Robins and Pirate Ships

Wake at six needing the toilet, but then return to bed and sleep until eight thirty. Yesterday's clear blue sky has been replaced by skies of grey, and a light drizzle is falling on the garden when I let Norman out to toilet. Felicity rings, but before I can pick up, she rings off, and when I listen to the ensuing voicemail, she tells me she has had a minor stroke, or TIA, so I call back immediately. Apparently it happened shortly after I left, Nick and Melissa returned from their walk with the dogs and Felicity found she was unable to get out of her chair, so they called an ambulance and took her into Hull Royal Infirmary, where a suspected TIA was diagnosed, she has to see the consultant neurologist this morning, and was ringing to let me know she wouldn't be able to make the Nativity Mass and carol service at Saint John's this evening. I wish her well and promise to say a prayer for her, which I always do anyway, along with everyone else I care for. It is possible that both my older friends, Felicity and Leslie, could be in hospital over Christmas. After our full English breakfast and a shower, I walk Normy down as far as the little bridge over the drain, or at least as far as the huge puddle that blocks the path ten feet short of the bridge. I let the old guy off the lead on the way back home and he toddles along happily, checking the scents and marking his path. The field beyond the old split willow tree, that Louis calls his "pirate ship", is flooded and has become a lake, ad on the other side of the road, where the farmer, stores used tractor tyres and advertises free manure, a cock robin is sitting on a gate singing his heart out. What could be more Christmassy than a robin? We regain the house for half past eleven, I dry Norman on his towel and then drive into Hull to do some last minute Christmas shopping. My theory that everywhere would be dead by the afternoon of Christmas Eve, is found seriously wanting, as Hull is absolutely packed to the rafters. Nevertheless, I find presents for my youngest grandchildren, leopard spot leggings and sparkly cardigans for Rebecca and Laura and a football kit for Louis, complete with football and a pump. Louis' dad, was a six foot six professional footballer, who played in the championship, before succumbing to bipolar disorder, and Louis has his physique and competitive spirit, which he needs to express. He may not have his father's footballing prowess, but only time can determine this. I take a break in a bagel cafe in the shopping centre and find myself sat opposite three of the biggest, toughest looking guys, I have seen in a long time. It only takes a moments eavesdropping to find out that they are all Australian Rugby League players, under contract, I believe, for Hull Kingston Rovers. I drive to Willerby, where I shop for half an hour, and buy a seriously good bottle of Medoc to take to Sarah's, to accompany the Christmas Day roast beef and also a jar of Stilton, accompanied by a box of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, which are a family joke. The original Ferrero Rocher TV advert had a strap line, voiced over in a French accent which said, " ooh ambassador you are spoiling us!", Sarah's first husband, Bertrand, who is French, and was notoriously mean, lead to the advert becoming subverted to " ooh ambassador are you ever going to spoil us!" The supermarket is only a mile from Castle Hill hospital and there is just time to catch a hamburger and coffee at MacDonald's, before visiting Leslie. He has lost half a stone in weight since I saw him, less than two weeks ago, but seems almost normal and rational again, the consultant gerontologist, a Mr Farnsworth, has had him on an intravenous drip, in order to rehydrate him, and has also convinced Leslie that there is nothing physically wrong with him and that his symptoms are the result of an anxiety attack. This is tremendously helpful, as it has allowed my old friend to identify the real problem, which is one of irrational fear, rather than just being helplessly driven along by This fear. Leslie has elected to stay in hospital until his daughter and son in law can put into effect a care package that he will be happy with. This involves an extra career in the evenings, though I am not sure this is a long term solution, and suspect he may need residential care in the long run. On a more positive note, he was much more rational and relaxed than he has been for several months. I give him a hug when I leave at five and promise to visit again on Friday, if he is still in hospital, and then drive home to Tickton. Norman is wagging his tail in the hallway waiting for me, when I arrive and I let him into the garden, before opening a tin of dog food for him, and then unpacking my shopping. There is just time to wrap Laura and Rebecca's presents, before it is time to drive to Saint John's, for the six thirty Nativity Mass. I know from previous experience, that the church will be jam packed and so arrive by six fifteen, and am just able to squeeze into a pew about seven rows back from the altar. Our little church looks wonderful, it is lit by candles and decorated with Holly and Ivy, the congregation being mostly the families from our local Catholic primary school with their children, as well as us Sunday regulars. We sing all the old favourites, "Once in Royal David's City", " While Shepherds watch their flocks by night", "In the bleak Midwinter", and of course "Silent Night", our mass, as ever, is a mixture of English, Latin and Greek, and none the worse for it. The power of the Mythos, the arational in religion, is not to be underestimated. Any anthropologist worth her salt will tell you, that ritual is always used to ease existential anxiety, the ultimate human conundrum of our knowledge of the inevitability and essential unknowability of death. Quite suddenly, during the service, just before communion, Simone Weil, makes sense to me. The essential teaching of Jesus, is that the Old Testament philosophy of an "eye for an eye" leads to an infinite cascade of damaged people and suffering, but if we refuse to pass on this pain, if we absorb the suffering into ourselves, we can stop this karmic transmission. Jesus calls on us all to be Alchemists and to transmute suffering into gold, by absorbing pain into forgiveness and therefore breaking the cycle of abuse. I have been struggling with Weil, as her teachings are so austere, and my God seems to be joyous and has a sense of humour, as well as compassion. But the deep meaning of Christ's teaching has divine humour, divine absurdity, the suffering of innocents can break the cycles of abuse, precisely because they are innocent, and don't deserve the pain. Only the innocent are in a position to forgive their tormentors! Totally whacky, and seriously profound, whatever afflictions come down on us, if we absorb them, refuse to pass them on, refuse to lash out at others in our pain, we make the world a better place. We enact God's will and break the karmic chain. To be sure this is a tough injunction, but as the people who are most likely to receive the transmission of our pain, are our nearest and dearest, it is surely worth the attempt. And more than that, worthy of our repeated attempts, even when we temporarily fail to live up to the divine example of the Messiah. After Mass, I drive home, calling in to see Sam and the girls and to drop off their presents, they are having a party and launching Chinese Lanterns into the night sky, I am amazed at how quickly they rise up and are then caught on the Westerly winds and carried off towards the North Sea coast. Back home, I take Norman out for his evening walk, before calling Felicity to see how she is. Her family are all with her wrapping Christmas presents, she feels tired and says she is going to bed. When we return indoors, I book the tickets for my son, Andrew, and I to watch Hull City v Leeds United, on Saturday and then text my sister, Jackie, to say I will drive to Filey in the morning to see them, before returning for Xmas day Lunch with Sarah and her family at four. To bed at eleven.