...

Melvyn Bragg talks too quickly on the radio. Funnily enough it's not so noticeable on the television, nor is the annoying timbre of his voice. I must remember to turn him off next time and not just listen getting annoyed. It's not good for my SW!

soul less ... is more ...

Sorry, I haven't really moved on with this preoccupation with the business of spiritual wellbeing and souls.  Please just ignore me as I think, a tricky business, aloud.  While my subconsious mind machinates on the concept of "I think therefore I am" where the assumption "I am" is a different entity to the physical me, let me ask you if you watched sex-on-legs Prof Cock explain the Wonders of Life? I'm quite happy to believe I'm just a cascade of protons but what about that dragonfly eh? What is the point of metamorphosis?  I'm not talking Kafka here I'm talking caterpillars, tadpoles and the like. They exist happily in these states, successful life achieved, why the change into something completely different?  It's bound to be something to do with sex, it always is, but it must surely have been as easy to evolve reproductive capabilities as a caterpillar, as the massive change to a dragon/butter fly? Well obviously not ... Think I'll have a look what Prof Google has to say about the evolutionary process of the dragonfly.  Excuse me just a moment I will return...

Ok, not so much sex as flying, try telling that to the amphibians.

Here if you're interested.

So back to this, my naive outlook on souls /spirits. I have to take you round the houses a bit here because this thought process involved a conversation I was having with the lady who very kindly drives me to the hospice where I have art therapy - this is therapy not because I'm about to croak, but because I was and now I'm not, well not in the immediate now unless I fall under a bus, the kind of thing that can happen to anyone careless enough to be looking the wrong way. Although living as I do in a small village, buses are a rarity, it would more likely be a tractor...

... I was describing to this kind and long-suffering lady a soulless building. Not devoid of people, but devoid of character, faceless, dead and cold. Ah ha! Thunk I, I can apprciate the concept of soul - less, so by definition and logical conclusion I must know what I think soul is! It's an uphill struggle I know, I feel your pain.

I'm going with 'soul' incidentally because 'spiritual' is too intertwined and messed up with religion in my head and I can't convince myself that a set of rules and practices invented by mankind can have anything whatsoever to do with life, the universe and everything.  And Tim who knows everything and uses long words says they're the same. Where was I? Oh yes our internal, if not eternal, souls.

Back to the beginning then, where we were thinking therefore we were, what were we? Well for want of a better word, a soul. Our thoughts and emotions expressing themselves as our character and personality, shaped by external influences for sure, but in essence apart and separate and making an individual, individual.  So I think this ... If I am allowing negative external influences effect my thoughts and emotions to an extent that I can hardly control them and they are spiralling downwards, then my spiritual wellbeing is frankly shite. If, on the other hand, in spite of any malign influences and with the help of all the good floating about out there, I am what is underratedly termed content, then my spiritual wellbeing is good thanks, as is my soul.

I know this is pathetically simplistic but my mother was catholic, need I say more?

tell me the answer (42)

In the course of my recent life I see at least one or two medical professionals each week. Not just doctors, but physiotherapists, occupational therapists, psychologists, my current favourite the art therapist, dieticians, radiologists, you get the picture? My life is governed to a great extent by visiting or being visited by *ists. And a jolly lovely and life saving lot they are too. Indeed in about half an hour I’m off to see the physiotherapist termed with some affection the physioterrorist and she is a hard task master. But 18 months of not doing a great deal and being opened up front and back has left me wobbly.  She leaves me achy and wobbly a win win by her standards. 

What all these lovely people have in common is a clipboard or pc or some such device to record my progress each week / month  etc and one of the questions they ask besides the most obvious is “how is your spiritual wellbeing” and this one stumps me every time because by the time we get to this one I’ve already answered the aches and pains and mental and mood questions. I have no conception of the nuances of spirituality. In my (no doubt limited) mind it conjures up those people who find their strength in believing in something for which I can see no evidence. When I have asked what it means I am told various sort of woolly things like it’s my love of my fellow man, or a sense of togetherness with one and all. And in a woolly sort of way I get that, but is that spiritual? In an effort to explain more fully one of the hospice staff pointed out a young vicar type person and asked me if I couldn’t tell that he was spiritual because he spent his time caring for the wellbeing of all these cancer patients. To me he seemed a very kind and compassionate young man and that was it - no added extra and frankly he didn’t need it he was good to go as he was. 

