The Tale of Silverhoof

(Silverhoof Matrioshka set by Golden Cockerel from St. Petersburg... Christmas gift from my dear friend, Cherie)

Once upon a time, there was an old man named Vania who lived alone and was very lonely as he had neither wife nor child.  He heard about an orphan girl who was not wanted by the family who had taken over her old home.  Although his original intention was to adopt a boy whom he could teach to hunt and follow in his footsteps, he realised that the girl needed a family and, if she were anything like her parents, they would enjoy a good life together.

He went to visit her at her old house and found her in a corner with a cat on her knees.  The woman of the house declared that caring for Daria was nothing but a nuisance and a burden.  She had not asked for the responsibility and she and her husband would be happier without the girl.   Vania asked Daria if she would be willing to live with him instead, even though he was only a poor hunter who lived in the forest.  While telling her of his life there, he mentioned his lifelong quest for the stag with the silver hoof.  Daria was intrigued by the tale and wanted to know why he was so interested in the stag... Vania declared he would tell her all the details only if she went with him.  She agreed, on condition that he accepted her cat Moura as well.  Vania agreed and off they went.

The new family was content with their life.  Vania hunted, Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura chased mice.   The lonely old man no longer felt lonely in the least.  Daria no longer felt like an orphan and Moura no longer was thin and hungry.

Vania kept his promise to tell Daria about the White Stag.  It was a magical creature seldom seen.  He had a silver hoof on his right forefoot.  When he stamped it, a multitude of jewels spilled out onto the earth.

Winter approached and Vania  told Daria that he intended to spend the season in his hunting cabin far from all human habitation.  Daria begged to accompany him but at first he refused, saying it was no place for a child.  In the end, however, he surrendered to her wishes and all three of them, Vania, Daria and the cat Moura began the long journey to the cabin.  The villagers whispered among themselves, saying that the old man was irresponsible to take a child into the wilderness for the winter but Daria was happy to go wherever her new father went and she was determined to see the White Stag somehow.

At the cabin, Vania spent his days hunting.  Daria cooked and cleaned and Moura caught mice.  All three were happy.  One day, while Vania was out hunting, Daria heard a noise and, looking out the window beheld a gorgeous White Stag with five-pointed antlers.  She ran quickly to the door and opened it.  There was nothing whatsoever to be seen.  She thought she had to have fallen asleep for a moment and seen a vision perhaps...

The next day, while Vania was off hunting, Daria heard the clatter of hooves on the rooftop.  She quietly went to the door and opened it.  There, standing in the snow in front of the cabin was a beautiful White Stag with five-pointed antlers and a silver hoof.  Daria clapped her hands with delight.  The Stag ran off...

The next day, Daria found herself still alone in the cabin as Vania had not returned yet from his hunting trip.  Moreover, Moura the Cat had disappeared.  She was worried and went out into the snow to search for her beloved cat.  She walked until she came to a hill covered with snow.  There on the top of the hill stood both the White Stag and Moura.  The two animals faced one another, their heads nodding as though deep in conversation.  After a time, Moura began to walk away and the Silver Stag followed him.

Although Daria attempted to follow the animals, she was unable to find them.  It was growing late, so she finally realised she had to return to the cabin.  When she did, she found the Silver Stag, Silvershod on the roof.  The magical creature stamped his silver hoof and jewels flew out, into the snow: diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies, piled high.

At this moment, Vania returned from his trip and beheld the magical Stag again in conversation with the cat Moura, jewels sparkling all round them.  When he moved forward, Moura gave a strange unearthly cry and both animals vanished.  Vania filled his cap with jewels, but Daria suggested that he leave the rest where they had fallen... the sight of them glittering in the sunlight was so beautiful!  Let them enjoy the incredible display for a time.

The old man and young girl went into the house, leaving the rest of the jewels in the snow.  More snow began to fall.

The next day, Vania tried to find the jewels beneath the new snowfall but no matter how deep he dug, he could not find a single jewel.  Nonetheless, the jewels in his cap were more than sufficient to give them both a good life.  Moura the Cat never returned, however and both Vania and Daria missed her terribly...  Even so, it is comforting to think that the White Stag and Moura now are inseparable companions, friends forever!

The Language of Prayer

It was during my own childhood that the Great Rebellion against Latin took place.  Even the Church repudiated the ancient tongue and reconstructed the Holy Mass in the vernacular.  What a pity!  Throughout the world, before the pronouncements of the Second Vatican Council, worshippers could enter a Church and participate in the Mass freely, without having to struggle with a foreign language.

People justified the change by claiming that no one understood the Latin but really that makes no sense whatsoever.  The Homily never was given in Latin.  It was only the ancient set prayers such as the 'Pater Noster' (Our Father), the Gloria and the Credo that were declaimed in Latin.  I cannot believe that any practicing Catholic, or indeed any individual with a passing knowledge of sacred Music, would not know the text of these prayers.

The Church now recognises the value of the Latin Mass, however grudgingly, and there are Churchs that have added a Latin Mass to their weekly schedule.  Unfortunately, none are close enough to me and at present, I cannot travel much in any event.

Still, the old prayers in Latin give me pleasure and the very weight and resonance of the language is beautiful to me.

The following are not taken from the Mass but are extremely ancient prayers:

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O Sacrum Convivium
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O Sacrum convivium, in quo Christus sumitur:  recolitur memoria passionis eius; mens impletur gratia et futurae gloriae nobis pignus datur.

V.  Penem de caelo praestitisti eis;
R.  Omne delectamentum in se habentem.

O Sacred Banquet, in which Christ is received, the memory of His Passion is renewed, the mind is filled with grace and a pledge of future glory is given to us.

V.  Thou didst give them Bread from Heaven
R.  Containing in itself all sweetness.

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Sub Tuum Praesidium
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Sub tuum praesidium confugimus, Sancta Dei Genetrix.  Nostras deprecationes ne despicias in necessitatibus, sed a periculis cunctis libera nos semper, Virgo gloriosa et benedicta.

We fly to Thy Patronage, O Holy Mother of God.  Despise not our petitions in our necessities, but deliver us always from all dangers, O Glorious and Blessed Virgin.  Amen.

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The turning of the soul towards God during illness or medical emergency or the threat of impending death is the subject of much mockery but really, it does make sense.  The veils that separate this world from the other become tattered and thin when one sees or senses the approach of Death or even its threat.  Yes, we should be conscious of the blessings of God at all times but most people do not have the capacity to multi-task and being aware of the spiritual World while trying to perform a host of mundane tasks can be difficult.

When one is forced into physical inactivity, it is easier to return to the spiritual.  After the first operation, I was not as aware of the spiritual world as I am now, after the second.  Indeed, I had a very vivid vision during the recovery from the second operation where I saw both Christ on the Cross and our Holy Mother.  She appeared to me as she did to St. Bernadette at Lourdes but she was surrounded by flowering trees and vines.  The colours were incredibly vivid and the scent was exquisite.  Although she was dressed in blue and white, the colours of the plants that surrounded her were almost overwhelming in their vivid glory.

Christ was on the Cross, to the left of the Holy Virgin, a little in the distance, but both of them spoke to me.  In fact, I had a bit of an argument with them.  I asked, 'What is the point of all this pain and suffering?  Why have I been forced to live so long with so much pain?  Did I do something to deserve it?'

The answer was not that unexpected really.  Christ, bleeding on the Cross told me that suffering NEVER was meaningless, and never pointless.  Pain was a Teacher and it enabled us to become stronger and to see beyond the transitory to the eternal.  Furthermore, through witnessing the pain of others, we become more compassionate and empathic.  We become less selfish.... well, some of us do, I suppose.  Others have an incredible ability to ignore the pain of others or simply to find it annoying and burdensome.  I do see, however, that I became more compassionate as a human being by being forced to witness the pain of others, both animals and humans.

Our Lady looked at me with such tenderness and compassion.  She did not have to speak at all.  I had to acknowledge that she, of all human beings, understood the path of suffering.  She walked that path with her Son.  She never turned away.  She gave him strength and faith at His darkest hours.  How can a Mother bear to watch her own child in torment?  it has to be the bravest act of all, that refusal to turn away and her willingness to act as a witness to the Passion of Our Lord.

I have not had many real visions in my life.   This vision occurred at a point when my blood pressure fell radically.  No one ever will tell me what happened during or after the operation, but I know I had to have massive transfusions and that my blood pressure was dangerously low for quite some time.  No one was allowed to see me for almost two hours AFTER the operation...

