730 things — Day 120 of 365

I have observed in other people, and finding the same in myself, that ageing goes down in steps. Something happens — a person's gall bladder packs up or a knee/hip joint fails, or they experience a prolapse or some such depressing thing — and it moves them on a step. Afterwards, things that were easy no longer are.

The Covid season must surely have done that for many of us — it has for me. I went into it with some long-term burn-out issues, but otherwise very well provided I ate advisedly. 

When lockdown came to England, for our exercise each evening the women in our household went for a good long walk in the park. It's beautiful, hillside paths winding round lakes with birds and fish, under a canopy of mature trees.

And then one evening while we were out for our walk we intercepted a mugging — a man brutally attacking a woman out walking her dog. We were able to drive him off and go to her aid, but it put us off walking in the park. After that we didn't feel like going there any more, and walked round the block instead — a much shorter and more level walk.

Then the winter came, dark and wet, and we often skipped our evening walk.

Gradually, through the year, I moved less and sat more, and ended up with a spectacular harvest of blood clots and widespread vein inflammation which have taken me a very long time to shift. In addition I have become gradually more reclusive, disinclined to go out.

During the year my mother died. Her last months and her passing were faithfully accompanied by the toxic stuff that has poisoned relationships within my family of origin, and caused relentless sorrow and disharmony.

And now, in the UK's third Covid wave but with everyone cautiously emerging, I find I am coming out of it different from how I went in.

The family stuff deepened the burnout, the lockdown deepened my natural reclusiveness, the vascular issues have slowed me up and made me tired — there's a lot of pain involved. And I still have to nurse my liver along like a wayward toddler.

Recently I heard a friend who lives near to me had fallen ill. I was so sorry, and concerned for her, but also dismayed to have to accept that I simply no longer have the push, the energy, to offer to be one of those rallying round to help. Once I would have offered without thinking, now I sometimes need to pray up the energy to fulfil the small and undemanding requirements of my own day.

Last night, when I went to bed I listened to the sounds of the household. In the room next door Tony was in a Zoom chat with friends from the Association of Christian Writers, and downstairs Alice and Hebe were making music with Grace. It made me happy to hear them as I drifted off to sleep.

It is disconcerting to grow old. I'm as slow as a Yodel delivery these days, and I attempt very little. But it cheers me to find I am even so entirely content. I love my home and my family, I love the wild creatures that live round about and visit our garden. 

There's a fox who lives nearby. In the spring he arrived in the garden and came every day, wanting to sit near us and to help hang out the washing and join in with whatever was happening. We were surprised. Then we found out there's a kind of mange that affects a fox's brain, one of the symptoms being that the fox becomes unusually friendly. 

Our fox did have mange — we had noticed it and already started treatment for it. So in due course once the treatment was complete and had taken effect, he got better and stopped being so sociable. But he did get to know us in that time, so when we see him out and about sometimes on an evening walk and call to him, he recognises us, and stops, and pings us a "Hello" thought.

And this year's crow baby is being trained by its parents to know us and learn the drill for coming to be fed.

The cherries are ripening on the trees that grew once we'd planted them in the garden from the pots they arrived in, along with our Rosie when she stayed with us for a year or two between homes of her own.

The garden is full of blackcurrants and herbs and baby apples and flowers — and small birds flittering from tree to tree.

There is so much joy in life. 

Even when I fall asleep at night or wake in the morning, the fresh air through the window and the song of birds, the morning light and sometimes the sound of rain — how could you not be happy?

Now, today I am moving on two books — and they are most interesting ones that I have enjoyed, but I'm ready to pass them on.

One is all about the art of Edward Hopper — it's a lovely book that Tony gave me as a birthday gift. 

The other is about Prince Charles's glorious garden at Highgrove.

Both of these are really good books that I felt inclined to keep long after I could have passed them on; but if something's really good, why not share it?