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Things I’ve learned at 4’6”

December 2017

My height changed abruptly in 2010. Until then I had been the tallest person in every room, at every event, in any setting at all, with only the rarest exception. If I ever had to meet someone I didn’t know, at an airport for example, I would tell them to look for the tallest person; and this never failed to be true. I would go years and years without meeting anyone taller than me. It is a very odd thing to be distinctly different from everyone else. My work as a carpenter regularly took me into public schools and I was acutely (and uncomfortably) aware of a ripple of quite audible (and often unprintable) comments in my wake.

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The full height of my erstwhile self on our family Tall Wall – now happily filling with little people.

Now it’s somewhat the opposite, I very rarely meet anyone shorter than me, unless it is a child.  And once again, I occasionally hear the hushed comments people make as I pass. But these days they are complimentary, …in the main.

The change from six foot seven to four foot six came, of course, with my introduction in 2010 to a wheelchair named “Bugger”. The world viewed from 4’6” is startlingly different.  It’s “all bums and belt buckles” as one friend poetically observes. But there are subtler observations that have renewed my view of life.

At 4’6” I’ve learned…

…that much of the world belongs to somebody else. 
I rolled off a tram in Melbourne last week, did a little zig-zag through the pedestrian barrier, and a sporty little car kindly waved me across the road.  But there was no ramp to climb the gutter.  With a lane of cars building up I looked up and down to no avail, and had to retreat to the tram stop once more. My eyesight is officially mediocre now, but I’ve taken to carrying a small scope in the city for such occasions, and I was able to conduct a thorough visual search from the tram stop – no ramp!  There are ramps almost everywhere of course, and an occasion like this is rare. Nonetheless, I know what it is to be in a minority. For the first time in my life I regularly experience being the one who doesn’t belong, and this is the foundation of a new worldview: moving from the main stream of able-bods to a by-water of odd-bods.

…that people are nice.
I must look dreadfully helpless.  Everywhere I go people offer to help me. I don’t leave home without it happening. Doors, obviously, are the main event. Now and then it is helpful to have a door opened, although there are only two doors in our town that I can’t do unaided. One – absurdly – is the front door of our school, a school for disabled children. The next help-arena is the self-serve supermarket checkout, which is more challenging because I’m tempted to feel annoyed that people think I can’t manage those machines. Nobody can manage those machines! The other time I regularly attract helpful offers is if I stop. When I’m sitting still helpers find me irresistible. But everywhere I go I meet people who are just so very nice.

…to avoid my own reflection.
When I was tall I found my reflection amusing more than anything else, after all it’s good to be tall. But when I see myself reflected in a shop window nowadays, I cringe. I’m quite used to the look of the world at 4’6”, but I don’t know that I will ever get used to the look of me.

.…that I am a sacred cow.
People are horrified if they think they have offended me. I find it amusing when receptionists say to me, “Please take a seat over there.” Sometimes I challenge this simply by holding their gaze a moment, with a raised eyebrow. I don’t generally need to say, “I brought my own”, and when they realise what they have said they are flustered, devastated, only occasionally amused, but I am quick to reassure.  I am a sort of local treasure, everyone looks out for me. Teen Girl, who has down syndrome, is loved by everyone too, and I feel this is a huge credit to our society: generally it is a scandal to treat a disabled person badly.

…that miracles abound.
There are some who are forever “hoping for a miracle”.  But what if the miracle is already here? What if the miracle isn’t restoration to health,  winding back the clock, but discovering the grace to live life as it actually presents itself? I’ve learned so much at 4’6” that I don’t want to go back even if I could. I’ve gained far more than I have lost, and discovered that the miraculous realm is so close at hand that it’s hard to avoid.

that I still have the White Gaze.
I will never forget the moment an Aboriginal man turned away from me when I went to enter a clothing shop in Alice Springs. He told me he could not go in, that he would not be welcome inside. I was 18 and this man had embraced me as a faltering teenager and taught me his language, his faith, (and how to clean paintbrushes with a rock). We had been travelling together for several days, sharing our meals and the driving of a large lorry that neither of us could properly operate, and over the months we had become good friends. I had no idea, not a clue until that moment, that Australia was a divided nation. But it was not until the decade I am living in now that I perceived how deeply rooted in my own cultural mentality the divisions of race still are. I learned at 4’6” that I am still a racist. Years of struggling to overthrow this ugly facet of my character have achieved little. In becoming one of a minority I began to see how unthinkingly I align myself with the majority. I think of myself – and this terrifies – as one of the true and the good, the master race. I saw my friend of so long ago on my last trip to Central Australia in 2010, and it was a shared joy. But it does not change what I know to be true of myself: I am still ridiculously quick to judge someone simply because of the way they speak, or the way they look. I judge people in wheelchairs, for goodness sake!

