Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1031

Another late night…

It is late. It has been another busy day and it is not over yet. I have still to return my son whence he came… Hades comes to mind. Once, that is, he has finished wallowing in my carefully hoarded and steaming bath water. The very same for which I had plans tonight. Plans, I might add, that involved the delicious scent of lavender oil and rose, with perhaps a soupçon of dittany to aid the nice, relaxed dreams that were sure to follow. Instead, I am on taxi duty and by the time I get back home again it will be later still and I will probably not care about the bath.

I don’t exactly mind. I can sympathise with his desire to wallow. A shower is all very well for getting clean but I wouldn’t swap his Italian chrome and travertine marble for my simple white tub, not for anything. Sometimes, wallowing is good for the soul. As well as all the other bits.

Even so, the thought of yet another drive into town tonight is less than appealing. There is something about the denizens of the road on a Friday night that I do not care for. People who have finished their working week seem intent on relaxing as hard as possible and their grim determination seems reflected in the way many of them drive … and the long, dark road is a fast one connecting the villages to the town. Not a road to drive when you are tired.

Every so often I ask my son if he’s trying to kill me. He generally grins and replies that he’s doing his best. It usually involves a requirement for something physically impossible for one of my diminutive stature. Like perching precariously on kitchen worktops or shifting his weights vest … which weighs about as much as me… or trying out a new piece of exercise equipment. Or worse still, installing it, then trying it out.

I have, on numerous occasions, pointed out that I am not insured and that my untimely demise would only leave him with a bill to foot for my obsequies but this does not seem to deter him at all. He appears to think the local council won’t leave me above ground too long if I snuff it. On that score, at least, he probably has a point.

This time, however, he has surpassed himself with the projected journey next Friday. He wants me to go to London. In the car.

Not, I hasten to add, the bit of London with all the nice museums and churches and history and stuff. No… the bit with traffic, airports and the M25 between me and it. On a Friday. Which, if it doesn’t finish me off for him, should at least ensure I end up a gibbering wreck. And as I will once again be on taxi duty, he will get to watch. At least he is no longer surprised by my command of gutter English, which is something to be thankful for…in his teens, he taught me pretty much all I know.

I don’t really mind the drive next week… it will, after all, take us through some lovely countryside and past the grandeur of Windsor Castle and Hampton Court Palace by way of Runneymede where the Magna Carta was signed. What bugs me about it is the necessity. We are going to a specialist orthotics appointment… which is good. What bugs me is that, like so much of my son’s recovery, it is a private appointment at his own expense, the health service having provided no rehabilitation for him since 2010, a year after the attack that left him unable to walk.

The report from that final official physio appointment… of which a copy was also sent to my son… stated that his goal of walking again was ‘unrealistic’. A word which has since become a byword and spur for his constant efforts to prove them wrong. It gets to me sometimes how any system can so easily dismiss hope and the power of the human spirit based on no more than statistics and economics. I can understand the need to apportion strained resources to where they are deemed to be of most use… but not the curt dismissal of hope.

For now, however, he is cooling down and drying off in my spare room, attended by a small dog ecstatic at having one of her boys to cuddle. He had, quite unrealistically, taken himself up the stairs on his own two feet. He will, equally unrealistically, get himself back down the stairs too. Soon, I will take him home to a place he walks around unrealistically on his own two feet and, where, late or not, I will apparently get to electrocute him… so it isn’t that bad an evening after all.

