Get It?

Let’s Play

I spent a magical afternoon yesterday with a significant proportion of my family, enjoying myself.

There was food, wine, Harry Potter, putting the world to rights, (‘The government has no money, mum’, ‘Oh, OK, we’ll let them all starve then, shall we?’), The Ashes, (Cricket match against Australia, Darlene. You know, three days long, with breaks for tea. We’re winning.) and there was play.

LOTS of it. Hide-and -seek in a garden with only two places to hide, provided a bit of a challenge, but I’m a seasoned grandmother, and I rose to it. Rosie and I conspired together not to see one another, and Abigail did the counting.

A few days ago, I was rooting about in my ‘office’ when I came across this:

I’ve had it for more than thirty years. For thirteen years, it was posted in a prominent place in my school, and it was the most significant document in my possession. ‘This is how we do it here.’ It said, and we meant it.

That was then, and this is now. I glanced down the list, and it dawned on me that this stuff isn’t just for kids! I think that grown-ups could transform their relationships, or form new and exciting ones, by taking a few of these on board:

27. Invite them over for juice.
28. Suggest better behaviours when they act out (Well, perhaps not THIS one… .)
30. Hide surprises for them to find.
44. Tell them how terrific they are.
45. Create a tradition together and keep it.
50. Find a common interest.
51. Hold hands during a walk.
58. Point out what you like about them.
96. Delight in their uniqueness.
120. Write a chalk message on their sidewalk. (A personal favourite… .)
124. Encourage them to help others.
147. Be spontaneous.
150. LOVE THEM NO MATTER WHAT.

The point I’m trying to make, is: When did you stop having fun? Good, serious, bare feet in the park, giggling in the sea, FUN.

I rarely boast of my achievements, but here’s one I’m proud of.

I never have. Stopped. You know it.

🙂

Mindfulness And The Art Of Staying Awake

I have invented – I think, though I haven’t read much of Thomas Aquinas, and he may have got there first – the doctrine of Pre-Atonement.

What happens is this, you build up a store of good deeds, which you then draw upon,when the necessity arises, to cancel out those occasions when you temporarily forget yourself and do something naughty. I have appointed St Peter to keep the ledger, as I hear he has just been debarred from any further involvement with The Vatican Bank, and therefore, he has time on his hands.

Naturally, as I lead a blameless life, there is no occasion to test out the Pre-Atonement thesis. But then, I’m a Catholic and you can fall foul of God without even knowing it when you’re a Catholic, so having a back-up plan is a good idea.

I am getting around to telling you all about the Parochial Pastoral Council meeting that I attend, and take the minutes for, which happened last evening, and at which I pre-atoned for a barrel full of very juicy sins indeed.

I have been taking lessons in ‘Mindfulness’, which means, for the uninitiated, that you concentrate on staying awake. Now any Parochial Pastoral Council provides an ideal training ground, and that after a dozen of ours, I reckon I qualify as a Zen master. Give me the paper. Let me take the test. I’ll ace it.

My biggest obstacle is that I know what I’m doing. I can do meetings, strategic planning, project management, evaluation schedules … . Such outrageous over-qualification automatically disbarred me from any active role in the running of the parish. So I take the minutes and gaze with blissful awareness in the direction of whomsoever is warbling on about the colour of weatherboarding, and I smile.

We made a decision. Don’t run away with the idea that we didn’t achieve anything. We chose which charities we’re going to support. I was the only person to put her hand up for ‘Mindsong’ a charity that goes into care homes and sings to people with dementia.

‘You must know something about this one!’ The chair is grasping at straws. Having the people present to represent the charity they nominated, smacks too much of organisation.

‘Not a thing!’ I beam, mindfully, ‘But I want someone to come and sing to me when I’ve got dementia!’ Oh, don’t laugh, I was being serious.

Do you want to know any more? I doubt it. So you can stop now. However:

Ida Underwood burbles on, pathologically incapable of sticking to the point, or even of making one. She skits from thought to thought with no evident connecting consciousness. She epitomises mystery.

And on, and on. I’m still mindful, still awake, still smiling.

A mild flutter over commemorating the Centenary of The First World War. ( We who follow the Prince of Peace need to be careful about this one.)

No decision made on the weatherboarding.

And a huge moan about how we never get anything done.

Oh! God! Help me.

Exercise Nearly Killed Me

I am losing the plot, somewhat, finding it harder and harder to think of things to blog about. I consider that I’ve done rather well, having meandered across God, poetry, travelogue, autobiographical revelation, enlightenment, political discourse and story-telling, not necessarily in that order: all of which are empty vessels, making no noise at all, at this moment.

But, in order to keep up with my aim of achieving 10,000 page views before I die, including one from Albania, I have to keep writing – and tag Norman Wisdom.

I have nothing else to say about Norman Wisdom. EXCEPT that he looked strikingly like my late father-in-law. ( Who was a fan.) Sorry, Albania.

So. I’m resorting to my least favourite topic: Health And Fitness.

The New Scientist Tweets me it’s content every day, and today one of the articles I read was about how this marvellous biological machine I am occupying, on a temporary basis, has evolved for endurance running, but without having selected for enjoyment in doing so.

Hmmm, I thought, that’s interesting. I bet I can blog on that.