…that noses look far worse from underneath.
I sometimes wonder if the betrayal of my own physical body has left me distrustful of all things physical. I think of people, myself especially, purely as biology. As animals really, zoology. Noses, necks, knees, bellies, bottoms – it’s all too much! Everything human now looks fragile, unsightly and vulnerable. I seem to be preoccupied with potential or evident failings, and I can no longer see remotely the grace that Leonardo and Michelangelo saw so readily. This is one part of my current experience that I really, really dislike!

…that God comes to you disguised as your life.
This is the most illuminating thing I have read this year, and I think would be profound whatever your view of God. There’s not a lot to say, just that eventually you realise that it’s not a different life that you need; that all the “what ifs?” and longings for alternate versions of yourself lead you nowhere at all. It is the actual, physical, painful, joyful, terrible, tangible, particular and immediate experience of your very own life that leads you to peace. If you allow.

…that l’m not as smart as I thought.
My changed perspective has brought me to new insecurities; it has forced me to reconsider. So many things are not what I once thought. Is it merely youthfulness, or does having a fit, capable physique also feed the sense that we know it all?

…that depression has it’s place.
This thought is controversial, and I mean no offence. Not for a moment am I referring to the medical condition of depression; I mean occasional depression as a part of normal life. Our mood inevitably swings down as well as up, but our cultural expectation is upward, upward, upward.  If we aren’t having fun, we just aren’t trying. I disagree, and at 4’6” I’ve had many opportunities to look inward and downward. Introspection is a balance to exuberance, which I find more natural, and although I don’t relish the times my mood sinks I am learning to value them. I have gleaned precious somethings, occasionally, at the black dog’s kennel: a reality, a fellowship, a check to my other extremes, an empathy, a grace perhaps.

 

I think it is the experience of reduction, not just in height but in so many facets, that has taught me most.  I’m grateful for it.  I’m very glad I have come to taste a different life, to the side of the main stream, away from the confidence of the majority. I’m truly very glad.

Rejoice!

 

PS. A week from today I will be at sea, on a ship, with all of my children and grand children. Seventeen of us! That should be something worth writing about in January, next time we meet.

The Lost Art of Sitting … still.

November 2017

Many people replied to my last post, and I felt buoyant and edified hearing from dear friends. If I’ve not replied forgive me, I’m working through the list.  Everyone who wrote spoke to me in the same voice: a somewhat superior, not to say pompous, but decidedly english accent. This is Kate, heartless Kate, robot Kate, the computer voice who reads my mail.  Kate – uppity Kate – competes a little too much with the actual voices I know, in fact she overwhelmes, which is sad. One of the joys of long friendship is that when you read you sometimes hear the warm and welcome voice of the one who wrote.

There was a tendency in some of the correspondence that I wanted to resist: sympathy. I’m alarmed when I sense it’s presence, I want to run from it as one might run from a predator in the wild (what an odd sentence that is, passing myself off as intrepid!). I dislike sympathy because it smacks of defeat. The sympathy of another, though well meant, drags you downward into the pit. Fight or flight: I fend it off or I flee, but I will not admit to it’s verdict or give an inch. I also feel quite afraid, perhaps ashamed, if my writing about vision loss called out for sympathy; perish the thought. And there is this: most of those I heard from I know quite well, some very well indeed.  And I know that more often than not their lives are no easier than mine. In years of pastoral counselling I discovered that nobody I sat with was free from deeply challenging circumstances one way or another. No one.  I feel strongly about this, that my load in life is not exceptional. Unusual perhaps, but we are all unique. Going one step further it often seems to me that my own set of challenges are fortunate ones, they have so far proved to be of the manageable kind, outward irritations that do no damage to the soul. How immeasurably harder it must be to face a black dog within, or to live under injustice, or in poverty, or as a victim of awful crime; and so the list goes on, and on.