At some point between the first operation and the second, a wonderful volunteer from St. Francis Parish began to bring me Holy Communion regularly.  What a difference that has made!  It is not only the Holy Communion itself or the rite...  the fact that this woman, who herself suffers from disabilities and pain, is ever willing to battle bad weather and her own problems to help others, is a source of inspiration to me.  How many of us would try to find excuses not to go out of our way in these circumstances?  I find her dedication and kindness rather amazing.

Christmas always has been a favourite festival of mine.  I love the entire Advent Season and the many traditions that our family followed.  We did not only observe our own traditions.  We would adopt traditions from other cultures and our Christmas embraced St. Nikolaus and Krampus, St. Lucia, the Nativity, Stockings and of course the Tree and after Christmas itself, the Feast of the Epiphany.

Advent 2016 and its Blessing

Such a makeshift, frustrating but I suppose potentially blessed Advent season.  I am sleeping in a recliner in the little office by the front door, in the same room as the small live Blue Spruce Christmas Tree.  Thank God for that Tree!  I insisted that Freya find a live tree to replace the one that had died quite dramatically as I lay in hospital and then in a rehabilitation facility after my first operation in June.  I vowed I would not come home to a dead tree after the 2nd operation and finally, finally, it came to pass.  The poor dead tree was carted away and a little baby Blue Spruce took its place.

Early, yes, for Christmas, having been placed in the corner before the Thanksgiving festival, but my operation was scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving.  My main focus that week before I went into hospital was the TREE, stringing lights on it with the reluctant help of Freya and making certain it had a bit of water to prevent it from following its predecessor into an early grave.

I was wise to make these preparations, as I am still unable to stand at all.  I can walk fairly well with a zimmerframe/walker, but I cannot stand.  Trimming the little Tree therefore is extremely difficult.

It has been extremely disappointing to discover that Freya does not like the trappings of Christmas much, does not take any joy in decorating and recently confessed that she does not even like dolls now.  She loved them as a child... they remain one of my great loves and it is sad not to be able to share that with my only child.

Each Christmas as a child, my sister and I received a new doll.  Most of the time, it really did not belong to us, in the sense of having any control over the doll or being able to play with him or her freely.  My Mum was a collector and the dolls usually were stashed away fairly soon in a cabinet somewhere.  Nonetheless, finding a new doll under the Tree was a thrilling experience.

We did not have any money really.  If my Mum could not afford a new doll, she would make a new outfit for a doll that we had.  One for my doll and one for my sister's doll... the dolls would disappear mysteriously from our room a few days before Christmas and appear under the Tree on Christmas morning clad in new frocks.  My favourite was a llittle frock made from fabric with a pattern of cherries on it.  She made that one for my Wendy Doll.

Vicki had a Ginny by Vogue and I had a Wendy by Madame Alexander.  Both were the same size.  They were 8 inches in height and both were 'girl dolls' rather than fashion dolls, adults or infants.  These dolls were not relegated to a display case or closet.  They were the dolls with which we played regularly.

We were a very international family in terms of our holiday traditions even though our heritage was Northern European.   Both my sister and I continue to celebrate all sorts of ethnic festivals.

One of the most beautiful festivals of the Advent Season is that of Santa Lucia.  She was a saint from Sicily but the Scandinavians adopted her and the traditions now associated with her are the ancient traditions associated with the Goddess Freya.

Santa Lucia was a virgin saint.  She is depicted dressed in a long white gown with a red sash, wearing a crown on which garlands of evergreens, red berries and white candles have been set.  The candles are lit.  She is, in effect, the Goddess of Light.

During a famine in Sweden, St. Lucia appeared in a boat laden with food, wearing her crown of light.  She saved the people of the land.... this, of course, is Freya, the Goddess of Fertility and Plenty.

One of the traditions in Sweden is that the eldest daughter of the house dresses as St. Lucia on the morning of her festival and brings a tray with a special breakfast to her parents.

I always wanted a St. Lucia doll but never had one until a very good friend sent me the American Girl doll, Kirsten with the St. Lucia outfit one Christmas.  Every year, I set her out on the festival of St. Lucia.

I knew where she was, but I cannot climb stairs yet, and all my decorations are either upstairs or downstairs.  I told Freya where she was and asked her to fetch the doll a few days ago.  She claimed to be unable to find her.  Yesterday, I begged her once again and this time, she did return with the doll.  I suppose she realised I would continue to ask her to search until she finally opened her eyes and made a serious effort.

So now I have my St. Lucia... . I did find a damaged St. Lucia Ginny doll by Vogue some time ago.  I had intended to try to repair her but that is impossible at this point in time so instead, I took one of my own Ginny dolls out of her raingear outfit and redressed her as St. Lucia.  She looks rather wonderful I must say.  I am quite happy about it.  She may not be a 'new' doll under the Christmas tree this year, but she is a doll with a new outfit, so the old family tradition is being followed still.

As a young girl, I delighted in the world of the imagination, in books and their beautiful illustrations... in artists like Arthur Rackham and Sulamith Wulfing.  John Cole's Bookshop always had a marvelous selection of cards and books from Europe featuring these artists... now, sadly, John Cole's is gone.  Sulamith Wulfing is dead and the reprints of her books are now out of print... I could not afford them when they were published and now the prices have leapt through the ceiling.   Fortunately, one can find a few illustrations on the internet, but I dearly would love to have the books.

D-Day and Animism

My operation is scheduled for 23 November, after five long months of delay following the first.  Due to the fact, I firmly believe, that Coordinated Health is more concerned about hard cash than aftercare, I had both a blood clot and pneumonia shortly after the first operation, causing an apparently arbitrary mandated three month delay.

I took the bull by the horns and asked for an ultrasound from another doctor in mid-October.  When no blood clot was to be found anywhere, I begged for Coordinated Health to allow me to see the surgeon earlier than the end of November when the appointment was scheduled.  When he saw me, along with the films of my hip, he once again shook his head in pity and muttered, 'I never have seen a hip worse than yours' and from the initial pronouncement that he had no openings until December, he said he could make a slot for me on the day before the American Thanksgiving holiday.  I accepted it instantly.  What is the point of a big meal if one cannot walk or have any moment without severe pain???

In any case, waiting for Godot...  and I asked for the very dead Christmas Tree from last year to be removed from the office that has been my abode for five months and for a new live Tree to be put in its place BEFORE I went into hospital.  The dead Tree HAD been alive before I had the first operation but no one cared for it and it died.  I felt it was a very bad omen and I wanted to come home to a living, breathing Tree.

Of course, Jim and Freya both pronounced me mad and so on and so forth.  If they had cared more about the whole Tree business, the poor Pennsylvania Pine would be alive still, ready for a third year of festivities.  Instead, it had to be carted off in a white shroud made of plastic. Poor thing!

I wonder if my request would have been shuffled off if Jim's family had not become involved in the quest.  George rang up one evening to say that there were living Blue Spruces at a local supermarket.  To me, it was a sign from God Himself.  When do supermarkets EVER have live Blue Spruces for sale?  It is my favourite evergreen and when the stupid neighbour who bought the house next door at the old address cut down the glorious Blue Spruce that the former owners had planted and tenderly nurtured for two decades, I cursed him to eternity.  (He swore I would love his landscaping, but in fact, he is the sort of person who has grandiose ideas but never follows through.  He dug two deep holes in place of the Blue Spruce, lined them with rubbish bags and filled them with water.  I expect he envisioned some waterfalls and koi but he never went beyond the initial filling and the water became increasingly fetid, spawning hosts of mosquitoes who no doubt carried West Nile Fever.  The neighbour on the other side of him crept onto his property in the dead of night regularly to pour household bleach into the water.  Some of it seeped into OUR garden, ultimately killing my Goddess Tree, a beautiful Birch I had planted when first I moved there and was pregnant with Freya.  There is a moral in this tale somewhere...

In any case, that is not the topic of THIS post, but the beauty of these internet sites is that one can ramble endlessly with no one to cut anything that is out of place.

The topic today is Animism.  I have addessed it before.  I always have subscribed to the belief that all things have souls.  It is obvious to most people now that Plants and Minerals have souls, but I think it goes beyond that and since I had the first operation, every object surrounding me has demonstrating that it has a mind of its own.