Gateway

When reviews really matter…

Image source reddit.com

 “Bilbo Baggins was a Hobbit who lived in his Hobbit hole and never went for adventures, at last Gandalf the wizard and his Dwarves persuaded him to go. He had a very exiting (sic) time fighting goblins and wargs. At last they get to the lonely mountain; Smaug, the dragon who guards it is killed and after a terrific battle with the goblins he returned home — rich! This book, with the help of maps, does not need any illustrations it is good and should appeal to all children between the ages of 5 and 9.” Rayner Unwin’s review of The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien

In 1936 a ten year old boy was given a book by his father. This was not just any book, nor just any boy… Rayner Unwin was the son of Sir Stanley Unwin, founder of the publishing firm George Allen & Unwin. The lad was asked to write a report on the book, something he did regularly and for which he was paid the princely sum of one shilling, his father believing that the best judges of children’s books were children. Rayner wrote a reader’s review …and on the strength of that report his father published the book. A legend was born that continues to hold a place in both literature and our hearts. Without that review The Hobbit might never have been published and J.R.R. Tolkien might have remained an obscure professor.

Without the publication of that children’s book that has captured so many young minds, would we have ever known the greater story of the Lord of the Rings… and would the fantasy genre be what it is today? Who knows. But it just goes to show how important a review can be.

Reviews matter.

Books need reviews. We’re always hopeful… writers… we all would like reviews. Preferably good ones, of course… hopefully starting with something that says the reader loved the book/story/writing style/ideas… something, anything that allows us to heave a sigh of relief and know someone has seen something in the book the author had tried to put there. They make our day… or ruin our month if they aren’t so good! Either way, I doubt any writer is blasé or indifferent.

Yet many readers do not leave a review and there seem to be many reasons for that. I never did either… until I started writing and realised just how much they can mean to the author. These days I get little chance to read, but I will always leave a review when I have enjoyed a book or found it useful… even if it takes me a while.

I suppose, like many, I didn’t feel that I… a mere reader… had any right to leave a review. I wasn’t qualified to do a book review! They are, after all, things people who work for newspapers and magazines are employed to write… professional people. But then, they are critics, who can launch to stardom or consign to the wastepaper basket of literary history the blood, sweat and tears of writers. No, I realised… eventually… that no one is more qualified to write a review that a proper reader who has actually read a book because they have chosen to do so… and who has engaged with the writer’s words and imagery. It is, after all, only the imagination of the reader that transforms the words from mere ink on paper to a vivid tale.

Of course, I had always bought a lot of my books second-hand. So I couldn’t leave a review on Amazon. Except… you can. Even if you haven’t bought the book from them. And there is Goodreads too… and for bloggers and users of social media there are plenty of other options. So I had no excuse.

But how on earth do you begin to write a review? I read other reviews… got a feel for the type of things people looked for and mentioned. That was a start. Overview of the basic premise of the book, things they really liked, any things they didn’t… and how much they had enjoyed it. It seemed simple enough. I had a go and found that it really was.

On the other end of the scale, as a writer, I realise how hard it is to get reviews. People… especially on sites such as Amazon and Goodreads… do look at them and although they may not be the final factor in whether or not a book is purchased, for many they are a major influence. I also know how I feel when someone leaves even the shortest of positive reviews… especially when they come from people I really don’t know.

Bad reviews I will not leave. Stating that a book was not to your personal taste, or highlighting something that didn’t really work for you is one thing; lambasting an author is a different matter altogether. There is always something positive to say… one of the worst books I was asked to review… and which shall remain nameless… had obviously been thoroughly researched and it was obvious the writer had put heart and soul into their work. I stand with Thumper on that…

ARS GEOMETRICA XI

Originally posted on Stuart France:

‘For God created man immortal, and made him in the image of his own eternity.’
– The ‘Twentieth’ Leaf

The preceding image we had to own did not seem to us particularly god-like.

We turned the leaf:

The Twenty-First Leaf

…Although that description most definitely did.

Finally we came to the last leaf of the little gold-plated book.

It did not come before time.

Already a golden dawn was beginning to blaze through the blinds of our study window.

The Twenty-Second Leaf looked like this:

We walked to our bedroom in a daze, collapsed on the bed, and fell into a fitful sleep.

We dreamed of two rooms the exact reverse of each other.

One was in shadow.

The other was lit.

We awoke around Noon.