And there is something else too. Self Help books are full of aphorisms about turning “scars into stars”, and innumerable similar jollies. Personally, I find all that sort of thing quite irritating in the way it reduces the soul’s journey through trial into sometimes idiotic triviality. And for some reason it’s hard not to think of such cliches having an American accent, uttered by someone with implausible teeth. But there is the valid underlying truth that hardships truly can conceal a gift. Underneath the undeniable trauma of loosing (some) sight of the world, I am aware of a beckoning toward quietness. Quietude.

Many years ago a bore mechanic (windmills, water bores and such) stayed for a few nights in a home I shared on a community in the Gibson Desert. I remember him as a tall, tanned, mild-mannered man with a possibly Indian aspect to his face. He had a remarkable habit which has remained strongly in memory all these years: after dinner he would leave the table and take a seat in the living room, fold his hands, and … that was it.  There was no TV and little music out there, but he seemed completely content without anything at all, no books, games, not even conversation unless you tried particularly hard to draw him in. This man could happily sit. He didn’t twiddle his thumbs, his eyes didn’t wander around looking for distraction, he didn’t get up after ten minutes to keep himself busy. He could just sit, for a long time. I admired it then, and do still. This is sharply in contrast to my own vein of distraction, which is to do something constructive with my hands whenever possible. I fix, I mend, I clean, I do whatever I can find to do; I read, write, converse, play music, listen to music, listen to the radio, torment my children … but never, for goodness sake not, just sit. (Speaking of which, I have finally finished my picture).

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Pyrography and watercolour, and image I copied from a vintage wildlife illustration.

 

The most powerful prayer, one well-nigh omnipotent, and the worthiest work of all is the outcome of a quiet mind.
              – medieval German mystic, Meister Eckhart, quoted on ABC radio this week.

Sometimes you have a sense in life that a lesson is being offered to you, an enlightenment, that small corrections might be made at your core if you would welcome the teacher. The teacher comes in countless guises, and it takes years and years to recognise her presence. Even longer, perhaps, to take instruction. But, now and then, we listen.

Rejoice!

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I will be back here on the first Sunday of next month; that’s my new plan.  In the meantime I’d love to hear your thoughts … so would uppity Kate.
PS: is the bigger font (for my benefit) good or bad for the reader?

 

 

 

 

 

Forward Looking

The brain churns away like an old electric concrete mixer, going endlessly around and around, just now and then tipping out something useful. My brain at least, your’s may be a purring, whizzing wonder. Little by little, I find myself thinking of new ideas, new ways to see.

The trick to typing is this: Use one eye only, and pretend you are writing by hand. Look only at the word you are typing, and having finished a paragraph DO NOT re-read it.  Tripple Click on the finished thought, and use Text to Speech to read the paragraph aloud.  Avoid looking down to the keyboard if at all possible – fortunately I can “touch-type”. This is the method I’ve discovered to avoid eye strain.  As long as I keep my eyes still, not scaring left to right, left to right, left to right …. I can see reasonably well.

This is this week’s discovery, and if it goes to plan this post may just work.

For the first time since my physical health turned south, just over nine years ago, I’ve found myself for most of almost three weeks to be despairingly sad, a deep shade of blue. The “grumpy” episode I wrote about last time turned out not to be one off. It was not, as I had thought, just disappointment at a delay in a long awaited optometrical solution. I realised this when the glasses with prism lenses duly arrived, made a huge difference to my sight, but little difference to my mood.

I am not by nature a sad person.  I am sometimes rather shocked by the stern, vaguely sad look on my face in a mirror, but it does not at all mirror the general feeling of my soul which is glad and bright more often than not. The despaired feeling of these few weeks was not completely unknown of course: being human brings you inevitably into contact with every emotion. But the persistence of the feeling: the unshifting, pitying, bleak-black soul darkness was unlike anything I could remember.  Sadness was everywhere I looked. Thoughts that seemed unable to rise above impending doom on every front. When the Liberal government failed to endorse the recommendation of Australia’s Chief Scientist to implement a Clean Energy Target I felt as though the future of mankind had been sealed and doomed for ever and ever.

So I took my blighted heart to my regular GP appointment this week and asked her if this was normal. “What”, I asked, doubting that anyone could give me an answer, “is wrong”. I have a terrific doctor. She listens carefully, follows up every thought and lead, and is not afraid to offer advice or a reframed view of the situation. After a few more probing questions she said it sounded like grief, and asked me,

“What are you missing? Is there something you have lost?”