It does not matter if it is a plant, a rock, a plastic bag, the lid from a bottle or an article of clothing.  Every object that is not actually bolted to the floor or tied to a shelf has discovered FREEDOM.  I cannot reach for anything without having it leap from its position onto the floor and usually then to go off on an extended adventure into some remote corner hitherto unexplored by man, beast or any object that is supposedly inanimate.  It is almost like having a poltergeist in the house.

I suppose in some other cultures, people might pronounce me possessed by a demon because usually it is my hand that initiates the exodus.    In the old days, when I actually could reach the floor unaided to retrieve any object that had fallen, I was NOT clumsy.  I seldom dropped anything.  It was only when I could not retrieve items that had fallen or leapt to the floor that they all began to initiate these extravagant journeys.  It is beyond vexing.

In the space of a half hour, I have dropped the cap from a perfume bottle, the jumper I intended to wear today and a tube of medication  The medication in particular was most annoying because I could not see where it had gone.  I have two grabbers or whatever they are called.  They are basically long sticks with pincers at the end.  I originally had one but it kept falling so I had to buy another in order to be able to retrieve the first whenever it fell.

In any case, grabber in hand, I painfully navigated the room to try to retrieve perfume cap, jumper and medication tube.  The clothing was easy to find.  Clothing does not run away the way smaller objects do.  It is possible that it would love to be as nimble and quick as other objects but it more resembles a disabled person when it falls.  It looks more like a dead thing, perfectly still, remaining precisely at the spot where it fell, like a suicide who leaps from a building.  One could take a bit of chalk and draw an outline quite easily.  With all the clothing that has fallen in this room, I would have quite an intricate painting in chalk at this point.

The perfume cap, being made of plastic, even though it was NOT round and one would not suspect that it had such potential in terms of mobility, went quite far and ultimately lodged itself behind the leg of the recliner where I was unable to find it for about ten minutes.  When I finally did manage to scrape it out of its hiding place with the end of the grabber, it again leapt away and gave me a merry chase.  The tube of medicaiton, far more vital to me, could not be found initially at all.  I moved everything I could, searching and searching.  I searched the bedside table, packed with all the items I need and many I really do not need.  No antibiotic cream.  I searched the floor beneath the table and beneath the chair.  No antibiotic cream.  This fruitless search occupied another half hour of my life...

I finally realised I had to search the rubbish bin.  Not only was it there, but it had wormed its way into an empty food container.  Nothing could have been more disgusting... well, actually I can think of something worse but this was fairly disgusting as the bin had not been emptied for a couple of days.  I am not certain why it chose that spot for its walkabout destination.  In any case, it now has been brought to bay.

The reason I needed it is in itself another cause of vexation.  Basically, when one is going for an operation of this kind, the part of the body where the incision is to occur is inspected like a side of beef.  If there are any cuts, bruises or abrasions, the whole thing will be called off.

Having cats, and wanting to spend as much time with them as possible, I have been a nervous wreak essentially, fearing that I will receive a minor scratch from one of them in the process of grooming them or simply cuddling them.

I have been extremely careful but lo and behold, there now is a tiny pinprick of an abrasion or scratch or something on my upper thigh where it cannot fail to be seen.  (I wondered about the inspection before actually.  They scrutinise the FRONT of the thigh, but not the back.  Surely if it is such an enormous problem, they would look at the entire side of beef and not only the bit that is easily seen!)  So here I am, slathering neosporin on this tiny pinprick, this wound that barely would register at any other time, praying that it will vanish before Wednesday.

Meanwhile, when I dressed this morning, there was yet ANOTHER one of these tiny pinpricks on the same thigh.  What the deuce???  I haven't even been with the cats since I retired to my chair for the night.  I do not know if the Fates are determined to keep me from having this operation or if it is sheer bloodimindedness on the part of Life.  I might as well throw caution to the winds and groom the Puttikins to my heart's content.  They will not do worse to me than the invisible attacker!

So where do we stand in terms of readiness for D-Day?  The dead Tree was finally carted off on Sunday.  The Blue Spruce has taken its place.  Freya, with many protestations did help me with the fairy lights, so it has two little strings of light on it, and I think it is glorious.

I did not wish to really TRIM the tree this early.  I deprecate the marketing ploy that places Christmas decorations and paraphenalia in the markets immeidiately after Hallowe'en.  On the other hand, I have no idea when I will be mobile again.  It would be horrible if there had been no Christmas Tree this year at all.  If I did not insist on it, no one else would do it.  The fact that there was a sad little corpse from yesteryear in the corner made it absolutely imperative that a new, vibrant Christmas Tree be brought here BEFORE my operation.  Lights are common on trees even when it is not the Advent Season so I felt that was justified in the circumstances.

What I should not have done was birng out my little pewter ornaments from Germany but I did... and discovered that one of my oldest and most beloved ornaments is cracked.  I do not know if that happened when I dropped it (yes, I dropped it!  Surprise, surprise!) or if it occurred at some point in the past, but it breaks my heart.  It is one of my favourite Christmas symbols:  an evergreen surrounded wih wild creatures.  It really is a Tree of Life symbol, transformed into a Christmas symbol.  There are deer, squirrels and birds... and the tree is trimmed with lit candles.  And now there is a crack on one of the branches.

I bought this ornament in Munich many years ago.  It means a great deal to me.  Nonetheless, if I could buy a new one that had no crack, I would do that, and keep the old damaged one in a box now.  Unfortunately, I cannot find another remotely like it.  The new trend is to make pewter representations of cities evidently as well as various market stalls.  I  suppose the firms that knock out these little objects want to find something new to dangle in front of the customers who have more than enough of their old offerings.  And so they have moved forward to less sacred symbols.

Life and Death Priorities

It never ceases to amaze me when people say, very condescendingly I fear, that a poor person or a disabled person 'cannot afford to keep pets'.  In the case of the poor person, they are making a judgement call to the effect that the animal is a luxury item.  In the case of the disabled, that the responsibility is too much.

Well, I say to all those spurious arguments, because they ARE spurious, that very often the pets are the only reason that the individual continues to struggle through life.  Pets give one a sense of purpose as well as fairly unconditional love, something that often is lacking within the family circle even,  Yes, family members do love one, but their love always carries judgements with it.  Very few people recognise the ability of another to decide upon priorities and to be fully qualified to take charge of his/her own life where something like a pet is concerned.   Whether the person is simply jealous (giving love to something or some one else)i or not an animal lover himself or herself or whatever the reason, it is one area where criticisms abound.

When I had to go into the hospital, knowing that I would not be able to take care of the Putti for some time afterwards, there were those who were quick to tell me I shouldn't have them any longer, as though one simply could jettison living creatures who loved me and depended on me and who, moreover, were extremely vital to my own spiritual and emotional welfare.

It has been three months since my first operation... two months since they discovered the blood clot and cancelled the second operation.  I only now am beginning to be able to go downstairs to take care of the Putti.

I cannot get into a bath yet.  I cannot sleep in my bed as I cannot mount or dismount from it as it were.  The stairs to go upstairs to the bedrooms are far steeper than those that go downstairs to the Puttis' Hall of Mirrors home.

There still is no way to reach the floor in my condition.  It was only when Freya finally bought plastic crates to raise the litter boxes about a foot off the ground that I became able to clean them.  There are chairs or some sort of perch for me throughout the room so I can sit to clean them.  It still is a brutal business as the pain is tremendous.  The left hip worsens on a daily basis.  The right is recovering slowly from the operation but remains very stiff and the leg, ankle and foot swell after any activity, whether from the blood clot, the blood thinner or simply results of having a prosthesis in there unclear to even the 'experts'.  So little really is known about any of it.  They are all guessing, based on the experience of others in the last decade or two.  We are guinea pigs, no more and no less.  I know that.

When I enter the Hall of Mirror, Pumpkin immediately begins to howl loudly and goes not stop throughout the time I am there, unless I have him on my lap.  I did not understand it at first.  He hid from Freya for almost two months and then emerged from his 'cave' only to hiss at her.  It was only when I reappeared finally that he began to stay out of his cave and vocalise.

It hit me this morning: he is complaining about my absence of over two months!  He never had a chance to let me know how he felt until now, so I must tolerate this verbal abuse until he realises he is loved and that I could not have deserted him voluntarily.  The sad part is that, when they all have become accustomed to me being back on the job, I probably will be able to have the second operation and then will be absent from my little ones again!