So no, I still don’t get it and I’m sick of being asked because I don't know the answer - but I better go now because I don’t want to be late for my *ist.

you say you want a revolution . . .

One of my Christmas presents from my scrummy daughters was to go out to Tea, a much deserved of a capital T Tea, in a quite-near-to-us-V-posh hotel. 

We dressed up, brushing the mud off our shiny boots and set forth in our finery to sample the delights of minding our Ps and Qs* in a completely overindulgent and as irreverent a way as possible.

A starched white linen cloth on an old oak table with perfectly folded napkins was set for us in a bay window overlooking the gardens which were gorgeous even in the rain. 

The Tea, brought to us on a triple porcelain tray, of small, crustless, rectangular  sandwiches; perfect, warm, crumbly, melt-in-the-mouth scones with clotted cream and strawberry jam (that was more strawberries than jam) and assorted exquisitely presented and delicious homemade cakes including crisp and chewy meringue (just how I love it), chocolate brownies, fruit slices and mince-pies, was enough to feed far more than the three of us.  It’s amazing how we exclaimed over the humble sandwich, normally the last resort of comestibles chez nous, but so delicious when so daintily cut and presented and with such yummy, if sometimes unidentifiable, fillings.  We licked jam and cream from our fingers (but in a refined manner), stopping only to ahh and ooh over the sheer unadulterated delight of consuming more calories than is good for one or even three.

Resting for a breather half way through, hands resting lightly on rounded tummies, some of us surreptitiously undoing a button, our chatter turned to the serious subject of New Year’s Revolutions as they’re known to us since a sweet but serious small child, who shall remain nameless, but wasn’t my first born, titled her first list of future aspirations way back in the mists of time (1995). 

Firstborn, who has been resolving the same issue since she was 5, said she would endeavour to keep her room tidy, or at the very least ensure there was a pathway between the door and her bed. Baby-Doc resolved to exercise more frequently and eat more healthily, and me? I resolved to not get married again. We didn’t want to set ourselves up for failure so we impressed on Baby-Doc that her’s was a ridiculous aspiration and she should go for something more achievable.  In the end we all agreed to not to get married (some of us again).

Sor’ed as they say in all the best establishments around here.

So to you all who may pass here I wish you the very best and everything you deserve for 2013, and may the rain seldom fall on your parade.

MAY HEALTH and HAPPINESS BE YOURS

(and mine please)

*what are Ps and Qs?

Baby-Doc and Firstborn

no entry for old women ...

Well here's a thing! I just knocked on my neighbour's door. The door of Kirsty-Cat, so called because she has 8 cats, to deliver the cat food that she had asked me to pick up for her, having spotted me venturing out in my wellies and snorkel, and having less sense than her. It was 11.30 mind when I sallied forth, and her still in her pink dressing gown. Anyway the knock wasn't answered. My ever over imaginative mind leapt to all manner of dreadful things that could befall a maiden in just her pink dressing gown, specially one who was finishing off a number of bottles that we hadn't completely emptied over this drinking holiday. So I rushed off, fetched her spare key and looked for the body. It was nowhere. The rain continueth, the wind bloweth mightily and her car was still there, as were her wellies and dogs. I trotted next door to Sensational-Susie's to ask her if she'd spotted KC's body floating past and here's the thing! The thing I started with, SS wouldn't let me in. "Is KC here?" I asked, peering round her to see what she was hiding, 

"Eh yes" she said, shiftily. I was momentarily distracted from her general demeanour of guilty secretiveness on noticing her thigh length boots, not waders mind, which would be sensible, but more of your man eating boots. 

A sheepish KC appeared round the door in full glam makeup and hairdo. 

"?!" Quoth I 

"Eh, we're having a little photography session" 

"?!"

"And profile writing..."

I begged them to let me in to watch and 'advise' but they shut the door in my face! 

Honestly I was laughing with them not at them, meanies. 

When I've posted this I'm going back over to demand entrance or peer through the letterbox. I shall take my phone and hopefully sneak a picture or two for your delectation. 

I have to admire them, I wouldn't have the nerve to put myself out there, but I wish to be included vicariously, that's only fair. I'll take bottle of something fizzy, that'll get me in.