One or two of you have recently noticed that you have a few more moments in the day available for the children, knitting or wood whittling than was the case when I was regularly publishing my blog. My reason for the lapse has been ‘acedia’ which, “ arose directly out of the spatial and social constrictions that a solitary monastic life necessitates. These conditions generate a strange combination of listlessness, undirected anxiety, and inability to concentrate. Together these make up the paradoxical emotion of acedia.” I am so grateful for being introduced to this word which nicely summarises the emotions that have prevented my blogging: listlessness, dullness, apathy, boredom, scepticism, cynicism, pointlessness, worry, exhaustion, self-reproach, resentment, anger, all occasionally seasoned by laughter, pleasure, relief and hope. “O I’ve been a bit acedic,” is a far easier response to the good old Derbyshire greeting, “Are you alreet?”
Birds flying high, you know how I feel Sun in the sky, you know how I feel Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel
It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life for me, yeah
It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life for me, ooh And I'm feeling good
Fish in the sea, you know how I feel River running free, you know how I feel Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel
It's a new dawn It's a new day It's a new life for me And I'm feeling good
Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know? Butterflies all havin' fun, you know what I mean Sleep in peace when day is done, that's what I…
And I could add a disgusting verse about frogs spawning in my pond and pigeons smooching on the wires. So a series of events has entered my diary like a rather overdue car service. I feel as if I’ve been passed over the counter of The Repair Shop for a bit of urgent maintenance. It started with the diabetes eye test and was followed by the optician which was the most intimate encounter I had had outside the home for a year, so it not only necessitated mask and sanitiser but deodorant, after-shave and mouth-wash. After all if you allow something to vegetate inside a sealed plastic bag for a year it’s likely to decompose and be rather noxious in close proximity.
Next was a hair cut given an extra thrill of spice (or even Old Spice), by being marginally illegal. Anyway we met at an unspecified location, used the password, were blindfolded and driven to a secret rendezvous and made to swear a dreadful oath with a set of clippers held against the heart.
This week the excitement reached fever pitch with blood tests – so much so that difficult decisions had to be made about dressing up, wearing socks, choosing shirts and should I wash the car. Brimful of confidence I have now made a dental appointment. With the hint that there may be a future after all, seeds have been sown, a new garden bench bought and some holidays tentatively booked and I’m contemplating putting on new guitar strings. Also our little concrete sheep in the back garden has been repainted white and we fully expect it to gambol along with the other lambs around us.
The end of the Six Nations along with the frogs spawning always signals Spring; lighter evenings will mean an end to terminal serials of crime dramas. Watching ‘The Terror’ too has raised the awkward question that if a small number of people are trapped together in an enclosed space for a winter will they end up eating each other? Fortunately Deirdre has gone on to the 5/2 diet. Who should consume whom was a conundrum we set the grandchildren, but their answers weren’t helpful.
The patio has been power-washed and the pots cleaned – usually I content myself with a quick brush but this year Deirdre became involved and they have been scrubbed, sponged, rinsed, combed and blow-dried. A bird immediately defecated onto the pristine patio.
Each spring I get ahead of myself, and this year, despite the government warnings, will be even more tempting with my eagerness to resume a measure of sunshine and normality. One year I took my snow-tyres off at the end of March and it snowed heavily in April; last year I whisked the runner bean plants outside and the easterlies blew and destroyed them and how often have we put the winter clothes away only to have to dredge them out again: “Cast ne’er a clout ‘til May is out,” as my mother used to warn me if I dared to leave off my vest.
All this has been verified by hail, sleet, rain and gales today – which have been an extra trial for Jesus in Gethsemane in our front garden. This is part of the Crich Easter Journey and though Jesus is partially sheltered by the yew tree, the wind and rain
are driving in from the other direction. Last night we put a large plastic bag over him and pegged his ‘clouts’ down, but he asked that the cup of suffering be not taken from him and he must wait in cold and damp misery. So as I try to hurry into spring and complain about our restrictions his patient kneeling figure on the front lawn, drenched and cold, are a constant reproach. And he has a crucifixion to look forward to as well before his triumphant and joyful resurrection.