I replied without a moment to process the question. I didn’t think at all, the answer was immediate:

“I miss my eyesight; I can’t read”.

Years ago I wrote a post in Rejoice! titled, The Gift of Loosing Things. I had lost my driver’s licence, and a number of other important things in life besides. It’s a good essay I think, there is wisdom there that I still draw from – I hope that doesn’t sound immodest, but sometimes a person can write to themselves as much as to others. But none of that wisdom was adequate to my experience of vision loss. It has far eclipsed the challenges of mobility, my early terror of wheelchairs, the pining I feel at times for useful employment, even loosing the ultimate joy of running wildly in the park with my little girl. Vision loss is the toughest of them all.

But months have passed since this began, and much has been regained. The prism glasses first and foremost – they are such a help, even though the world I see through them has an oddity about it that defies description. I’ve filled books – small ones – with handwriting, discovering that writing is the perfect activity because your eyes don’t

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A current Pyrography project

really move much.  I’ve spent a great deal of time on a newish hobby: Pyrography, burning designs into wood, which is very similar because your eyes stay fixed on one part of the pattern for a long time. After many attempts I think I’m learning to listen to audio-books. Initially I found it impossible to concentrate in the way that you do when reading, and I could not retain anything much that I heard. Perhaps it’s a wonder of neuroplasticity, but for some reason feel I’m using my brain differently now and audio-books are starting to make sense. Looking for things, roving your eyes around a room to find that missing item, is one of the hardest tasks and my biggest problem. So I’m organising, being very deliberate. I have a corner of the kitchen bench carefully laid out which nobody else is allowed to touch! Theoretically.Sincere thanks to those readers who read right through my hand-written post and told me they had.  It was needed communication, and so rewarding. Thank you indeed!

Life is irresistible isn’t it? It must go on, we must find a way.

I’ve written too much, and I will not re-read. In the past I have read every phrase a dozen times at the very least, and the whole essay a dozen more to find the best word and the smallest mistake. So this may be a right mess!

Rejoice!

 

Vision Splendid

Vision SplendidVision Splendid 2

If you made it this far, thank you.

As always, you can write, and my iPad will read it aloud.

The Remarkable Fresnel Prism

 

A thin sliver of plastic has repaired my outlook and restored my sanity.

I had spectacular vision, once. (There is a pun there, so faint that it will be missed altogether by all but the most astute if I don’t point at it.) My Optometrist was always most impressed and said that with spectacles (referencing above pun) my vision was significantly better than 20/20. Do you know, by the way, what 20/20 vision actually is? The top 20 refers to the smallest line on an eye chart you can clearly see at 20 feet distance, compared to the maximum distance at which a person with normal sight can read the same line … or something like that.  Odd, isn’t it? It sounds a rather messy way of measuring to me.   Until Easter I could read signs at long distances and the finest print (except for fine print, which of course nobody reads); but it all ended in less than a fortnight, replaced by fuzziness and double vision.

The Ophthalmologist (= eye specialist, although one almost needs a mouth specialist to pronounce it) had two things to say.
The expected: he concluded it was “probably systemic”, meaning whatever is wrong with me is also wrong with my vision, (in other words, no idea) and
The unexpected: he said he thought he could help.
He sent me down the corridor to the Orthoptist (= double vision specialist, a word that would be easy to say if you hadn’t first been practicing saying Ophthalmologist). The Orthoptist had me peer through a great many holes in various gadgets, and then took a flimsy piece of plastic from a sealed box, cut it to size with scissors, and stuck it on the back on my glasses. This curious film, less than 1mm thick, is the remarkable Fresnel Prism.  It puts double vision back together again. While it doesn’t solve my problem altogether – I still find much of the world too fuzzy, and occasionally too two-y – it does greatly reduce eyestrain and makes the unbearable quite tolerable.

You might have seen a Fresnel Lens if you have visited a Lighthouse. I remember when I first saw one, and in a rare moment of scintillating insight I actually understood how it worked.

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The Lighthouse lenses designed by French physicist Augustin-Jean Fresnel

Each ring of glass is a triangular lens or prism, all working in chorus to send the light from the lamp in a parallel beam far out to sea, greatly enhancing the intensity of the light. If a single lens had been used it would have been of impossible size and weight, so a series of smaller lenses are used instead. I now have a miniature fresnel prism on the inside of my glasses: many tiny, vertical triangular prisms lined up across the lens.

