound it but their stir, they speak by silences.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;&lt;br&gt;
       Let her, if she would owe me,&lt;br&gt;
    Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me&lt;br&gt;
       The breasts o' her tenderness:&lt;br&gt;
    Never did any milk of hers once bless&lt;br&gt;
                My thirsting mouth.&lt;br&gt;
                Nigh and nigh draws the chase,&lt;br&gt;
                With unperturbed pace,&lt;br&gt;
    Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,&lt;br&gt;
                And past those noised Feet&lt;br&gt;
                A Voice comes yet more fleet—&lt;br&gt;
    "Lo! naught contents thee, who contents not Me."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!&lt;br&gt;
    My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,&lt;br&gt;
                And smitten me to my knee;&lt;br&gt;
                I am defenceless utterly.&lt;br&gt;
                I slept, methinks, and woke,&lt;br&gt;
    And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.&lt;br&gt;
    In the rash lustihead of my young powers&lt;br&gt;
                I shook the pillaring hours&lt;br&gt;
    and pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,&lt;br&gt;
    I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years—&lt;br&gt;
    My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.&lt;br&gt;
    My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,&lt;br&gt;
    Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;                Yea, faileth now even dream&lt;br&gt;
    The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist;&lt;br&gt;
    Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist&lt;br&gt;
    I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,&lt;br&gt;
    Are yielding; cords of all too weak account&lt;br&gt;
    For earth, with heavy griefs so overplussed.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;                Ah; is Thy love indeed&lt;br&gt;
    A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,&lt;br&gt;
    Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?&lt;br&gt;
    Ah; must—&lt;br&gt;
    Designer infinite! —&lt;br&gt;
    Ah; must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;&lt;br&gt;
    And now my heart is as a broken fount,&lt;br&gt;
    Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever&lt;br&gt;
       From the dank thoughts that shiver&lt;br&gt;
    Upon the sighful branches of my mind;&lt;br&gt;
       Such is; what is to be?&lt;br&gt;
    The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?&lt;br&gt;
    I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds&lt;br&gt;
    From the hid battlements of Eternity;&lt;br&gt;
    Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then&lt;br&gt;
    Round the half-glimpsed turrents slowly wash again.&lt;br&gt;
       But not ere him who summoneth&lt;br&gt;
       I first have seen, enwound&lt;br&gt;
    With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-encrowned;&lt;br&gt;
    His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.&lt;br&gt;
    Whether man's heart or life it be which yields&lt;br&gt;
       Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields&lt;br&gt;
       Be dunged with rotten death?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;       Now of that long pursuit&lt;br&gt;
       Comes on at hand the bruit;&lt;br&gt;
    That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:&lt;br&gt;
       "And is thy earth so marred,&lt;br&gt;
       Shattered in shard on shard?&lt;br&gt;
    Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;       Strange, piteous, futile thing,&lt;br&gt;
    Wherefore should any set thee love apart?&lt;br&gt;
    Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),&lt;br&gt;
    "And human love needs human meriting:&lt;br&gt;
       How hast thou merited—&lt;br&gt;
    Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;       Alack, thou knowest not&lt;br&gt;
    How little worthy of any love thou art!&lt;br&gt;
    Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,&lt;br&gt;
       Save Me, save only Me?&lt;br&gt;
    All which I took from thee I did but take,&lt;br&gt;
    Not for thy harms,&lt;br&gt;
    But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.&lt;br&gt;
       All which thy child's mistake&lt;br&gt;
    Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:&lt;br&gt;
       Rise, clasp My hand, and come."&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;           Halts by me that footfall:&lt;br&gt;
           Is my gloom, after all,&lt;br&gt;
    Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;           "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,&lt;br&gt;
           I am He Whom thou seekest!&lt;br&gt;
    Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me." &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;    The name is strange. It startles one at first. It is so bold, so new, so fearless. It does not attract, rather the reverse. But when one reads the poem this strangeness disappears. The meaning is understood. As the hound follows the hare, never ceasing in its running, ever drawing nearer in the chase, with unhurrying and impertubed pace, so does God follow the fleeing soul by His Divine grace. And though in sin or in human love, away from God it seeks to hide itself, Divine grace follows after, unwearyingly follows ever after, till the soul feels its pressure forcing it to turn to Him alone in that never ending pursuit.&lt;br&gt;
    The Neuman Press "Book of Verse", 1988. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Jesus-with-little-one.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Jesus-with-little-one_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/the_hound_of_heaven/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-14:/2005/08/14/dreams_7/</id><title>Dreams</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/dreams_7/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-14T18:00:41+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-14T18:03:41+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;We are taught from childhood to think rationally and logically about things in a very left brained masculine way in the West. Things like mysticism, shaminism, the unconcious, the spiritual, the other worldly kinda leave us behind and make us uncomfortable.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;One way to engage in dialogue with ourselves and to become open to that shadowy mystical side of ourselves is to listen and pay attention to our dreams. We think we know ourselves but we never really do unless we listen to our hearts crying out for attention in our dreams.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;A few years ago, for instance, I had a dream which really changed my life. I dreamt I was in a room and I was dying. Everyone round the bed really loved me and was very kind to me. Strangely the people around the bed were folks that I had never met. I thought, 'How extraordinary!'