I have to say that I have missed them all terribly.  Sitting here in the recliner, knowing they were separated from me only by a flight of stairs yet as inaccessible as if they were on the Moon was HORRIBLE.  I used to limp to the fireplace to call down to them, hoping they would hear as I used to be able to hear them from that vantage point once in awhile.  I would call down my endearments, but never received a verbal response.  Perhaps it simply confused and bewildered them, the disembodied voice of their 'humble servant'  like a ghost  or spirit from another world.

I do know that I push myself relentlessly for their sake and not much else at this point in time.  The pain is horrible but I know they need me.  Would I be so determined if I did not have them?  I rather doubt it.  The delay of the second operation with the pneumonia and blood clot really hit me hard.  I cried for two days when no one was looking.  I had had such hopes of being able to MOVE properly again, to WALK... and here I am, two months later with my left leg almost unusable still.

People were really kind after the operation but as the months passed, I no longer receive visits for the most part, except for the mandated visits from the home care people.  I hope to God they will be able to clear me for the operation at the end of October....

If they do, it will be a mixed blessing as it will occur close to Christmas, virtually making it impossible to trim a tree or perform the little traditions and rituals dear to my heart.  Freya won't do any of it.  She has made that clear.  I want to go out for a little Tree BEFORE the operation.  I would like another small Blue Spruce, a live one.  If it is in a pot, it can be watered and should live through the season and, one hopes for many years afterwards.  My current tree died while I was in hospital... no one thought to water it.  A host of plants almost died   Some actually died, but the tree could not be revived.  Although I made my feelings about it clear, no one has removed it from the corner of this little office that is my temporary domicile.  It is in the corner, a vivid reminder of Death.  I had to ask my Home Care helper to aid me in the disposal of all the flowers from the hospital finally... no one else thought it important enough to deal with it.  I reached a point where i could not bear to be surrounded by DEATH, even if they were only dead flower arrangements.  Now it is the wrong time of year for living plants.  I never liked mums or any of the daisy type of flower for some reason and that is all that is being sold now.  Someday perhaps I will have an orchid.  No one ever bought me one and they were too dear for me to buy for myself in good conscience.  I would love a flowering plant that would survive through the winter.

I do understand Freya though.  When I was her age, I was not terribly interested in gardening or plants other than the 'witch's garden' of forbidden, poisonous plants that forever has fascinated me.  In those days, it was impossible to find THOSE plants for the most part, especially where I lived.  Now I could have Aconite, Angel's Trumpet and all the other traditional herbs and flowers, for this is the right climate for them and many nurseries exist now for plants formerly referred to as 'weeds'.

Any Place but Here

Today is my birthday.  Perhaps... and this is a common myth, special occasions like birthdays should have less and less significance and one, having 'grown up' or perhaps simply grown weary, should not care if it is a horrid, horrid day.

I am not a person who ever could believe that birthdays are nothing speial.  Whether celebrated by any one else, they remain a day dedicated to the simple fact of your being, of your being on this earth, having arrived on a specific day and a specific time, and having been given a specific name.

It is not gifts but surely when you see a person or are in the same house as a person, is it not positively churlish not to wish him or her a happy birthday or many happy returns or somehow give a message of goodwill?  Otheriwse, in my view, you are going out of your way to make that person miserable and to make that person feel small and insignificant.  I would not do that to my worst enemy on his/her birthday.  I think that the chivalrous thing to do, nurtured as I was on 'The Three Musketees' and other 19th century books of that nature, to wish that person a very Happy Birthday before I ran him through with my sword.

Well, that is the old-fashioned code of chivalry or, dare I say it, simple common courtesy or good manners.  I wonder sometimes how I ended up here with these stoic people who lack those common good manner.  Odd how the landscape and land itself feels almost homelike to me, so much like England, and yet how the people are an almost alien race, and especially the men.

When I first moved here and was invited to some one's Thanksgiving dinner, I was absolutely horrified the their custom of feeding the men first, seating the men together and the women separately, women endlessly SERVING the menfolk and scurrying about to serve them better.  Not the way I was raised!  I tried to laugh it off to some extent, but it still strikes me as utterly wrong and utterly uncivilised.  This is the land of beer amd sports, where women are silent when men are watching some sort of game or another on the telly... only seen when a beer or snack is commanded.

I suppose then I should not be surprised at this birthday of mine.  If I am very determined, I should be able to shut my eyes and will myself elsewhere.  i imagine one of my favourite cathedrals first or even a small jewel of a Church.  Take me to St. Mary's Church near Cadogan Square in London or the Miracoli in Venezia.

Oddly enough,, it is not what I see when my eyes are open when I am in one of these sacred places dear to my soul but the very essence of it, the rather dusty perfume, the sense of lightness of being, ages in layers upon layers as light as a feather and yet redolent of time's passing and of history.

I love the smell of those old churches of Europe.  The churches in the States do not possess it, possibly because they do not burn candles and incense from century to century or they simply are not old enough.  The old California Missions probably are the oldest churches in the States and they possess a little of the soul of an ancient church of Europe.

I could go farther back in time to Ravenna, to the mosaic-clad Churches there.  Such glittering glory, like being inside a begemmed casket.  I was awestruck when I first saw them as a young girl.  And the Christ of Ravenna, blonde and cleanshaven, handsome... much more to my taste than the dour, dark bearded representations on which I had been raised.  He was a Greek God, the Christ of Ravenna, a flawless Sacrifice in the tradition of Dionysos.

If i had any guts, I would leave this body now and travel the secret paths to other realms and other realities...  One of my favourite books as a child was 'The Story of the Amulet'.  I loved the way the children could walk through the half of the Amulet and find themselves in another time and place, in ancient Egypt or Britain at the time of Julius Caesar.  The irony here is that the time they wished to escape is now the romantic past itself for us!

Of course, it all went wrong for them as it usually does in tales by the wonderful E. Nesbit, but then adventures really aren't about things gong right, but rather about having exciting new experiences, whether good or bad.

A little selfish prayer now:  Gods grant me a better ending to this day than its beginning or middle... at the very least, please let me spend a little time with my cats, whom I miss so terribly.

My feet are numb and my ankles are swollen.  It is the medication, and I dreaded to take it from the start, but the alternative could have been far worse.  I do not worship doctors and I fully am aware of the fact that once you are older than 30 really, you are nothing more than grist to their mills of experimentation.  After all, no one lived much longer than 30 in past eras... so we are all on borrowed time guinea pigs who should be grateful for the chance to gasp out a few more decades in comparative passable health.  So what if you cannot walk!  Give the person an artificial limb and some blood thinners and see what happens.  If the heart acts up?  Clear the blockages and try more new medications.  Sink or swim...

Queen of Heaven, the Great Goddess and God of the Vine

My own view of Christianity is a synthesis of the classical civilisations of Europe with the life of Christ.  It has little in common with the 'Old Testament'.  It is Rome that gave us the great sacred depictions of the Holy Virgin, Queen or Heaven and her Divine Son.  Christ is Dionysus, and indeed, himself says as much when he declares that he is the 'living vine'.  Dionysus similarly WAS the Grapevine and the Grape, the Divine Sacrifice.

I love woodcarvings and for me, this particular depiction of Our Lady is a favourite as she embodies all that is most beautiful in the portrait of the Goddess, whether she be called Aphrodite, Venus or Mary.  She wears a crown of roses and the Divine Child in her arms is clutching a cluster of grapes.  How can this not be perceived as a thread that runs uncut from ancient pagan Rome to Christianity.

Some people denounce ancient traditions that were adopted by Christianity simply because they were followed by people who worshipped BEFORE Christ's birth.  To me, this makes the tradition more genuine, more sacred, as it is Universal in nature.

Thus, I perceive Our Lady as the same Divine Mother who was worshipped by the ancients before the time of the birth of Christ, and Christ as the same Divine Child who was worshipped long before Jesus was born in the cave or stable in Bethlehem.  I do believe that the name of that village, translated as 'House of Meat' originally denotes a place of very ancient sacrifice.

In any event, although I have many statues of the Holy Virgin and many carved from wood, most of them Italian, this is one of my very favourites for its ethereal quality and its ancient symbolism.  I would like to do a little research as to the position of the Child in her arms actually.  In most cases, he is held on the other hip, on her right side.  In this instance, he is held on her left hip... is there a reason for this or does it simply follow another depiction, perhaps a painting?

