Odd one out

Whatever else is going on (test results still awaited) and in spite of the ups and downs and grinding frustrations of my present state I've got some mobility back and that's extraordinary.

The aspens are still as glorious, though over the last day or two I've noticed the very first yellow leaves on the ground beneath the trees.  We're a week away from Lughnasa, the start of the harvest. The summer is inching its way along towards autumn, the nights now imperceptibly lengthening.  There's a way to go yet of course but the first signs are there if you look.  A reminder, even on hot motionless July days, that the world is ceaselessly turning, that nothing is forever.

When I'm walking by the river I feel the odd one out. Nothing new there and I'm wearing my differences much more comfortably these days. But even at weekends I'm aware that I'm the only person who is just walking for pleasure (as well as therapy in my case). With a camera. On my own. There are a band of regular dog walkers. One or two joggers very occasionally.   All of us smile and say hello as we pass each other.  Maybe they wonder what I'm doing or - more probably - maybe they've got better things to think about.

 A dog might be nice though. Just for the walks. Perhaps I could borrow one?

Today, July 27th, would have been my father's birthday. Someone else who loved to walk just for the sake of it.  I'll light a candle.    

Red

Dog rose

It pays to venture out early on a sun-filled Sunday in early summer. Just me, the sun and nature in all her glory.   Destination: the river path. No-one else abroad and abundant waves of birdsong, near and far, call and response.  Luxuriant vegetation, waist high grasses of all kinds, brambles, goosegrass, thistles, dog roses (a favourite).  The soft murmur of the river, quiet and peaceful now.  For the first time I feel a hint of what I was able to do five years ago, how much I used to love this kind of solitary rural meandering - and nurture a sense that this is gradually being restored.  I feel a timid, anxious mixture of hope and gratitude.

Wait

A still, shimmering afternoon. Sunlight, so bright, so strong, dazzles and drives one into the shade.  Early mornings and evenings are best in this heat, though - intermittently - there is the softest breath of a breeze. The houses around the green and their occupants seem to doze peacefully.

The naturopath says that my system is getting more robust with each visit but energy levels are down from when I last saw him two months ago. Unsurprised by the latter.  Since May there have been mice in the bedroom wall, a posterior vitreous detachment and a nasty fall-out with a close friend (which please God will be resolved - though I don't know how).   Stress and fatigue buttons have been well and truly pushed.  But I persevere with the anti-yeast diet and he will be starting me on a new treatment at the next appoinment - or at least soon.  Not ready yet. We wait. Not easy for someone who is naturally on the hyper side. 

So. High summer. A time apparently to hold still.  To let things be as they are. 

And today this story makes me happy for all sorts of reasons. My father had mild dementia in the last year or so of his life.

Summer Garden

Early morning. Sunshine. Hot but not too hot. Heavy, scented air. In that moment, perfection.

Heatwave

The humidity and heat - 28 degrees and rising - bring with them a fretful quiet, a slowing of activity. Of necessity. Impossible to think clearly and quickly, to move at a pace beyond minimal. My office is up four flights of stairs, on the top floor of a converted 18th century townhouse. No airconditioning. The south facing sash window is jammed wide open in the vain hope of capturing a breeze, the sunblinds drawn. As an emergency measure we set up an electric fan on a folding chair between our two desks, taking care as we come and go not to trip over the cable. In spite of natural inclinations the work rate slows and I put off anything beyond the basics, the simple. My margins are very thin in high temperatures. The fan's turbulent air blows papers off the desk and dries the eyes.

My office colleague is American, born in the desert lands of the South-West. She loves this weather, flourishes in the heat, goes to the sauna regularly in winter for physical and emotional health. We manage our thermostatic differences and make allowances for each other - I dress in layers for flexible temperature control, she brings extra woollens. I sweat occasionally for her, she shivers from time to time to keep me happy.

****

A first appointment with a local shiatsu practitioner this afternoon in the ongoing quest for spasm-free muscles. Shiatsu worked miracles for my lower back in 1993. The first session was a Wednesday evening and I had to take the rest of the week off work, nose and eyes were running so much afterwards. A continuous stream. Not a cold, or flu. Detox.

Later in the year, in the October, a major life change occurred for which I am thankful to this day. I still believe an apparently unrelated series of events including the fact that I am alive now - a tad melodramatic but possibly true - were in some way triggered in a treatment room in a basement flat in North London that evening in May sixteen years ago.

In my book, everything is connected and in ways we can't begin to imagine.

Dog Days

The phrase Dog Days or "the dog days of summer", refers to the hottest, most sultry days of summer. They are a phenomenon of the northern hemisphere that usually falls between early July and early September but the actual dates vary greatly from region to region, depending on latitude and climate.

Dog Days can also define a time period or event that is very hot or stagnant, or marked by dull lack of progress.

Wikipedia



Hot, yes. Dull lack of progress, yes. Stagnation definitely. I remind myself that the word germination might be more helpful, but the sense of drumming the fingers in frustration, of marking time has felt almost palpable.

Sunday was different.

Twenty or so people. a leisurely lunch followed by a game of rounders on the lawn of an old farmhouse facing south towards the Monmouthshire hills. The weather: warm and overcast, promising both sun and rain at different times but never quite delivering either. Aside from a few partners, children and dogs (including the subject of the photo) everyone knew each other.

We ate hot dogs (oh yes) and salad and cheesecake and strawberries. We drank juice, ginger beer, coffee. We chatted and cheered and ran and hit and missed the rounders ball. I can't remember the last time I felt so at ease in a group this size.

It occured to me during the drive home: Don't put labels or expectations or judgements on a single moment of this fragile, unpredictable life.

Dog Days can be good.




More info on Dog Days and the Dog Star here and here.

And who is old enough to remember Al Pacino's extraordinary, febrile performance in this?