&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Any way it struck me with great force in the dream that no matter how sympathetic folks were to me I could only ever die by myself in my dream. No one could come with me. And that no matter how kind and lovong other people were I would be dying, totally alone, even if there were a million people round me!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;So die I did!! In the dream. I have never looked at death (or life) the same way since.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Strangerstill, I have fallen in love with a lady from New York and may well some day die amongst people who love me but were one time (during the dream) strangers to me.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/jacob_dr.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/jacob_dr_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/dreams_7/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-13:/2005/08/14/forgiveness/</id><title>Forgiveness</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/forgiveness/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-14T00:12:21+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-14T00:12:21+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Belfast, especially North Belfast,were I live is a patchwork of miles and miles of 'Peacelines', which keep Protestant and Catholic Christians from murdering each other.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In a sense these are good things. There is trouble, the Peacelines are erected, the two communities are kept apart and the trouble simmers down. On the other hand the Peacelines are bad things in that they keep the two sides aprt. From meeting and from even establishing the slightest sense of friendship. So that the walls that stop hate stop friendship too.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I see that sometimes in marriage too. I had a brother who never talked to his wife for seven years before they divorces. The 'Peaceline' between the couple was total silence. They never argued, true. There were no more fights. But equally there was no more meeting, no more friendship across that stoney wall of silence.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In my own lfe I have found only one hammer to knock down these walls safely. That hammer is forgiveness. Forgiveness is an impossible, crazy thing. How is it logigal to forgive those who hate us and wish us harm? That is why I believe forgiveness is a gift from the divine. For man impossible. For God simple.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;And what happens when we forgive?&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The first thing is that we stop hurting ourselves. A great burden is lifted from our shoulders and we walk freerer. Hatred is like an acid that we carry in our hands to toss in the face of our enemies. This acid burns our own souls first, before it burns the faces of ou enemies.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Secondly it gives us wings. It makes us bigger. Its sets us free. We are no longer restricted by what our enemies wish us to be. We are free to be bigger than what our emenies wish us to be. From little stunted bushes we become mighty trees.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Thirdly forgiveness knocks down walls. The Peacelines fall. All of humanity become our sisters and brothers. We become one with all humanity and all the universe. The dams that block the rivers of love collapse and we join the universe, the sea of love from which we came. We are bigger, better, stronger, freerer, children of love again. The walls fall and all things become possible. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Even in Belfast.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/intro.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/intro_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/14/forgiveness/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-12:/2005/08/12/guy_in_a_wheelchair/</id><title>Guy in a Wheelchair</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/12/guy_in_a_wheelchair/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-12T17:10:01+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-12T17:10:01+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;My taxi tales folks in wheelchairs and I meet a lot of interesting people that way.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;One was a young guy in his late teens who had been paralysed from the neck down whilst joy riding in West Belfast.&lt;br&gt;
I never liked him because A} he was a car thief and a hood. Also B} he was a 'Hard man' just gave of wicked bad vibes. Like, 'I hate everyone and everything and you Mister Taxi man I hate worse than anyone'!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;So the months past and I took him here there and evrywhere and engaged him in as little conversation as possible. But, with the passage of time things began to change. To my astonishment this Belfast 'hood' seemed to becoming nicer and nicer! Not that he ever became Miss Sweetypie, but at least he became a little more human; a little bit more stickable.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Then one day when I picked up the local rag, who was front page news nut the guy in the wheelchair! He had given an interview repenting of his past activities and warning others not to be joyriders and not to be stealing cars!! Well I thought it was a nice thing for him to do, after all he didn't have to, so my attitude towards him thawed a little.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I still pick him up now and again. He's still not Mr Charming but, well, I feel sorry for him. He's going to spend the rest of a very short life in a wheel chair. A high price for stealing other people's cars. Something is changing in his heart. The ice is melting. I guess at the end of the day I shouldn't judge him too harshly. Maybe in another life I could have stolen cars too. He kinda reminds me of a young James Cagney.Angry and bitter at the world and all in it. Someting must have made him angry. I guess Jesus was right about not judging others. But then its hard, sometimes, not too.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Maybe God is not being as hard on him as this nasty old taxi driver. I hope so. I must try very hard to be nicer to him the next time we meet. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Maybe a little of the ice in my heart is melting too. &lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Portraits-James-Cagney.