 

Without the prism I think I may have fallen into some sort of depression, I could feel my eyesight dragging me to a dark place. Perhaps the suddenness with which it arrived is a factor, but I find it much harder to accept than other problems. A bit like the flu, which always seems to me worse than a broken bone, vision problems are right inside your head; intrusive, unavoidable, overwhelming, horrible.

Yet again I find myself the beneficiary of recent innovation. Although  Fresnel built his lenses in the early 19th century, the PVC prism I have is a modern application. Every day I rely on technology to breathe, to propel my wheelchair, and now to see, that is only a few years old.  Some of it just a couple of years old!  I commented on this to my GP recently, saying that I thought that a decade ago I would be much worse off; and she added something like, “or not here at all”.  That’s true I think. It is astonishing to live today in a first world country, benefiting constantly from science and invention.

Rejoice!

And Another Thing………

Something along the lines of ‘full disclosure’ compels me to add the final piece of the Easter story I have been relating.

The condition I believed I had, but now conclusively don’t have, has a characteristic symptom which I omitted to mention: double vision. Fatiguable Muscle Weakness shows up in the fine muscles that coordinate vision, and the ability to ‘converge’ both eyes to the required length of focus is impaired.  So the optometrist told me. When I first developed my theory of self-diagnosis (never, ever do that!) I must have thought this was a bullet I had dodged. By the time I wrote An Easter Miracle?, three weeks ago, my vision had deteriorated significantly, but I didn’t include it in the story.  When I wrote last weekend I ignored it once again, which I assume was simply denial.

I generally read for an hour or two at night before lights out, and I like to read a couple of books at a time, often several. I’m not a quick reader, despite having done the all-the-rage speed reading course in the late 70’s, but I have read widely over the years; it’s an essential part of life. Soon after Easter I noticed I was “closing my book” (which sounds more poetic than turning off my Kindle), sooner than normal, but thought nothing of it. In mid May was still reading for an hour at a time; and less than a fortnight later I was struggling to read three paragraphs. I’ve found myself using one eye at a time for the better part of every day since then. I have these semicircles of black cardboard to put inside the frame of my glasses all over the house; I put one down and cant see where it’s gone so I make another one!

If you happen to have access to a wheelchair may I suggest the following experiment: Make a cup of tea, properly filling the cup, with properly boiling water, and then carry it in one hand while you propel the chair to the other end of your house, preferably through at least one closed door.  The proper technique involves changing which hand you hold the tea in according to which hand you need free to steer the wheelchair as you swerve around the furniture.  Not spilling a drop, obviously. Now, repeat the course with one eye covered. Finally, if you have passed the test so far, translate this whole exercise into a supermarket aisle with people walking in both directions,  plus trolleys, plus a child or two. Plus an elderly customer with a walker. The hot tea is replaced with a basket on your lap containing a list of things for you to find on the shelves. Having tried this I now have a  strict rule: two eyes must be used when driving in public.

I can’t down play the effect this has had on me; It’s not a case of making it humorous or dismissing it with a clever turn of phrase; this a disaster. Fortunately my vision is very rarely double; but it is quite blurred often and the eye strain when using both eyes at once is nauseating. I’ve rapidly learned all about the ‘Accessibility’ features on i-Things and computers, zooming in to get nice huge font sizes. I’ve discovered that some Kindle books are available with an Audio Narration, and that the words (nice, large words) are automatically highlighted as the voice reads them, and the pages turn by themselves.  It’s terrific! … if that’s the way you have to read. One of the hardest things is looking at people’s faces during conversation. The absolute hardest thing is unpacking the dishwasher: the constant change of focus is dreadful.

At the very same time that all this has been going on I happened to have another project of quite extraordinary proportion: I spoke to 1.2% of the world’s population. 60 million people around the globe heard my voice, briefly, on BBC radio. That’s quite a startling number, wouldn’t you say? I had submitted a question to a science programme, and they asked me to record it in my own voice. They included my recording in the programme that went to air, and they told me the size of their audience.  All of which just goes to show, once again, that life is a mix of the most amazing elements, highs and lows, grand and minute, exhilarating and tedious. It has taken quite some time to type this, with one eye, and a good big font; and that’s all there is to say. No more re-reading, no more checking for mistakes. Done!

Rejoice!

