For the last week I’ve had a choice to either DO or to write, and with Linda home, I went and DID and then recovered to do some more. I am glad that my body in long enough that we could buy our own food for Xmas, and drink mulled wine (still stuff I brought over, so some nicely aged Cab Sauv, Champagne and Port).
By day and by week, there are the things which make ‘the aching, the crisis, the whole body gone wrong, life gone wrong, is this really what is left?’ bearable.
There were a few Xmas light shows I wanted to photograph, as they seemed to need a dedicated substation, particularly when I could see the glow of the house several blocks away on the main road. One almost induced a seizure, perhaps that was the electrical light display on the house walls. How do they sleep?
We watched ‘Call the Midwife’ Christmas special (due to my having a TV license in the UK, sorta). Oh, and the first episode of Ripper Street about cases in 1889 at the Whitechapel Police Station. When a suspect told the bobby to ‘stick that in your fundament’ I sighed and mourned for diversity of insults lost. A knowledge of basic Cockney helps too. Toff, meaning dressed gentleman, is mentioned in Mayhew’s facinating London Labour and the London Poor (a wonderful read).
I watched the London Fireworks for New Years. I missed the Nos Galan Race, which is held 15 miles from Cardiff in Mountain Ash at midnight. It celebrates the legendary runner Guto Nyth Bran who is buried at the church in the village (nice drive, and good hiking nearby).
There were a lot of things I wanted to see: choral singing in the St. Anne’s rectory, winter faire – but I have to follow the body whether I want to or not. So I plan what I WANT to do, and then I sleep and wake and fail 9 times out of 10.
No one thinks, ‘Gee, I’ll go to uni and then get ill, and lose function until I die.’ But it happens. I cannot support myself, I can’t, at times, feed myself. I need assistance breathing every day, sometimes both waking and sleeping. It just is. I could get angry, or I could be happy that I rested enough that my liver could handle me drinking mulled wine. I might be frustrated at what function I don’t have, but I am also glad that I have a hand and wrist steel and tension brace and forearm docks to hold my arms, to hold my wrists so I can write. Without that, I wouldn’t have been still writing notes and cards on December 25th (As long as it gets in the postal box, it isn’t late, right?).
Grace among many definitions can be: favor bestowed. Those two words, whether it is Linda picking up a favorite food, or feeling not so bad and seeing the sun through blue sky, sum up the parts of life I focus upon. That’s why 2013 is: my year of grace (for one week or 52). Later today, I hope to do a puzzle.
That’s what I’ve been doing ‘tween the 25th and the 1st, how about you?
2 hours ago