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Portraits-James-Cagney_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/12/guy_in_a_wheelchair/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-10:/2005/08/10/a_fading_light/</id><title>A Fading Light</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/a_fading_light/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-10T23:04:35+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-10T23:04:35+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Its in the nature of 'oul gits like me to look back fondly on the past with rose tinted glasses as see a lost Eden. So I guess most of you will take what I say with a very large pinch of salt. Still I can only call the shots as I see them and remember the past I see isn't so very long ago. I have lived in the same little part of North Belfast on and off for most of my life so its this one little area I see.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;First of all there were no drugs. Now drugs of one kind of another are everywhere. They have driven some of my friends half mad and some to deep depression.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Suicide used to bealmost non existent. Now it is a constant given. Not simply individuals but entiree families are stricken by its hurt.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;There was always drink. But now drink is everywhere. Even the youngest drink. Even the streets and parks are full of shouting , frightening youths, drunk and angry.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Violence is everywhere. In my youth you could have walked the streets at night without a single care. Now it is genuinely very dangerous to walk the streets at night. Even in day time you do so with care.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Now the young no longer respect the elders nor to the elders look wih kindness, but rather fear on the young.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Crime is rampant. Few can pass a single month without either being a victim of it or a witness to it.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Families are no longer secure havens. Marriage break ups and illegitamate children are almost a given.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Irish Churches almost brimful to overflowing stand now half empty, People have lost their idealism and look only to the minute. That minute full of consumerism and greed.The rich are sucesses, the poor losers.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The light that once shone in my world is fading. Love grows weak as God is forgotten.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/PIA03150.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/PIA03150_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/10/a_fading_light/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-09:/2005/08/09/god_and_te_pussy_cat/</id><title>God and te Pussy cat.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/god_and_te_pussy_cat/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-09T17:05:54+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-09T17:05:54+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Someone once wrote that God is not a pussy cat. That we can't hold God, or own Him or treat him as a pet.&lt;br&gt;
True. Sometimes I think ofmHim as an accomplished dancer. Sometimes he holds us close to His heart. Another time He lets go of us in some mad darksome swing. Again He is like great huge waves of coming and of going. He is always changeable, always beyond Him.&lt;br&gt;
It is at the minute we believe we have a little understanding utterable.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The Holy Spirit is like a grwat wind that blows through the windows of our heart demolishing the playing card houses of our lives and understanding. Forcing us to rebuild, terrorising us to od better and not box ourselves in with our self lies and half truths.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Ah !!! And His Son shines. Making the utterly unkowable knowable. God brought to life in the smiling face of a shining man. Jesus. Who became man that we might become God.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/cat.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/cat_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/god_and_te_pussy_cat/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-09:/2005/08/09/the_shiners/</id><title>The Shiners</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/the_shiners/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-09T09:51:14+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-09T09:51:14+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;You meet many, many different kinds of people when you are out taxiing. The good, the bad, the ugly and the downright wicked.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Every now and again however to my surprise and delight I meet to my surprise, wonder and delight folks who I call 'The shiners'. The Shinners are people who glow with unconditional love and kindeness. There are, i believe two kinds of people in the world, the givers and the takers.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The Takers are cold people who constantly take in love and kindness and give little or nothing in return.&lt;br&gt;
The Givers are people who are warm generous giving folks who are constantly giving off love.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The Shinners are star Novas who explode and shine with love, giving it off with great heat to those around them. Put simply they are saints. St Francis Xavier once famously wrote that, 'The only failure in life is not to have been a saint'. Not being rich. Not being famous. Not being a worldly success. But being just this. A saint. Someone who shines. The only thing we can, any of us bring with us when we die. Love. As St Tereasa of Avila said, 'At the even time of life we will be judged on love.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I'll mention one such shinner. When i was nineteen I attended a Charismatic prayer meeting in Fermanagh were I met a very rich lady who hosted the meeting and got talking to her for a very brief while. Over twenty years later she got into my taxi. I remmbered her at once!! I was so engrossed in her wonderful converstaion and shinning love that I drove her many miles into the country from the city by mistake.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I'd been blinded by a shinner!!!!!!!!&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/20031019madre_teresa.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/20031019madre_teresa_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/09/the_shiners/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-07:/2005/08/07/gay_pride_march/</id><title>Gay Pride March</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/07/gay_pride_march/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-07T09:54:34+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-07T09:54:34+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I got caught up in the Gay Pride March to-day as I was driving customers directly outside City Hall. I was very glad I was as it turned out to be very interesting!&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/cityhall.jpeg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/cityhall_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I vaguely recall the first Gay Pride March in Belfast which I think was about the eighties. It was a sad miserable affair of about 30 or 40 rather fearful peole. Scarcely surprising really when to have publically stated you were Gay then would have been greeted with the same horror as Sigourney Weaver sharing bodily fluids with te ireeprssible 'Alien'.There would of course have been some sort of Gay community in Belfast back then. But as well hidden as a social nuclear sub.&lt;br&gt;
