Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, December 21, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild -
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
[Keats, from Ode to a Nightingale]
But (as usual, when I have a glass or two of champagne) I am led to think about the sorrow of life. We have this friend, Julie. Her children were at school with ours. We met at kinder, primary school dos, high school, and after, at the supermarket, shops, going for a walk. She was always such a happy laughing joyous person. She wasn't a great beauty, but you didn't notice that, because her inside was filled with light. And then her husband left her. He wanted to "find himself". He "needed space". For a long time after that she looked physically ill, like someone with cancer or severe heart disease, She aged 20 years in a year. From being happy and convivial she became a recluse. She doesn't want to see ppl or talk to them.
Only young people (or therapists or counsellors) think that life is good and that being a good person will bring its own reward. She was a good person, and life kicked her in the teeth. And now she is desperately, unbearably unhappy.
God is so fucking good.