We walked into the living room to find the window open and the little golden book gone.

We fell to our knees and sobbed.

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The longest days…

“There is a god…”

My tormentor grinned ecstatically. Though quite why he feels the Good Lord should choose to manifest proof of His existence in the tortured screams of a perfectly good hobbit, I do not know. My son, however, was enjoying himself.

I had walked the dog, done a little housework and answered the overnight emails before arriving at my son’s home at eight. A few minutes later I was applying massage to his aching carcass… the self-inflicted pummelling he had given his body the night before had taken its toll and he was sore.

“You can thump me,” he had offered. The temptation, of course, is great. He generally gives me ample reason to take him up on such an offer. Sadly, however, he was referring to The Thumper, a heavy duty muscle massager that comes into its own the morning after the night before… when the night before has seen him doing one of the intense workouts that are part of his recovery routine.

This thing weighs a ton and by the time I have attacked his muscles, mine ache and my wrists are deeply unhappy. I could use a massage myself.

While he recovered from the thumping with tea in bed, I did his housework, cooked a ham, prepared the lads’ night dinner and dealt with the deliveries and other jobs he had lined up for me. I took his vile, green smoothie through when he had gone into the living room. He needs half an hour after drinking it for gravity to get the sludge down before we can move on to his breakfast and he had plans for filling that time.

“I’ve found you a video…” His idea was to show me his new equipment. I’m down with that… he comes up with some good stuff to aid his recovery and he had mentioned this thing. I couldn’t see what good a foam roller could do, but then, in my mind a foam roller was one of those things you use to paint the ceiling. There, on the floor, was a large sausage of solid foam, almost as big as me. “It’ll do you good,” he said, evidently expecting me to have a go.

Yeah, right…

Now, I’d woken up with tight shoulders and incipient migraine… he might have a point. He had explained that this thing was a bit like ironing muscles. It couldn’t hurt. He laughed. Apparently, it could. And he, seated comfortably on the sofa, was looking forward to it.

He pressed ‘play’. The lithe, leotarded figure, beautifully coiffed and made-up, looked a million dollars. And about thirty years younger than me. “I’ll pause it, “ he said, “so you can do each one.” The lithe figure propped herself up on her wrists and started rolling around on the sausage thing. Didn’t look too difficult. I creaked my way to the floor.

What you don’t realise it that your own body weight does a hell of a good job of getting deep into those muscles. We started at the legs. By the calves I was squealing. And I didn’t even know shins had muscles that could hurt so much.

My son, laughing hysterically at the noises emanating for the ragged heap on the floor, pressed play again. We went for the lats. He told me I could stop if I wanted…. knowing full well that is the kind of challenge that will keep me going. He gets his stubbornness from somewhere after all. And anyway… I had real hopes of the upper back… if this rolling around was this effective, it had to do my neck and shoulders the world of good!

He was grinning like a maniac by the time I howled my way through the next set. He reassured me that I was going to hurt like hell later.

And the bloody video stopped without getting anywhere near the neck and shoulders!

After half an hour I left him to his hilarity, crawling on hands and knees towards the kitchen to rescue the honey roast ham from his oven and make his breakfast. I wanted to lie down. Preferably in a hot bath. With painkillers.

We would, he said, go to the garden centre.

By this time it was actually a beautiful day with temperatures rising. I, of course, was wearing a heavy fleece… it had been cold when I left home early that morning. Heaving the wheelchair out of the boot for the second time… the first garden centre had been a washout… we set off in search of one or two plants.

For some reason the garden centre was all uphill and the wheelchair had been exchanged for a heavy duty one with a trolley attached, so it felt like I was pushing a small train. The trolley was soon filled to overflowing with everything from acidanthera to zinnia and I heaved the whole kit and caboodle back to the car and proceeded to turn the boot into a horticultural tardis. Not for the first time… his garden has, in its entirety, been shipped in my car.

