Grow

There were moments during the seminar when the heart began to pound and the eyes welled. Just being present, sensing the rusty cogs in the brain creak and groan with effort, was moving and exciting. Blame the euphoria on our lecturer - a grey haired, affable man, dauntingly intelligent. He wove ideas and concepts into a magical whole and yet at the same time, as they say, he spoke my language. I came away without catchphrases or coherent soundbites, just three pages of scribbled notes - can't afford to forget this, must record it - some photocopies and a changed perspective.

I had wondered whether or not to go, whether I would be out of my depth. Now and again I was but it didn't matter. There's all the time in the world to reflect and ponder. Mostly I was carried along. My colleague, C, had the same reaction. A bonus to have her with me on the long journey home.

I hadn't realised how thirsty I have been for study and to be stretched by a subject that fascinates, in the company of like minded others. There's this sudden craving for learning, an urge to explore and to grow and take a few risks.

Even at nearly sixty. Especially at nearly sixty.

Time to check out some prospectuses, perhaps?

****

Oh, and Relatively Retiring may recognise the photograph .....

Stretching

The shoulder and neck are better, though not cured. Too much time on the computer, using the mouse and the dull throbbing starts. Moderation, that most elusive of qualities, is my holy grail.

The immediate goal to work on the cow face pose, which with my hypermobile joints I used to find so easy in yoga class. One arm reaching backwards over the shoulder, the other behind the back reaching up. The hands clasp. Once I was proud of my prowess, glowed when the teacher praised my flexibility. Yes, I know, self-congratulation is at variance with the non-competitive spirit of yoga, but that didn't stop me. The karmic comeuppance is that these days I can just about manage the pose on one side only. Impossible to move the right arm upwards behind my back.

The difference between a year ago and now is still dispiriting. A lesson is humility. Also in self-forgiveness: nobody made me sit at the laptop for hours at a time without taking a break

I'm supposed to do exercises three times a day. Some days it's only twice but Sheila the physio is pleased with progress and the gap between our appointments has lengthened from weekly to fortnightly to monthly. At my request - she knows I do massage and is supportive - we name the muscles, bones and joints beneath her fingers as she works, massaging and stretching contracted muscles, neck then arm then shoulder, me on the couch, her standing alongside. A litany, a recitative: Pecs minor, scalenes, subscapularis, levator scapulae, coracoid process, C4 and C5 ....

When we tire of A&P we talk about cats, hers and mine. Or gardening.

I turn onto my back. She places both hands, one over the other, on the injured shoulder, leans her weight forward onto her arms. Clavicle and sternum are pushed towards the spine and my lung capacity is reduced by what feels like 90%. She's a large woman in her early forties, as tall as I am and a former shot putter, solid and muscular. The effect is not dissimilar (I imagine) to being run over. I close my eyes, wonder if my skeleton can take it, imagine the pistol-shot crack of fracturing bone.

At the end of the session the muscles in the right shoulder and arm feel blessedly looser. Silent prayers of thanks for the NHS. And for Sheila. We've almost, in a way, become friends. Not quite, the professional relationship takes precedence, as it should.

But I like her, and I'm grateful.

****

A visit to a National Trust garden last week. I couldn't tear myself away from the spiralling, unfurling ferns. Uncurling. Releasing. Stretching out of themselves.

Abeyance

Writing The End seems far too final. Impossible not to leave the door slightly open.

Nonetheless, after two plus years and three blogs the time has come to stop, at least for a while. A combination of the RSI (which is serious and painful and which I need to take seriously and blogging really doesn't help) and the awareness that, physical injury apart, I have been spending more time than is beneficial in front of the computer screen.

So, in abeyance until further notice. At least until the summer.

Three months of minimal computer work, the physio says.

After that, we'll see.

More Snow

No better place to be than on the bus this morning.

The road winds up and out of our low-lying city and as the altitude increased the view broadened till we few passengers could see across the fields to Wales. Skirrid - the Holy Mountain - and the Sugar Loaf and the Black Mountains, all, including the last, a pristine white. A panoramic view in any season. Today, heart-stoppingly beautiful.

In town you have to be up early to see the snow at its best. This past week it has fallen overnight then as the day progresses the temperature rises. Snow drips off the trees, turns into slush, flows away down the drains.



Here, just a little higher, the land is colder, the air crisper. The driver changed gear to accommodate the upward climb. In the reserve and silence of the lower deck we stared out of the windows at a changed world. Random travellers. The familiar reborn, recreated.

Update: More snowy pictures here.

Snow

You'll have to indulge me with this post, readers in North America and, indeed, other parts of England. And Wales, and Scotland. Our snowfall has been minimal in comparison to yours, probably, but nonetheless in these parts it's a rare event. I'm not working till Thursday so can enjoy it all as I prowl around the garden with a camera.

A touch of cabin fever mid-evening yesterday. Home alone after an exceptionally social and stimulating and surprising weekend. Restless. The urge to pull on boots and go out into the fields, into the snowy darkness, to explore. Sloth overcame courage and I surfed the net instead.

*****

The male blackbird is getting braver in approaching the patio, the one spot in the garden that is free from snow and where I can scatter crumbs. He flies off with staccato cries of alarm when the the cat approaches the French window - just a few feet separate them through the double glazing. Suddenly my elderly cat is transformed from the peaceable beast that I know. He crouches, every muscle on alert. Teeth chattering. Pupils dilated.

My companion. Still a hunter after all these years. His instincts remain as sharp as ever. Does the same apply to his owner who is also, in her own way, ageing?

Candlemas

Cotton wool balls of snow rush towards the windscreen. The wind whips up the flakes on the road surface into swirling, dancing patterns. White snakes, says B. He drives fast, even in this weather. Oncoming headlights dazzle, dip and disappear behind us.

To the west a hill curves on the horizon. A line of trees on its summit, stripped of leaves, fine drawn shapes against the last vestiges of daylight. The silhouettes are so distinct that even at this distance I fancy I can see individual twigs and the discreet, tumescent buds of spring.