In medieval times especially, symbolism was extremely detailed and every gesture, every accessory had significance in art.  Being left-handed myself, I rather like the fact that the Christ Child is held on her left hip here, as I held my daughter Freya on the left side for the most part.

I believe all three of these woodcarvings were made by Anri, even though the labels were lost long ago.  There are reasons why I love all of them, and they all are very different one from the other.  On the far left is the Queen of Heaven.  I love the regal beauty of this small statue, her delicate features and utter perfection. 

On the far right is a portrait of Our Lady as a young mother, seated with her son.  I am not certain why I love this position but I do and one of my favourite Goebel statues of Our Lady depicts her seated, holding a book as whe shows it to the infant Christ. 

The statue in the centre, however, is my own ideal of motherhood and beauty I think, combining as it does all the gorgeous symbolism of the Goddess and Divine Mother, across all religions.  I love the fact that her hair is loose, flowing down her back freely, that her chaplet is of roses and that she carries a cluster of grapes, symbol of the Bacchantes.  I have collected a number of cameos that depict Bacchantes.  To me, the Goddess and Virgin Mary are one and the same.  Why would a real divine being be limited to one time and place, one incarnation???

Ancient Greek Gods and Modern Anri Statues

When we studied Greek mythology and ancient Greece as children, we became familiar with the gorgeous blindingly white marble statues of the ancient Gods and Goddesses.  It was only later that we discovered that the ancient Greeks did not see them like that.  They once were painted in bright colours!

I love wood and have a number of wooden statues of Our Lady, many of them carved in Anri studios at different points in the 20th century.  They are old and for the most part, only the natural wood ramains... but when new, they were painted as well!  It is odd to consider how our perceptions depend on the time when we encountered something for the first time.  Whether it is a city, an ancient Greek statue made of marble or a wooden statue made by Anri.  What is conjured in our minds when we think of these things is our own point of encounter, often quite different from the original.

In the case of the ancient Greek statues of marble and the Anri wooden carvings, I think I prefer the item ravaged by age.  Perhaps this is somewhat sad and I should hate to think that I myself am more the 'honest' version of my own self now that I have aged, with the brightness and hope chipped away by the decades than I was when I was newly minted by my Creeator... but in the case of these objects, representations mainly of gods and goddesses, I do prefer the medium stripped down to itself rather than obscured by paints.

Even in India and Nepal, for the most part, when I encountered the Hindu gods and goddesses in their temples or on their carts in procession, they being ancient no longer were painted either, but displayed the dimmed lustre of the brass from which they were fashioned.  Curious, isn't it?  I spent a great deal of my childhood in museums.  My own vision of history and other civilisations therefore probably was determined by the fact that I first encountered most objects and symbols in an altered setting, behind glass, preserved for the future, rather than finding them when they were new, before the value that history imposes on such items had accrued.

Moghran ya Layl by Ragheb Alama' and Time Travel

In the first half of the '90s, I was involved passionately with one of the great causes of my life and it was at that time, when my daughter was a toddler, that I encountered 'Moghram ya Layl' on the site of a fellow activist.  He was a very compelling individual and I suppose we became infatuated with one another based almost entirely on our intellectual internet postings, articles and work.

The song still sends shivers down my spine.  It is curious but I never liked romantic songs in English.  They are rather off-putting to me.  The songs I like tend to be rather caustic... songs like Lou Reed's 'Sweet Jane', 'Heroin' or at an extreme, Kimmel's song, 'STFU'.  In French, Italian or Arabic, however, I love romantic songs, listen to them without ever tiring of them.  Is it because the lyrics, filtered through interior translation, are not as obvious?  Is it because I do not dissect them intellectually the way I would do always with English lyrics?  Who knows?  The truth is therefore, that most of the romances in my lifetime have been accompanied by songs in another language or entirely intstrumental mainly Classical pieces, even when the object of my desire was an English-speaking individual.  He probably never knew which songs conjured his image.

So here I am, decades later, listening to 'Moghram Ya Layl', thinking about a man I never met but whom I knew very well over the course of the two years when we were in almost constant contact.   Although tempted, I never succumbed to his invitations to visit him, mainly because I felt he had a false image of me and I realised that he fundamentally would expect me, despite my persona as a social and political activist, to be a submissive partner in any personal relationship.  Indeed, he wanted me to officiate on a cooking show on cable television at one point... a role to which I was entirely ill-suited.

But never mind all that... in retrospect, I see that Romance with the capital R is mainly built on illusions and dreams.  Real relationships, however successful or satisfying, usually are not THAT romantic at the end of the day.  What sustains ordinary life is support of all sorts and not romantic illusions.  One still sometimes dreams of having it all, but I have come to the point where I would be satisfied if my physical mobility were restored.

So A...., this is for you... memories of opportunities not taken, a future never created, just as the Homeland never has come into being either...  I sometimes wonder what it would have been like had I gone to Al Khalil ... but I was more responsible than that, more practical than that, once I became a mother.  Before that, I probably would have gone as an adventure, even if not ultimately a Romance... and perhaps we would have worked well together on the ground as well as the very new world of the internet that was.

I look back on the early '90s when we were pioneers of the chat rooms and internet sites, finding that politically, cyberspace was as revolutionary to politics as the gun was, giving us equality and a voice to the whole world when otherwise no one listened.  A thousand protest marches and nothing changed but a few internet publications and our cause was HEARD at last, even if hostility often was the result... I always felt that if we could educate even one individual, we had not wasted our time and I still believe that.

What happened ultimately was that I realised my political activism could endanger my child potentially in the post-11 September atmosphere, and I stepped back gradually from my reckless, if entirely honest stance...  gradually I lost the fire that was at the very heart of my soul.   I do regret that a little, although, in fairness, I began to realise that the leadership was corrupt and that, while noble individuals were willing to sacrifice their lives and livelihoods for a JUST cause, the vultures would be the winners in the end, greedy entrepreneurs and ego-swollen politicians, rather than the  people for whom we tried to speak and act.  People who lived in refugee camps still while their so-called Leaders swanned about the world acting as though they were the heroes.  Nor was there any unity even within the cause.  From the earliest days of my activism when I discovered that, if one faction were invited to an event, two others would refuse to attend, this sorry state of affairs continued to bedevil us and that only benefited the enemy and made a mockery of our attempts to change the political map.  Division between political factions and between religious factions and different religions and traditions... when very real and significant problems such as lack of water, lack of a home, lack of any livelihood was destroying the real PEOPLE.

It is very easy to tear down a structure, but not as easy to rebuild, and that is the problem that afflicts many revolutionaries and activists.  They can criticise and protest, but they are not terribly good at creating a firm foundation of unity for the future.

So there it is.  My life in that decade was very circumscribed socially but politically, I was a firebrand and I lit fires thousands of miles away on occasion, whether or not they had any real effect ultimately.  It still made me feel I was doing something worthy.  I have not felt that way for a long time.

The lyrics of Moghram Ya Layl:

 مغرم يا ليل يا ليلي مغرم يا ليلي بسهر الليل
مغرم يا ليلي يا ليلي مغرم و قلبي مايل ميل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل
لو عالنجوم عديتهالك
لو عالبحور عديتهالك
x2
و اعنتني وعديتهالك
و لحد امتى حتبقى تقيل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل
سهرتني و سهري حلاله
و اعشقت حلك و حلاله
x2
طب ليه بعادي بيحلاله
مكفايا بعد كفايا رحيل
x2
ميل لقمري و غناله وقمري مش واخذ باله
x2
محلى القمر محلى جماله في كل ليله بشوفه
جميل جميل يا ليل

In English, the title translates to 'I'm in love with you, O Night!'

Moghram Ya Layl 

Moghram Ya Layl, live 


Moghram Ya Layl, early live rendition
 

The Three Swords of Stavanger (QM2 Journal)

Excerpt from Queen Mary 2 Journal: Stavanger, Norway

There is a certain point in an illness, when it is particularly severe, where reality retreats and one feels almost as though one were under the influence of an hallucinogenic drug.  Strange thoughts intrude and bizarre fancies become a part of the fabric of plans half-conceived for the day.  For example, I thought that the Chinese had put into execution a new economic programme to make clothes with seams that would fall to pieces within hours.  The logic for this was impeccable in my fevered state. 