&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/20.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/20_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br&gt;
Yesterday was different though. With a crowd of 4000  extravagantly dressed, vibrant, laughing folks who had spent a great deal of time and money on the floats and fancy dress. Different too in the large crowds of Belfast people who watched with sympathy or at least benevolent neutrality. To my amazement for instance my cousin Aidan, his wire and three children made a special visit down the town to watch the event!!My, my the times they are a changing!!&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/foc_gay_pride.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/foc_gay_pride_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Ranked in serried ranks around the City Hall were stern faced soberly dressed lines of Evengelical Fundamemntalist Christians who sternly informed the Gays by loudspeaker and placards that they were on the greased path to hell.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;It wouldn't be Belfast if there wasn't trouble at a march, even a Gay Pride one. Last year an elderly fundamentalist punched a Gay Marher on his glittered nose and a series of heated tustles followed. This year one of the Christians tossed a full bottle of lemonade at a float. I watched in delight as a posse of stern faced police, batons waving pursued the bible toting offender round City Hall.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;It just stuck me the contrasr between the two crowds. The one Christian, the other secular. One old, the other young. One soberly dressed, the other extravagantly. One rooted in the past the other very much in the present. A clash of culture.cs and of lemonade bottles. A Christian would never never throw a bottle of whiskey at other people, I suppose. Drinking being the devils buttermilk.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I don't know with things like six thousand people dying of hunger every day. That mad war on Iraq ongoing and Nuclear Disarmament still a pipe dream that there might be other things to throw lemonade bottles about.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/07/gay_pride_march/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-06:/2005/08/06/the_implosion_of_loyalism/</id><title>The Implosion of Loyalism</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/06/the_implosion_of_loyalism/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-06T20:28:11+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-06T20:28:11+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Last night I drove along the Crumlin Road in North Belfast and saw an increasingly common event. Young Loyalists rioting, for the second night in a row with local police. It was the third Prime Minister of Northern Ireland, Basil Stanlake Brooke, 1st Viscount Brookeborough, who warned that if ever Unionism turned against the British Government the Northern Ireland Statelet would be at an end. Last night on the Crumlin Road in Belfast I witnessed Loyalism not simply at war with the parent British Government, but hopelessly fragmented and demoralised; at war with itself.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/_1569165_uda_rioting3_300.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;In working class areas many loyalists have died, faced serious injuries or been driven from their homes by internecine feuding between the three main loyalist groups the UDA, UVF and LVF.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Nor does the picture look any better in the wider Unionist family with hatred between the two major Unionists parties at and all time high. Never in fact in its entire history has Unionism seemed so fragmented, demoralised, embittered, lost and despondant.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Unionisms acclaimed messiah has continued with a firmly rejectionist policy, which, while it seved him very well in opposition politics, appears to leave him simply irrelevant and ignored in the headier atmosphere of intergovernmental interparty talks.&lt;br&gt;
That simply saying no, no, no to change is not enough and is being continually underlined by a wave of British policy 'concessions' that have left Unionists almost apoplectic with impotent fury.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/ianpaisley.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;The only hope for Unionism would lie in a pragmatic, far sighted charismatic states man as leader. The man who likes to say know does not meet the bill. Unionism has begun a long walk into the political desert, with no leader who can point towards a promised land.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/New-3-tablet-Moses.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/New-3-tablet-Moses_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/06/the_implosion_of_loyalism/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-04:/2005/08/04/good_and_bad/</id><title>Good and Bad</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/04/good_and_bad/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-04T23:08:33+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-04T23:08:33+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;It sounds mad to say it, for  know now that people do not say any such thing now in our modern, thouroughly sophisticated world.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But I still divide folks into two categories the good and the bad.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I know as I learnt in, as I was growing up that life has many shades of gray.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But still I go back to the balack and white.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;And my old Irish mother and father knew it.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Some walk one road.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Others another.
