A week on from the New Year and foks settle down after all the excitement of the holiday season. As described by a dear friend in the village, whose Mother passed before Christmas last year, leaving her husband grieving through the season, it can be a time of extremes - happy, happy, happy ... sadly reflecting on all the Christmases of the previous 80 years ... and that's how life can be processed. As it happens my friend's Father is staunch and not one for expressing emotions, though whether or not that's a good thing is for you to decide. My dear friend is just grateful to see January slowly approaching February, the light lasting longer each day, the Spring Equinox not so far away and on we go.
So, dear reader, what's the point of it all? Sunday, the day of rest, when we wear our Sunday best, is a day for reflection or used to be anyway. As regular readers will know, many humans confused by the complexities of the post-Christian era, falling into the grip of atheism as an extreme reaction ... known as throwing out the baby with the dirty bathwater ... instead have their souls kidnapped by the Luciferian crew, led by the fallen angel who brought the Light down to Earth, only to cast shadows in which the demons lurk. Of course, there's a psychological explanation for this metaphorical story and many messengers have visited from higher realms through the ages to teach us the nature of the trap and the ways out, back to the Light. You've heard this many times, dear readers, but let's face it, no-one is forcing you to read it, and since it keeps this old blogger amused to keep up with the studies, ponder the implications, discuss with like minded friends, like Bill and Jacqui today, and see where the worlds are heading, what's the harm? A neighbour at the end of the terrace, for example, was once a vicar, lost his Faith, declared himself atheist, and only recently returned to a new way to worship his God.
A brief flashback pops up from deep in the memory banks from the last time this old blogger had a health alert ... in fact he was so young he hardly recalls it. There were four of us at home then, all quite young. Mum was up to her neck in children when the third one was struck by a mystery disease, and the first memory is the siren of the ambulance taking me the 10 miles or so to Bournemouth General Hospital. After that, nothing much, except the odd visit from Mum when Dad could get away from his work, and the daily visits of Auntie Ivy, who worked in Bournemouth and visited every lunchtime. The story later told was that the medics had no idea of the cause and told Mum and Dad to prepare for the worst outcome, which was worrying for them, but not me, since no one told me I might die so young. There you go then, about 70 years sandwiched by two health scares! The filling has bee amazing of course, and who knows the timing of the last slice? The gypsy said a long life of at least 80, maybe into the 90s, but that's all conjecture ... meanwhile, let's enjoy this chapter to the full and not worry about this brief skirmish with death ... worry never helped anything, after all, did it?
And so Jacqui and Bill depart not long before dark. She spent most of the time cooking and clearing, while the two men discussed Life and its meanings. Rather stereotypical you might think, but she was cheerful and declined assistance, while we talked seriously, albeit with humour, about the psychic nature of these health attacks and ways to address them. More family pile in to the fray, including my nephew Graham, so correspondence with him was exchanged this morning and just now, when the light fades, curtains need closing, log burners firing up and you, dear readers get to consider how all this cosmic crisis is panning out.
Tomorrow Marta, Tuesday the daughters, after that? Who knows?
Time to shower before a small snack and bed ...
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