I experienced three days of this during the period when we were en route to Norway and indeed in Stavanger.  One day, I neither was able to eat nor drink because of a sore throat that was excruciatingly painful.  Every swallow was torture.

Yesterday, however, I returned to formal dining for the first time.  In the afternoon, I had a most magical experience on the balcony of our stateroom.

It was the first sunny day we had experienced for a start.  Winds had created whitecaps, extraordinarily beautiful.  The sunlight shimmered on the water and the spume thrown up was caught by the light in such a way that small rainbows appeared in more than one place on the surface of the sea, almost as though part of a tapestry pattern.

At first I thought that the specks of brilliant white light that hovered, dived and flew up from the waters somehow were a trick or illusion created by the winds, much like the whitecaps.  I then realised that they were living creatures, hundreds of tiny white birds who soared, dove and then flew up from the waves again and again.  I never have seen anything like it.  We were somewhere in the channel that divides Norway from Denmark but no land was in sight and yet hundreds of tiny birds were frolicing in the air and water.

I tried to capture even one in a photograph but was not successful.  They were too tiny and moved far too rapidly.  In my photographs, they became nothing more than brilliant specks of light. 

Part of the magic of this encounter was the way that the white feathers actually reflected the sunlight, making them flash and shimmer with light.  It was a veritable symphony of light, comprised of delicate rainbows and the flash of sunlight both on the waters and on the wings of the tiny birds.

That had to have been one of the most magical experiences I have had on the high seas.  As far as the land and ports are concerned, with respect to this particular voyage, one of the highlights was the 'Three Swords in Mountain'

Outside Stavanger, there is a remarkable sculpture or monument in the form of three gigantic swords thrust into a rocky finger of land near a bay.  It is a sort of public park now, I believe.  Beautiful white swans float in the little bay to the right of the small hillock where the monument was created.

It is the scene of an ancient battle, although the actual battle took place in the water and not on the land at all.  Most of the fallen sank below the waves from the weight of their armour and weapons.  I will research it more when I have better access to the internet.  Even the Cunard programme on Stavanger gave absolutely no facts about the monument, but at least alerted me to its existence.  I think I never would have forgiven myself had I not made a pilgrimage to the 'Sverd i fjell'.

It is very frustrating to be without funds, mobility, good health or time and in Stavanger, I was painfully conscious of all these restrictions.   There is a local 'hop on, hop off' coach in Stavanger for visitors and locals, but it does not make a stop at the Swords in the Mountain.   One had to go via taxi.   As the monument is not in the city, it was a fair drive and unfortunately, the taxi driver was Turkish and knew very little English and very little about the history of Norway. 

My sole souvenir from Norway is a chip of flint stone from the hillock where the 'Sverd i fjell' are located.  Had I sufficient funds, I would have purchased one of the gorgeous cardigans from 'Dale of Norway', something I always wanted but knew in my heart was out of my reach economically.   I did visit the Dale of Norway shop in Stavanger and saw the cardigan of my dreams.  Even have a photograph of it and did wear it for a brief moment.  Sometimes, miracles are possible.  I do have the email address of the shop.

'The Vikings' on the History Channel

(Photograph shows the 3 Viking Swords near Stavanger in Norway)

Confined (rather ironically, in view of the topic) to a recliner after hip surgery, I have been searching high and low for good shows to occupy my attention, especially in the wee hours of the morning when the pain often is most difficult for me...  I resisted 'The Vikings' originally because it did not look terribly accurate and it is a period in history and a culture in which I actually specialised and taught at one time.

My neighbours across the road both love it, however, so I decided to give it a chance.  It is highly entertaining, packed with battles and duels as well as intrigue.  It is based very loosely on the old saga centred on the very colourful (and heroic) character of Ragnar Lodbrok (aka Ragnar Hairy Breeches).  You can find a lot of original source material about Ragnar but this particular show appears to be based primarily on 'The Tale of Ragnar's Sons':

The Tale of Ragnar's Sons

As a child, I loved tales of heroes and their courageous deaths, their ability to defy pain and the appearance of the Grim Reaper in the most awful circumstances.  I loved the tales of Cuchulain, the Hound of Ulster, who bound himself to a rock after being disemboweled, stuffing his entrails back into his body, in order to remain standing, facing his enemies in combat at the moment of his death.

Here is the original account:

'Then he went dawn the road of Meadhon-Luachair, by Slieve Fuad, and his enemy, Erc, son of Cairbre, saw him in the chariot, and his sword shining red in his hand, and the light of his courage plain upon him, and his hair spread out like threads of gold that change their colour on the edge of the anvil under the smith's band, and the Crow of Battle in the air over his head.

"Cuchulain is coming at us," said Erc to the men of Ireland, "and let us be ready for him." So they made a fence of shields linked together, and Erc put a couple of the men that were strongest here and there, to let on to be fighting one another, that they might call Cuchulain to them; and he put a Druid with every couple of them, and he bid the Druid to ask Cuchulain's spears of him, for it would be hard for him to refuse a Druid. For it was in the prophecy of the children of Calatin that a king would be killed by each one of those spears in that battle.

And he bid the men of Ireland to give out shouts, and Cuchulain came against them in his chariot, doing his

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three thunder feats, and he used his spear and his sword in such a way, that their heads, and their hands, and their feet, and their bones, were scattered through the plain of Muirthemne; like the sands on the shore, like the stars in the sky, like the dew in May, like snow-flakes and hailstones, like leaves of the trees, like buttercups in a meadow, like grass under the feet of cattle on a fine summer day. It is red that plain was with the slaughter Cuchulain made when he came crashing over it.

Then he saw one of the men that was put to quarrel with the other, and the Druid called to him to come and hinder them, and Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me," cried the Druid. "I swear by the oath of my people," said Cuchulain, "you are not so much in want of it as I am in want of it myself. The men of Ireland are upon me," he said, "and I am upon them." "I will put a bad name on you if you refuse it to me," said the Druid. "There was never a bad name put on me yet, on account of any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, and with that he threw the spear at him, and it went through his head, and it killed the men that were on the other side of him.

Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and Lugaid, son of Curoi, got the spear. "Who is it will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" said Lugaid. "A king will fall by it," said they. Then Lugaid threw the spear at Cuchulain's chariot, and it went through and hit the driver, Laeg, son of Riangabra, and he fell back, and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot "My grief!" said Laeg, "it is hard I am wounded." Then Cuchulain drew the spear out, and Laeg said his farewell to him, and Cuchulain said: "To-day I will be a fighter and a chariot-driver as well."

Then he saw the other two men that were put to quarrel with one another, and one of them called out it would be a great shame for him not to give him his help. Then Cuchulain leaped towards them. "Your spear to me, Cuchulain," said the Druid. "I swear by the oath my people swear by," said he, "you are not in such want of the spear as I am myself, for it is by my courage, and by my arms, that I have to drive out the four provinces of Ireland that are sweeping over Muirthemne to-day." "I will put a bad name upon you," said the Druid. "I am not bound to give more than one gift in the day, and I have paid what is due to my name already," said Cuchulain. Then the Druid said: "I will put a bad name on the province of Ulster, because of your refusal."

"Ulster was never dispraised yet for any refusal of mine," said Cuchulain, "or for anything I did unworthily. Though little of my life should be left to me, Ulster will not be reproached for me to-day." With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through his head, and through the heads of the nine men that were behind him, and Cuchulain went through the host as he did before.

Then Erc, son of Cairbre Niafer, took up his spear. "Who will fall by this?" he asked the children of Calatin. "A king will fall by it," they said. "I heard you say the same thing of the spear that Lugaid threw a while ago," said Erc. "That is true," said they, "and the king of the chariot-drivers of Ireland fell by it, Cuchulain's driver Laeg, son of Riangabra."

With that, Erc threw the spear, and it went through the Grey of Macha. Cuchulain drew the spear out, and they said farewell to one another. And then the Grey went away from him, with half his harness hanging from his neck, and he went into Glas-linn, the grey pool in Slieve Fuad.

Then Cuchulain drove through the host, and he saw the third couple disputing together, and he went between them as he did before. And the Druid asked his spear of him, but he refused him. "I will put a bad name on you," said the Druid. "I have paid what is due to my name to-day," said he; "my honour does not bind me to give more than one request in a day." "I will put a bad name upon Ulster because of your refusal" "I have paid what is due for the honour of Ulster," said Cuchulain. "Then I will put a bad name on your kindred," said the Druid. "The news that I have been given a bad name shall never go back to that place I am never to go back to myself; for it is little of my life that is left to me," said Cuchulain. With that he threw his spear at him, and it went through him, and through the heads of the men that were along with him.