Then, of course, we had to plant them. Which meant first weeding and clearing the debris from all the flower beds. “It must be heaven for you to be able to plant such nice things,” said my son. He knows my love of gardening and had commented favourably on my memory for Latin names, growth habits and soil requirements. I may have groaned quietly.

It was some eleven hours after I had left home before I finally got back… and I am told I will ache tomorrow. He may have that wrong. I ache tonight. His garden, however, looks lovely. My son and I worked together to get it done as I began to teach him how to recognise weed from seedling, how to plant, the where’s and whys. We talked as we worked, and he made plans for climbers, pots and hanging baskets. The robin flew in and out, exploring the worm rich soil as we turned it, a wren perched in the standard rose, watching events and picking off stray insects. Butterflies danced like magical petals in the air and the bees are awake and about their business. There were red kites wheeling over the garden and sparrows dashing about at top speed, whirring their tiny wings above our heads.

By the time we were done, my son had put down roots of his own, making the garden that had been created for him into his garden… one he has filled with perfume and colour, a garden he really knows, one he has a relationship with and will watch grow with an intimately personal interest as he cares for plants he put into the ground with his own hands.

Sometimes the longest days are the best.

P.S. It is still only spring here… the pictures are from the last major foray to the garden centre :) The roses are not yet in bloom.

Dear Wen XXIII

Originally posted on Stuart France:

Dear Wen…

That doesn’t surprise me… No will power.

It’s all to do with your earthly descent I expect…

We still need to visit the Anglo Saxon church at Northampton…

Do we know which of the Nine Mary’s and what the window is depicting?

It is a spooky feeling to realise the worthy ‘Devil Conjuror’ himself doubtless gazed upon the same window.

An interesting tale and one that should fit with some of our themes in the latest offering which is no doubt why we were sent there… There was an Old Woman…

I wish we’d looked at the well now…my fault really, had the thought but ignored it…still it’s not like its a million miles away… and it looks like you can drink from it… Much prefer the new set up…a veritable Little House of the Living…

The Dunstan devil looks like Gollum… and the figure as a whole…

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The dog’s lead (and a word about Fionn mac Cumhaill)

The dog has gone to bed in deep disgust at my defection

The sofa cushions moulded to ensure her night’s protection,

She didn’t get her walk tonight, the sun went down without her

As my attention lay elsewhere on stuff that’s not about her.

We’d walked the fields this afternoon so don’t think she’s hard done by

The small dog has her methods; my attention’s easy come by…

She simply looks pathetic and then offers me a ball

Or does the pleading dance and brings her leash in from the hall.

Tonight, though, I had Stuff to do that needed every minute

And though she gave the game her best for once she didn’t win it.

Somehow it seems she understood and let me get down to it

Without distracting tennis balls perhaps she knew I’d do it.

Tomorrow though of course we know will be another day

And she’ll want compensating with a walk to make me pay.

I hope the forecast’s decent, we’ll be going out whatever

Please let the day provide us with a bit of nice spring weather!

But now it’s way past midnight and there’s just one thing I need…

The small dog has the right idea, I’m following her lead.

Those of us owned by our four legged tyrants know well that it is a tyranny rooted in love. Dogs do something special to our hearts and heal us in ways we could not imagine.But sometimes it is they who need our help to heal.

Ani’s friend Fionn mac Cumhaill  is a joyous young labradoodle who has just been diagnosed with Addison’s disease after a harrowing weekend. Fionn’s two-legs, Morgana West of the Glastonbury Pilgrim Reception Centre writes,

“Fionn came bouncing into my world and, for the first time in a few years, I have felt joy again.  It has taken a while and I feel I have been on a very long journey somewhere not of this world, but Fionn has helped to bring me home again.”

Morgana has set up a blog for Fionn, you can follow his story here. And if you can help, their campaign page, set up by their friends, for his ongoing medication and treatment is here. Thank you.