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/04/good_and_bad/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-03:/2005/08/03/faith_1/</id><title>Faith</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/03/faith_1/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-03T23:17:22+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-03T23:17:22+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I lost my faith in God when I was nineteen. I can recall the time almost to the minute. I'd seen too much and hated too much to keep it.&lt;br&gt;
Now all the time before this I thought my faith was like a rock. I used to think folks without faith were kinda insane! I mean who could really believe there was no God!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But the place without God seemed kinda pleasant at first. No more rules. No more sins. No more guilt. No more right or wrong or childish superstitions. Only me. I was the only God.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;And where was the still small voice within? The little breeze that whispered it was God the creator of the Universe. Oh He still spoke. But I didn't listen. You need faith to talk to a breeze.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Years later I stood in a monastery garden talking to a very, holy old monk, Father Eunan about faith. He was horrified when I told him that I had lost mine for many years.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;'Thanks be to God', he said, 'That I was never as bad as that!'&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I recall, too that as my mother lay dying of cancer last year I asked her too if she still believed. She too was horrified.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;'Of couse I do', she said.' Sure what sense would there be to anthing if there was no God!!'&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;This is the old Irish faith. Like a great rock. In the surety of which many laid down their very lives.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;When my Spiritual Director, Fr Bernard a very saintly man, lay dying of cancer in Beaumont Hospital in Dublin I asked him too if he believed and saw meaning in his dying. He said that it was as if God was no longer there and that everything was pointless.&lt;br&gt;
Then I recalled the words of Jesus on the Cross, 'My God, my God why have you forsaken me!'&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But I recalled too the trumphant finale,&lt;br&gt;
'But you oh God are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel!'&lt;br&gt;
Then I saw that Bernards long good Friday would give birth to a wonderful Easter!!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Modern faith must no longer be a rock as it was for those gone by. It must be a river or a sea. Fluid and everchanging. Growing and rising. Sinking and roaring up in waves of hope and some despair.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I saw a dog once hit by a car outside Queens University. It ran away screaming. I can understand human suffering. But not, somehow, that of animals. So innocent.So blaimless. When I saw the dog race screaming down thew street my faith fled too. But rose again. Not a rock now. But a dark grace lit sea that ebbs and flows.&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/cross.JPG" border="0" alt=""&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/03/faith_1/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-08-01:/2005/08/01/the_iraq_war/</id><title>The Iraq War.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/01/the_iraq_war/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-08-01T23:17:11+02:00</published><updated>2005-08-01T23:19:17+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I remember picking up a BBC TV producer just as the crazy Iraq War was starting and we talked about the War. He told me that he talked in the course of his work here in Belfast to hundreds of different people from every class and area of society here. He said that he was amazed that he had never ever met one single person who had agreed with the war. You know its the same with me. Of all the people who have ever gotten into my taxi I have never met one who agreed with the war.I wonder if there really is someone out there in real life who really does agree with it!!&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I knew the war with Iraq was going to start about eight months before it did. I was watching TV  and saw Tony Bliars face just after he got off the plane from the States, seeing his oul pal George W. The interviewer asked him if they were set for war. Tony vacilated, but, looking and his face, IKNEW: &lt;u&gt;KNEW &lt;/u&gt;he was going to go for it that it was already decided.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Whats more I knew Tony didn't really want the war or believe in it. He was and is being forced into it. Taxi driving teaches you to see through bullshit.&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/deadkid2.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/08/01/the_iraq_war/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-07-31:/2005/07/31/jean_3/</id><title>Jean</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/31/jean_3/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-07-31T23:44:08+02:00</published><updated>2005-07-31T23:44:08+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Jean.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Several years ago a good friend of mine, Father Bernard died, painfully of cancer. So when another friend invited me to join up as a part time volunteer at the Northern Ireland Hospice, Belfast, I decided to do so.&lt;br&gt;