"You do your kindness unkindly, Cuchulain," said the Druid, as he fell. Then Cuchulain drove for the last time through the host, and Lugaid took the spear, and he said: "Who will fall by this spear, children of Calatin?" "A king will fall by it," said they. "I heard you saying that a king would fall by the spear Erc threw a while ago." "That is true," they said, "and the Grey of Macha fell by it, that was the king of the horses of Ireland".

Then Lugaid threw the spear, and it went through and through Cuchulain's body, and he knew he had got his deadly wound; and his bowels came out on the cushions of the chariot, and his only horse went away from him, the Black Sainglain, with half the harness hanging from his neck, and left his master, the king of the heroes of Ireland, to die upon the plain of Muirthemne.

Then Cuchulain said: "There is great desire on me to go to that lake beyond, and to get a drink from it."

"We will give you leave to do that," they said, "if you will come back to us after."

"I will bid you come for me if I am not able to come back myself," said Cuchulain.

Then he gathered up his bowels into his body, and he went down to the lake. He drank a drink and he washed himself, and he returned back again to his death, and he called to his enemies to come and meet him.

There was a pillar-stone west of the lake, and his eye lit on it, and he went to the pillar-stone, and he tied himself to it with his breast-belt, the way he would not meet his death lying down, but would meet it standing up. Then his enemies came round about him, but they were in dread of going close to him, for they were not sure but he might be still alive.

"It is a great shame for you," said Erc, son of Cairbre, "not to strike the head off that man, in revenge for his striking the head off my father."

Then the Grey of Macha came back to defend Cuchulain as long as there was life in him, and the hero-light was shining above him. And the Grey of Macha made three attacks against them, and he killed fifty men with his teeth, and thirty with each of his hoofs. So there is a saying: "It is not sharper work than this was done by the Grey of Macha, the time of Cuchulain's death."

Then a bird came and settled on his shoulder. "It is not on that pillar birds were used to settle," said Erc.

Then Lugaid came and lifted up Cuchulain's hair from his shoulders, and struck his head off, and the men of Ireland gave three heavy shouts, and the sword fell from Cuchulain's hand, and as it fell, it struck off Lugaid's right hand, so that it fell to the ground. Then they cut off Cuchulain's hand, in satisfaction for it, and then the light faded away from about Cuchulain's head, and left it as pale as the snow of a single night. Then all the men of Ireland said that as it was Maeve had gathered the army, it would be right for her to bring away the head to Cruachan. "I will not bring it with me; it is for Lugaid that struck it off to bring it with him," said Maeve. And then Lugaid and his men went away, and they brought away Cuchulain's head and his right hand with them, and they went south, towards the Lifé river.

At that time the army of Ulster was gathering to attack its enemies, and Conall was out before them, and he met the Grey of Macha, and his share of blood dripping from him. And then he knew that Cuchulain was dead, and himself and the Grey of Macha went looking for Cuchulain's body. And when they saw his body at the pillar-stone, the Grey of Macha went and laid his head in Cuchulain's breast: "That body is a heavy care to the Grey of Macha," said Conall.

Then Conall went after the army, thinking in his own mind what way he could get satisfaction for Cuchulain's death. For it was a promise between himself and Cuchulain that whichever of them would be killed the first, the other would get satisfaction for his death.' (END Of EXCERPT)



In similar fashion, the death of Ragnar Lodbrok is one of the most heroic, having been thrown into a pit of serpents by the horrible King Aelle of Northumbria primarily for refusing to renounce his religion and convert to Christianity.  According to tradition, he showed no fear and died as he lived, a follower of the All-Father Odhinn...

Which brings me back to 'The Vikings'.  I will deal with other inaccuracies in the series, but first and foremost, the idea that the Old Religion was an intolerant one is erroneous for the most part.  In the Poetic Edda, it actually states that Odhinn himself is known by many different names in many different lands and worshipped according to many different traditions....  The Old Religion embraced other traditions in a way that Christianity refused to do.  It is the Christians who cut down all the Holy Groves of the Pagans on the Continent and the Christians who condemned those who refused to convert to torture and death.  Yes, human sacrifice was part and parcel of the Old Religion but it was NOT sacrifice that was done because some one refused to convert!  Indeed, such sacrifices were deemed to be an honour, not a punishment for the most part.

I have no doubt that there were many individuals like Flothi who were themselves intolerant of other paths and religions but that was something that was not encouraged, unlike the way in which early Christianity in Northern Europe went out of its way to attempt to eradicate ANY other paths or traditions.

To many of the Northern Europeans, Christ was the 'White God', a generous Lord in the manner of any Northern Lord, a Ring-Giver who sacrificed himself like Odhinn heroically for the world.  The Northern European version of the Life of Christ shows as much.  It is beautifully written and creates a portrait of Our Lord that may be more valid in many ways than the one promoted by the Church in Europe, who used their religion as a scourge and a way in which to gain temporal power.

The landscapes of 'The Vikings' are gorgeous and the show does depict the difficult life of the far North, eking out a living by fishing and hunting and farming poor soil.  What I find a little problematic is the way in which the Vikings themselves are depicted.  They look more like a contemporary motorcycle gang than anything else.  I think farmers in general are conservative by nature.  They do not defy tradition for the most part.   The berserkers and other fighters who joined animal totem societies were different from the ordinary Viking farmer who went raiding during certain seasons, but so far, I have not seen any mention of this in the series and no distinction is made between the ordinary fighters and the berserkers.  There is no view of berserker traditions either.

What I discovered during my studies of comparative mythology was a great similarity between Northern European pagan societies during the 'Viking era' and the cultures of the Plains in North America later in history.  The Plains tribes, like the Northern Europeans, had very strong totem societies, as well as religious figures who devoted themselves to singular lifestyles that placed them outside the ordinary traditions.  In the Plains societies, these religious figures sometimes were called 'Clowns'... they often dressed as women, even lived as women, although they were men, using gender confusion to step outside the boundaries of ordinary existence.  This occurred as well in the world of the Northern European pagans but again, it is something else that is missing from 'The Vikings'.  They show 'priests' in Uppsala, but they simply are bald men in robes chanting bits from the Poetic Edda and the shadowy figure of the 'seer' in the village is simply more bizarre than anything else.  Is he a victim of some childhood blight or disease, a victim of leprosy or...?  It is unclear.

The Northern sagas and poems are rich with allusions to religious traditions such as the pagan equivalent of baptism but I see nothing of that in 'The Vikings'.  Instead, the writers have chosen to manufacture peculiar rites of their own not found in any original source.

I think that there is a determination NOT to look at historical timelines to some extent.  The era in which Ragnar lived was fairly late in the history of the so-called 'Dark Ages'.  Vikings had founded the kingdom of Russia and had served as mercenaries in the Holy Land and Constantinople long before he was born.  The Vikings were not a primitive people unknowing of art!  They had traveled far more widely than most of the Christians at this point in time and, unlike the social restrictions imposed on ordinary Christians by the priests, who guarded their knowledge of reading and writing jealously, it was ordinary men and women who ventured far afield in Northern pagan society to explore the world beyond their own lands.

Another oddity is the way that Anglo-Saxon society is defined as 'peaceful' and 'agrarian' when in fact, it had its roots in the same traditions as the Vikings of the far North.  The Angles and the Saxons were invaders, much like the Viking raiders, who finally settled on England's soil and negotiated with Romano-British society to fight alongside in tribal wars.

Nor is Christianity as fully ingrained in England at this point as the series would like one to think.  The famous ship burial at Sutton Hoo shows pagan traditions alongside Christian ones...  although it predated the life of Ragnar by a couple of centuries, some aspects of paganism still flourished in Great Britain at this point.  The Anglo-Saxon rune poem is far later than the original Germanic version... the poem obviously represented a longstanding vibrant tradition.