Veil

Inner whispers

Originally posted on The Silent Eye:

Every so often there is a shift in a life’s pattern that leads you off at a new tangent. Sometimes these are things you have worked for, dreamed of and created for yourself… an opportunity seen and grasped. Sometimes these events simply land in your lap and you have to choose whether or not to accept them and go with them… and sometimes there simply is no choice.

Occasionally these new directions may leave people questioning your sanity… why would you take such a risk after all, when there is no real reason to do so that is obvious to the outside world. You are doing okay, everything seems to be in order and life is pootling along quite nicely, thank you very much. Suddenly you pull the metaphorical rug from under your own feet and start behaving in what the world might see as an unusual manner.

‘Mid-life crisis’…

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Unwrapped

“Can I have that in writing?”

“Don’t be silly…”

“Worth a try,” I sighed. My son laughed… well aware that, being an optimist I will keep trying, but no amount of blandishments will persuade him to put anything nice about me in writing. Especially compliments. Especially when he has admitted the unthinkable… like, for example, that I have been right about something.

We had spent several hours looking at new ways of helping my son achieve his goal of being able to walk again. I am hesitant to mention that he had, after a couple of years, decided to try something I had nagged suggested he try. I am neither nurse nor therapist, I am not an anatomist either, but I have had to learn and I know my son’s injuries and their effects as a whole pretty well. Observing his posture I was struck by a very basic thought… he has fallen arches. He has always had fallen arches. Had anyone considered that, I asked? Apparently not.

Using my hands as rudimentary arch supports his posture was immediately better. That he was standing on me obviously added to his enjoyment of the whole affair, but we can gloss over that. By lifting the arches his feet were able to make the minute muscular adjustments needed for balance; his knees rotated to an instantly better alignment, as did hips, spine and shoulders. That was interesting. He ordered some insoles to try… they would really need to be properly custom made in the long term, but a trial pair might give a better indication than my fingers of the possible benefits.

I hung around this morning, hoping the delivery would arrive before I went home and we talked about the way most parts of the health system are now so specialised that they deal uniquely with their own specialism and somehow do not seem to seek to trace the underlying cause of a problem. Knee people don’t look at shoulders, hip people don’t look at feet… So, for instance, my son pays one therapist to work on his strength and fitness, another looks at injuries caused by exercise, another to work on neuro-rehabilitation etc… They all, as he said, do their best, using different approaches to achieve the same end…often giving conflicting advice. Yet when stripped back down to first principles, there is little or no difference in what they are attempting to do.

We sat in the doorway making the inevitable comparisons. Most of us only every stay within our own ‘specialisms’… our comfort zones, our niches of political, social or religious belief…and we can argue to the point of war about those specialisms. Yet all any of us are trying to do is live the best way we can.

“You see it a lot within the spiritual community…” I continued.

“I knew you’d bring nerkism into it…” I ignored him.

“… many Wiccans won’t attend Qabbalistic rites, ritualists look down on those taking a naturalistic path, one school of thought steers clear of another… Same with religions… yet take that back to first principles and what are we all doing? What is it that each and every one within those communities seek to do? Serve the Light… just that… by whatever name we call It. There is no difference in the intent… only in the method and approach.”

“Like identical items in different gift-wrapping.”

That was it precisely. We set the boundaries beyond which we do not go, forgetting they are our own constructs; blinded by walls of our own building our vision us foreshortened and we seldom look back to those first principles… the gift unwrapped.

We talked some more, marking time in the hope of a delivery that failed to arrive. Being a bank Holiday there was no guarantee after all that they would arrive, regardless of the confirmation emails he had been sent. So it was late afternoon when he called…

He had tried the insoles. He had been disappointed at first, but a little perseverance had shown the possibilities and he had been moved to call. ‘Could I have that in writing?’ I had asked again…

For once, apparently, I was in for a surprise…

“I feel a blog post coming on,” I responded, wishing to mark the occasion in some way.

“I had a feeling you might,” he replied….