We had several weeks of training and were offered a variety of tasks we might like to help out with.&lt;br&gt;
I am a taxi-driver and offered to drive patients to and from the Hospice day centre. I did this because driving is something I am used to and I was somewhat chary of becoming too emotionally involved with the people I would be helping.&lt;br&gt;
One of the first people I was called on to collect was Jean. She lived in the shadows of the shipyard, in a small working class terraced house in the heart of Loyalist/Protestant east Belfast. I felt somewhat nervous, I, a Catholic, going to meet her as I drove past rows of Loyalist Murals and Union Flags. But Jean put me instantly at ease. She was a small white haired woman in her mid-fifties outgoing, friendly, grateful that I was going to get her and very easy to get along with.&lt;br&gt;
I was new to the job, but Jean was so led back that we talked naturally and easily about her illness as we drove along. A couple of months previously, at around Christmas, Jean had developed a constant and hard to shake off cough which drove her eventually to her doctor. Her doctor had examined her and referred her to a chest Consultant at the City Hospital. There followed a battery of tests and x-rays and Jean was sent home, a little worried but not overly concerned.&lt;br&gt;
Shortly after she received a letter from the Consultant asking her to call and bring a member of her family or a close friend along. Jean’s husband had died several tears previously but she brought along her only son as the letter requested.&lt;br&gt;
The doctor showed her an x-ray of her chest, pointing out an ominous black mass in the middle. It was a tumour, he explained. Jean, shocked, asked what treatment he was going to give. The Consultant shook his head. If it had been in one or other of her lungs they could have operated but the cancerous tumour was located between her lings. There was nothing they could do. Jean had three months to live.&lt;br&gt;
She told me how she had begun to cry while her son held her in his arms and the kindly doctor clucked in sympathy. Outside the hospital she turned to her son and apologised to him for, ’Having let you down’. Her son shook his head and told his mother that if it had been him who heard such news he probably would have fainted.&lt;br&gt;
As Jean talked tears rolled down me cheeks which I hurriedly brushed away. She reminded me so much of my own family and her courage moved me.&lt;br&gt;
I drove Jean to and from the Hospice on several more occasions. We talked of many things, of life and death, of God and families, of illness and health. We became friends and I looked more and more forward to meeting her. However the Hospice did not ask me to collect her again. After several weeks I asked one of the volunteers about Jean. She told me that Jean had died several weeks earlier. Jean made me cry again. The volunteer must have noticed my shock and sadness for she kindly told me that Jean had always looked forward to me picking her up and missed my coming. It was only then that I realised that our meetings had meant as much to her as to me.&lt;br&gt;
Over the time I spent in the Hospice I learnt many things from Jean and the other dying people I has the privilege to meet there. First of all I had thought that I was doing something for them. It did not take me long to realise that the shoe was very much on the other foot. They were constantly teaching me. It was one of the most formative learning experiences of my life.&lt;br&gt;
I learnt too how trivial and unimportant are most of the things that we regard as vital or even necessary. There comes a new clarity to life and our mortality when we realise that life is coming swiftly to a close. An end to hypocrisy, to falsehood, a new directness and honesty.&lt;br&gt;
But overall a tremendous experience of the presence of God. Often to me so close it felt like I could simply reach out and touch Him. I suppose God is always as close as that; maybe it took the closeness of death to make us feel it.&lt;br&gt;
&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/hospice.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/31/jean_3/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-07-31:/2005/07/31/meeting_god_for_the_first_time/</id><title>Meeting God for the First Time</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/31/meeting_god_for_the_first_time/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-07-31T11:36:32+02:00</published><updated>2005-07-31T11:36:32+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I was about four years old when I met God for the first. It was spring time and I was riding a beautiful red bike I had been given for Christmas up a hill near my home.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I had always been concious of a kindly, gentle loving voice that kept speaking to me inside my head since as long as I could remember. It was as natural to me as my hands and feet. Also my parents had told me there was a God, but a God who was far away, up there in a wonderful heavenly kingdom.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;But now the voice spoke to me directly. 'I am Jesus, who is talking to you'.&lt;br&gt;