 

 

The Answer

When tomorrow arrived the apointment-eve nerves’ I wrote about in An Easter Miracle? were gone. It had been a restless night, but the day dawned bright. An exhilerated mood grew as I made my way to the appointment, and as the bus crossed the picturesque  river land between the two sides of our city I felt euphoric. I heard my own voice in my head saying “I am Roderick, I have such and such, and I’m fine”. Corny, I know, but at that moment life seemed utterly under control and I was surging with vitality.

The Neurologist was somewhat less euphoric; in fact he was skeptical at best. But he did agree that my list of symptoms was a good match for Myasthenia Gravis – the condition I had come to think I had. (Including this astonishing one: an absent gag reflex. The ENT specialist discovered this a while back, and since then doctors have delighted themselves sticking those wooden spatulas down my throat and saying, “Well, look at that!”) There was a particular test, he said, that would be conclusive in diagnosis, and he was quite happy to give it a try. All this happened nearly a fortnight ago, and the Final Exam took place on Friday just past.

Despite the Neurologist’s caution in my earlier visit he began Friday’s session with a buoyant comment which I remember indelibly:

“It would be fantastic if it was Myasthenia, because it’s totally treatable”.

Single Fibre EMG testing is not as bad as it sounds.  The Dr puts a couple of needles in your arm, and later your forehead, and sends a current between them. The current pulses and changes in speed and intensity; and the Dr. manipulates one of the needles until he can isolate contact with a single nerve fibre.  Thirty ‘good’ results need to be achieved in each location, and the average of a component called “jitter” provides the answer.  But it did take two and a half hours; more than enough to give you the jitters.

3_pertwee640The machine he used for this is a wonder to behold: it comes straight from the set of Dr. Who, but way, way back when Ian Pertwee was in the Tardis. The thing has a floppy drive, for goodness sake, and a prominent button marked DOS! Its a bit like the time-warp experience of climbing into a single engine Cessna aircraft and finding the interior of an EH Holden, complete with all that chrome trim.  This specialist is a bright, warm man, and it was good fun teasing him, mercilessly, about the antiquity of his machine – while wondering if something so ancient could really be relied upon….

I appreciated that he took the to explain it all to me, and showed me the figures as they emerged from his time machine (which has a printer roll, like a cash register!), and the table of normal results to which they were compared. I think he knew that I needed to be completely convinced about the outcome.

I can’t pretend that the answer was anything but despairing; even though I had tried to prepare myself in line with his skepticism.  During the long procedure I had talked with the specialist about the journey I had taken in convincing myself about this diagnosis. I told him how challenging it is for my wife (but I didn’t mention she is my Favourite) to continually face the unknown; more challenging than it is for me I am certain. For the first time I gave voice to my uncertainty about the future: the inability I have had in recent years to see myself beyond a couple of years ahead. I told him how a bright, long, alternate future had soared, phoenix-like, in my mind when I felt I knew what was wrong. He listened, and understood, but he said nothing at all to contradict my gloomy outlook.

The hours following both Neurology consultations were much the same: fear laden, depressive, angry (at what? who? Ive no idea), and senseless. Senselessness is the hardest by far.

I am immensely fortunate to have something in my character that is both sensitive and resilient. I can fall pretty hard at times, but within a day or three I seem to get back up without effort; time is enough to regain hope,  to find again all of my joy de vivre. I can neither explain this nor take any credit in it: I just know it will happen. I know it as a  sort of disconnected fact, even while feeling that all hope is lost for ever.

So after these turbulent weeks, I can honestly say that tonight I am fine with it all … nearly … mostly … almost. I am sorely tempted to say, “What if? If only……”, but that is such a mistake.  One thing I do fear is that I will ask myself, tonight, tomorrow, one day: “Why?”  Why the Easter Miracle? Why did I go through all this? What was this ultimately futile journey since the weekend of Easter all about?  Because to me the story, the unfolding, is all important.

I read a couple of weeks ago this intriguing line in ‘The Lord of the Rings’ (Which Teen Girl and I have been watching):

But being a cheery Hobbit he had no need of hope,
as long as despair could be postponed.                        – JRR Tolkien.

I can’t account for the hope I nearly always feel, except as an aspect of faith.  It is just there, by and large. Reliable, joyful, hope; is just there.

Rejoice!

 

Drop me a line, but let’s keep it bright!.


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