A poet in the doldrums.

We sleep in until eight and then go for a walk round the village before Mass, after first having breakfast and a shower. It is a lovely morning and the streets are almost deserted, apart from the odd person venturing as far a the village post office, in order to collect their Sunday papers. I had intended to ride to church on my bike, but playing catch up on my blog/journal, leaves me too short on time, so I drive and park a little beyond Sarah's house on North Bar. Her car is absent, so presumably she and Richard have set off for the day somewhere with Louis. When I take my pew, a little after twenty past ten, the church seems cosy and familiar, after the looming baroque building, that is Saint Wolfgang's in Austria. Today is Corpus Christie, usually held on a Thursday, but now to be celebrated on the next Sunday, presumably Thursday attendances have been poor. We also sing much better at Saint John's, than the Saint Wolfgangers and when I mention this to Father Roy on my way out, after communion, he laughs and quips that it is good that we get some things right. Once I return home, I take advantage of the fine weather and spend the afternoon in the garden, where I eat a late lunch and then try to finish my book on the early church by Vermes. It is due back in the library tomorrow and can't be renewed, because someone else is waiting for it and to be fair, I have had three weeks in which to finish it. Vermes thesis, is that Jesus, probably saw himself as a charismatic, healer and prophet, in the style of Elijah and Elisha, who believed that the imminent end of the world would herald the kingdom of God. Vermes makes a good case for this and then traces the changes in Christology, that see Jesus elevated from prophet to divinity and equality with God, by the time of the treaty of Nicea. One thing strikes me about the story of Jesus, he seemed to have no detailed knowledge about what was to befall him, but was happy to leave his fate in God's hands. The creative interpretation of the meaning of his life and death, evolved over the years and no doubt, will continue to evolve in future. I find much of the imperial language in the creed and the liturgy, well out of date and an encrustation that probably obscures, rather than clarifies, the Christian message, but paradoxically, I also find some of the visual iconography and art incredibly beautiful, as I do the psalms, hymns and masses. The creator and creativity, compassion and forgiveness, theme and variation, comforting ritual and sacred mystery, and Father Roy's sermons, usually a wake up call to our consciences, jolting us from our everyday complacencies. Anyway that is my creative interpretation, of my faith, which in any event, resonates with the heart, more than the head. After clearing my gardening tools away, I try to call Felicity a couple of times, but she is engaged, so ring Hanne to find out how she has been getting on in my absence. Hanne tells me she is concerned that the old girl is giving up the ghost a bit and seems to have lost her spark, after her dogs have been rehomed. We both agree that the last thing Felicity needs is pity, as she is already feeling quite sorry for herself, as it is. I load Norman into the basket, that I have secured to the pillion of my bike with cable ties and a bungee cord, having first placed a small cushion in the bottom. The basket is slightly higher than the saddle and means that I have to swing my leg high in order to get it over the crossbar or alternatively angle the bike lower to the ground a little, which is difficult with Normy aboard. I solve the problem by mounting from my doorstep, which gives me extra height, and then we are on our way. I haven't cycled since last year, but the mountains of Austria must have put muscles back into my legs, as I find I can stay in the highest gear on my way into Beverley. It is very flat in any case, and we arrive on Albert Terrace in a little over a quarter of an hour. Felicity is slumped in an armchair, watching TV when I arrive and does seem down in the dumps. I try to cheer her up with stories of my holiday, but all she wants to talk about is how she misses her dogs. They have been gone a month now and both have good homes, Felicity was incapable of walking them, and it was unfair on the dogs only to go out when paid dog walkers came. She knows this, agreed to them going, but now seems to bear a grudge against her family for persuading her to see the necessity. It is almost as if she is punishing them by going into a depression. I refuse to play the game, this course of action could be fatal for her, and I hope to see her in her final years with her spirit still positive and strong. Since she was in hospital, her mobility has gone backwards and when she tells me she knows this, I ask her what she intends to do about it. This isn't what she wants to hear and I point out to her that she has all her mental faculties intact and still has her free will, if she chooses to exercise it. Taking responsibility for herself isn't what she wants to hear from me and she throws me out, seething with anger. It is painful for both of us, but it is what she needs to hear, so Normy and I peddle back to Tickton, the heat has gone out of the sun and it is now quite cold on the bike. As we pass a shop window, I catch sight of Norman in his basket, clearly enjoying the experience. I go to bed worried about my friend, hoping I am doing the right thing and praying I have not been too hard on her.