I was amazed. Jesus was God how could He be talking to me? How could He be within me in my little heart. But the voice spoke again and assured me that it was He. That He lived in he hearts of all men. But, and this very sadly, very few of them listenened to them.&lt;br&gt;
So I guess this moment when I opened my heart to the indwelling Chridt marks the real beginnings of my road of faith. &lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;Protestant evangelicals talk of being 'born again' and of being 'aved. They also talk of having a 'Personal, living relationship with Jesus as your pesonal Lord and Saviour'. I, as a Catholic agree with this. You most open the door of your heart to the voice within. The unseen guest who is Jesus.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;A spring day 45 years ago now. A four year old child on a bike. A voice speaking. A little gentle voice, caressing my heart light as a summers breeze. The voice of God. Creator of the Universe.&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/jesus-wept.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/jesus-wept_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/31/meeting_god_for_the_first_time/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-07-30:/2005/07/30/1969/</id><title>1969</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/30/1969/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-07-30T20:19:51+02:00</published><updated>2005-07-30T20:19:51+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;I was 14 years old back when the long war, the 'Troubles' started in 1969. After protesting for Civil Rights Catholic areas of Belfast were attacked by rampaging Loyalist mobs during a very hot summer in August.&lt;br&gt;
I particularly remember walking round the Falls Road shortly after and have little picture scenes of what I witnessed then.&lt;br&gt;
At time there was really no IRA in Belfast, just a handful of half forgotten old men. The British troops were still to arrive and what 'police' hthere were (the RUC) were almost totally Protestant and 100% Unionist. They had either stood aside while the anti-Catholic pograms had taken place or actively aided their civilian counterparts in the murder and mayhem.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;I recall the huge barricades, almost as high as the roofs of the houses. Not like the later flimsier structures but strong enough to stop tanks, stiffened with scaffolding and steel hawswers. There were huge trees cut down to block the roads.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;All at once a normal industrial quiet city was torn apart and at war with itself. I was young then. Very young. But not so young as to fail to scent the fear in the adults around me. I had yet to learn to fear myself. I had not the sense being as yet too filled with a child's innocense.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;We had the first colour TV on our street that year. The first man landed on the moon on July 20, 1969. The war was going on in Vietnam. And, by smelling the fear of adults I had my first loss of innocense.&lt;/p&gt;
	&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/bombay7_01.jpg" title="bombay"&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/bombay7_01_small.jpg" border="0" alt="bombay"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/30/1969/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry><entry><id>tag:padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk,2005-07-30:/2005/07/30/end_of_the_war/</id><title>End of the war.</title><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/30/end_of_the_war/"/><author><name>padraig</name></author><published>2005-07-30T13:14:09+02:00</published><updated>2005-07-30T13:14:09+02:00</updated><content type="html">	&lt;p&gt;Hi, my name is Padraig and I'm a 49 year old taxi driver from Belfast. This week the IRA declared the ending of a war that has gone on, one way or another since I was about fourteen. I should be delighted, I suppose since now we will have real peace.&lt;br&gt;
But contradictory old git that I am I feel a bit sad. Why? Well I guess it feels like it feels like a part of me has been removed. So much of being from Belfast was identified with the war. Anywhere I went in the world people instantly identified me as having come from Belfast. It has formed me in who I am as a person. Now thats all gone. Its a bit crazy, but the war made me who I am. Who am I now? I guess I will have to redefine myself. That's not gona be esy.&lt;br&gt;
Like I say I'm maybe a bit of a nut!!&lt;img src="/img/smilies/icon_wave.gif" alt=":wave:" class="middle" border="0"&gt;&lt;a href="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Northern-i-Belfast-1970.jpg" title=""&gt;&lt;img src="http://data1.blog.de/blog/p/padraigcaughey/img/Northern-i-Belfast-1970_small.jpg" border="0" alt=""&gt;&lt;/a&gt;
&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt; &lt;small&gt; &lt;a href="http://padraigcaughey.blog.co.uk/2005/07/30/end_of_the_war/#comments"&gt;Comments&lt;/a&gt; &lt;/small&gt; &lt;/p&gt;</content></entry></feed>