Here’s the scenario: Early hominid ( formerly known as ‘Cave Man’) has to run like the Dickens in order to bag eland. S/He doesn’t HAVE to enjoy the experience, or be overwhelmed with a desire to repeat it, because if s/he doesn’t hop to it – I’m not here writing this.

Contrast this with me and cheesecake. I lust after cheesecake, I’m up and at it with no prompting, I have evolved to want to eat cheesecake, most especially the chocolate variety. It’s just unfortunate that I merely have to walk three paces to the refrigerator to nab it. I may have to work on this.

My ancestors, to whom I admit I owe a certain gratitude, have left me encumbered with a continual battle against my affinity for sitting still and stuffing myself with goodies. They are to blame for my dress size.

Let us now ponder the ‘high’ runners get after a swift 10 000 metres round the block. They are elated because the woolly mammoth is in sight: buzzing because the hairy rhinoceros is in the bag. Their ancestry rewards them for loping through the early morning drizzle, and for cornering the catch. Not for shaking off the bearskin and heading for the cave mouth. Something is amiss.

Exercising is a chore. I don’t know anybody who wants to exercise. I admit you’re probably out there, too busy competing with the pacemaker software to bother with this. I have a friend, thin as a rail , who exercises TWICE a day, but is never happy about it. Is anyone? Apart from the fitness bores?

I did put myself out to some extent today though: I made the effort to comment on the article that sparked me off:

Humans Are Endurance Champs Why Do We Hate Exercise?: Daniel Lieberman

Here’s my comment:

“Exercise Nearly Killed Me …

I almost died of boredom during a water aerobics class, so I took up Arabian Dance. I also invented ‘bath gym’ which is great, but has to come with anti-drowning caveats so cumbersome, the book lies unwritten. Oddly enough, I’m NOT joking.

The gym culture and the driven ‘do better’ emphasis of many exercise programmes, hold no appeal for me. So thinking of something that gets me moving and keeps me smiling at the same time, may have added years to my life.”

Footnote:

Email me a plain brown paper envelope, marked, ‘Private And Confidential’ for, Bath Gym: Warm Up and Work Out In Three Easy Steps

Fragment

Somewhat unexpectantly
Tears came.
Fortunately, I caught the cry
Before it took on sound.
I can weep, when I have to,
Silently.

The Pendulum Swings

God knows how. It’s a mystery.

I expect you think I’m being metaphorical on the pendulum question. Poets have the write. But no. This post is not a plea for politicians to behave themselves, or family values to go this way or that. It’s about a remarkable timepiece.

Three years ago I bought a rather kitschy clock in Aberystwyth. It’s a glass-fronted pretty little thing with flowers and songbirds etched around its face. I gave it to Kate as a house-warming present, but somehow in her going from here to there and back again, the clock, still boxed, ended up in the spare room with a rich collection of my daughters’ left overs.

Well, I like it. So I deboxed it, and hung it on the wall in my bedroom.

It’s a stupid clock in some ways. It has birds and flowers, but no numerals, so timing is never quite exact, and the pendulum is purely decorative. Or has been. For two years the pendulum has hung stubbornly and uselessly down. In the beginning, I tapped, pulled, adjusted, swore, tinkered and, in desperation, bashed, to no avail. The pendulum moved not a twitch. I gave up.

This is hard for me. I don’t usually give up, and, believe me, this is not always a good thing. Eventually I allowed the pendulum BE a metaphor:

There are some fights you can’t win.
Some things you just can’t fix.
There’s room in my life for the purely decorative

I reconciled myself to a clock with a pendulum that wasn’t going to work.

And then – a window opened, and the sun shone in, and the pendulum began to swing.

Early morning sunshine struck the silver disc and reflected a shiny penny of light, which oscillated gently – left, right, left, right, on the wall to my right, . It was this movement that first caught my eye. It took me less than a second to look up and to the left and discover the clock proudly presenting me with a fully functioning pendulum. Left-right, left- right. Tick, tock, tick tock. (Poetic licence. Battery-driven clocks don’t tick, or tock, sadly)

That was twenty minutes ago. It’s still going. I am thinking perhaps the slight breeze coming in through the open window is the cause. I don’t know, I’m afraid to touch it in case it stops. Instead, I shall revisit my metaphors:

Never write anything off
Sometimes broken things fix themselves
There’s still room in my life for the purely decorative.

Time to get up.

Oh! By the way, Kate – if you read this – you’re not getting your clock back.

Something Of You

I drove unthinking
Past a stop sign –
Deep, deep, into the desert.

I sat beside self-pity and said
How much better it would be
Were I Young and Beautiful
Heartless
Rich
And
Powerful.

(Even self-pity laughed!)

Well, the tears came.
And they were sweet.
So sweet.
You see, I have been in the desert.
I have:

Lain
Beneath brilliant skies.

Drowned in silence.

Found myself.

Discovered my true Name

And – when you were asleep –
I whispered it to you.

I learned that it is not
The Hopes, Dreams, Lovers
That are gone, that matter,

But what remains.

Though we will never kiss
Or behaviour with such
Amazing irresponsibility
Again

Here, in the Deep I walk with
Something of you.

Something very precious
Not guarded, or owned.

Not quite understood.