Making things work

I had a few wee epiphanies today - realisations about myself, really, and the effect of the world and life, Jim ... (I'm sorry: I've not lost my marbles. It's the effect of hearing on the 10 o'clock news about Captain Kirk in the shape of William Shatner who turns out to be 90 going into space on an Amazon rocket  which in turn reminded me of the remark "It's life, Jim, but not as we know it" ... There: it'll all make sense now.)

Start again. Being retired has taken me a long time (I've had 16 years of trying). When I stopped teaching I filled my waking hours with stuff - seeing people, arranging things, singing, tutoring, going holidays, being a new grandma. Gradually some of these dropped away, lost their newness, didn't fill so much time. Time itself began to change; it passed less noticeably.  We made trips to see family; we spent many short stays in Edinburgh; I published a book of poetry. 

Then Covid came. And lockdown. Days began to zip past, weeks passing with little differentiation. Only two things pressed: the challenge to record hymns weekly for zoom church and the suddenly desperate need to go for a walk, especially one where we escaped the confines of Dunoon itself. There was at the one time plenty of vacant hours to fill and the sense of life slipping away unmarked. The only writing I was doing was here, on Blipfoto. I spent too long on social media, on FaceTime calls, on sudoku, on checking the Travelling Tabby website.

Today I had to cudgel my brain into action such as I've rarely needed to do for almost two years. I have a sermon coming up, and because I'm having family coming to stay I have to do the work on it early. Today I sat down to have a first go. Eventually I had something written down. Theoretically I could go and deliver it tomorrow. But this afternoon I went out late for a walk, on which Himself accompanied me but turned back before we reached the steep hill into the upper glen of Glen Massan. As I walked back down the road - I couldn't have thought of anything as I bashed up it - I delivered my sermon sotto voce to the rowans and the bracken. It seemed much better than what I'd written. 

There was so little time left when we got home - I had to do my Italian lessons, make dinner and make bread for breakfast - that I've not thought about it again. Instead I've thought about the nature of time and the way tasks spread, like gases, to take up all the available space. But will I in the end read my sermon, or will I take it into the pulpit only as a talisman?

Blipping a few leaves of the weigela plant in our garden. It caught my eye as I was hanging out the washing - did I mention that I also washed some towels and that they actually dried outside?