The real strength and power of 'The Vikings', I would contend, is not in its depiction of history or religion, but in its characters.  The main characters have a depth and complexity that is seldom found in these 'action' dramas.  The character of Ragnar in particular goes far beyond the sagas and original sources.  He is shown as a man who above all thirsts not for blood but for knowledge, a man who is quite capable of delivering the force of a blood eagle sacrifice upon an enemy but who yet can be merciful when logic and justice demand it.  He is capable of perceiving the value of another society and a foreign religion.  He is a true King, in the oldest meaning of the word, a real leader whom men follow not because they are forced to do so, but because his character and his ambitions are compelling.  Moreover, his love of his family and his children drives him and makes him a very sympathetic character.  He takes his disabled son out to the forest to be exposed in a sacred grove, but then defers to his wife's decision to rescue the child.

Ragnar as depicted in this series may desire power but he desires it in order to further the safety and security of his people, to give them a better life.  This sort of man actually is found quite often in the ancient Northern tales and sagas.

More later...  two fingers of my left hand remain 'dead'  and have been so since the surgical procedure when they damaged my nerves with the I.V.  It still is difficult for me to type.

Before I end this portion of my post, however, I would like to share an interesting theory about one of Ragnar's famous sons, Ivar the Boneless.  Although it clearly is stated in original sources that Ivar was born with some sort of deformity in that his bones 'resembled gristle' rather than proper bones, it is only recently that a man with a similar deformity has done some serious study of the matter and conclued that Ivar suffered from brittle bone disease.  Here is a video that deals with this matter:

Ivar the Boneless, the Strangest Viking

Viking Burial at Repton



Personally, I am more inclined to support the theory of Ivar being a small, disabled man who chose the bow because of his disability than the unsupported theory that it is his gigantic bones that are buried at Repton!  The idea that he was a giant of a man is not given in any original source, but there are quotes about him being hoisted on a shield by his men in order to be carried into battle.


Furthermore, those who contend that a disabled or mutilated man could not be king are confusing Celtic traditions with Norse ones.  Odhinn himself had only one eye and Tyr only one hand, both of them having undergone deliberate acts of sacrifice in order to save the world...  It is only the Celts, an entirely different culture and people who forbade a disabled or mutilated man from becoming King.

Music and Television Shows

Confined essentially to a recliner, however elegant and comfortable for most of the day and night in a room without a television, I have explored all the mobile device possibilities, including Amazon Prime, Netflix and Hulu.  After the surgical procedure, I was forced to be in a rather sad rehab facility for a week... not a private room, which meant that I had more than my fill of television shows with adverts.  Thank God for Netflix, Hulu and Amazon Prime as well as Daily Motion, where I can watch what I want without the intrusion of commercial messages.

What is interesting, apart from the discovery of some good dramas and comedies is the music they have brought in their wake.  I do not like radio for the same reason I dislike television... the adverts drive me round the bend.  Further, I don't see why any one else should dictate what noise or music invades my space and radio is all about the egos  and taste of the various announcers.

So here is my list of songs I have discovered through the shows I have liked best recently:

A show called 'The Good Wife', originally on CBS but now available on Hulu (7 Seasons!) has a marvelous scene that features Jane Jensen's delightful song, 'Luv Song'....  kind of a surprising juxtaposition of action and music but very powerful and quite amusing!

Luv Song

A show called 'Betas' on Amazon Prime that seeks to rival my favourite 'Silicon Valley' features as its theme a song by Telekinesis called 'Power Lines'.

Silicon Valley recently, quite aptly featured an old song called 'Pied Piper' by Crispin St. Peters.

I will try to think of some others. 

50 Shades of Impotence

When I was 10 years old, I boarded a jet on my way to Nepal by myself.  My mother, watching from the window of the terminal, always tells people I never looked back.  What I did, in fact, was find my seat by the window, open my copy of 'The Three Musketeers', one of my favourite books and begin to read, making certain that there would be NO tears to obscure my vision.

On the way to Hawaii, the air hostess gave me a glass of champagne, despite the fact that I was very much underage.  I did not have any 'babysitter', though.  I went through customs alone at Honolulu and then met my relations, a family I really did not know at all.

And so it went... I went alone to England to University at an age when most children still had at least three more years of school to endure.  I tried not to look back.  I wanted to be a warrior woman, an intrepid adventurer in life.

Well, that did not work out entirely but the pattern endured.   Years later, after feeling I was being smothered in San Diego, dealing with a great-aunt who had advanced Alzheimer's disease and finally making it clear that they needed a real professional, I took a plane to New York with three cats, no job and no money.  I had obtained a copy of the 'Village Voice' and rented a room in a flat, sight unseen.  The girl who had the lease told me that the flat was in Manhattan... I barely made the flight and did not know whether or not the cats had made it until I reached La Guardia..  Changing planes somewhere in Texas, all I could discover was that there WERE some animals in the hold.  Those were the days when pets were not allowed to travel with their human companions but were placed in the hold with the bags... rather cruel, but both they and I survived and were reunited at the airport in New York.

When I found a taxi and gave the address, telling the guy it was located in Manhatten, the driver, with a heavy Brooklyn accent replied, 'Lady, that's in BROOKLYN.'  Of course he was right and the location had been misrepresented by the Italian-American girl who had rented the flat to me.  Two months later, she moved out and rented the entire flat, over my head, to some one else.  I found myself in a day homeless, out on the street with three cats in their carriers!

And yet, somehow I found a place to stay, ironically with another taxi driver who, seeing me on a pay phone attempting to find shelter for the night, recognised me.  He had driven me on Hallowe'en to Manhattan a month previously and had been highly impressed, evidently with my dominatrix outfit!  When he discovered my plight, he offered me a spare room in hsi flat in Queen's.  By this time, I had a job but in those days, it was virtually impossible to find a hotel that would accept three cats, however purebred and well-bred, as guests.

I could recount a thousand tales of my life, of situations that were insecure or dangerous, but that I managed to escape or overcome, always ultimately landing on my feet.  It was partly because I saw it all as a grand adventure.  Whether meeting the notorious Jackie O at a party or accompanying a very unstable but close friend who was going through terrible withdrawal symptoms to a tenement in Bedford-Stuyvesant where he went to 'score' some smack, I saw it all as an ADVENTURE, as grist for the creative mill ... and if something truly awful occurred, if my heart were broken or I were forced to deal with loss of any kind, however terrible the pain, I tried to convince myself that I would emerge from the other side of the darkness enriched somehow with life experience.

For you see, as a young girl, I was placed in a special programme for so-called 'gifted students' where a Creative Writing course was created just for me.  My teacher, a rather unsuccssful but brilliant poet told me, 'You are extremely talented and have a superb knowledge of the English language but you lack the most essential foundation for any writer which is 'EXPERIENCE'.  Go out and get some of that and then perhaps you can be a real writer!'

At the same time, my Mother beat it into my head that no one ever could be a great Artist without SUFFERING.  Indeed, according to her, one had to suffer more than Our Lord on the Cross to become anything worthwhile in terms of ART...

The combination of these two maxims almost killed me, literally, more than once, but I survived and continued to have both extraordinary life experiences and extraordinary amounts of suffering, both spiritual, emotional and physical, until gradually, in the past few years, with increasing physical disability, my life and Life basically ground to a half.

Severe chronic pain is the worst enemy I ever have enoountered.  It is a constant companion, jealous and greedy.  It works against everything that is positive or exciting in life.  For a long time, I fought it and tried to continue to have adventures and experiences but it finally cornered me.  Bent over double, unable to stand without support on either leg, experiencing excruciating pain whether standing, walking, sitting or assuming a quasi-prostrate position in bed (I no longer can lay flat at all, but am forced to sit... the last straw in a way, because prior to this, the closest to peace I ever had was when I was in bed)... well, to put it bluntly, the quality of my life became less and less viable.

Finally, they are going to operate in June and then again, if recovery from that procedure is good.  It will not solve all the problems or even rid me of pain completely but it may help me to walk again like a proper human being.

At this point, each day is a nightmare and I literally count the days wondering if I will make it to June.

A few months ago, one of my very best friends from my New York days told me he would be coming to New York and I told him I would come to the City to see him on 25 April.  It would have been a difficult trip even at that point in time.  By 1 April, though, I seriously doubted whether or not I could make the trip at all.

It involves two hours by coach from here.    The trip would be undertaken alone.  A breeze back in the old days when, after moving to Pennsyvlania, I still visited my friends in the City twice weekly if possible.  Now though, when a trip up the stairs to my bedroom is a huge undertaking, I almost despaired.  I kept telling my friend that I would manage it somehow and I tried to convince myself that I would, but a part of me despaired.

Yesterday was D-Day.  I barely sleep in any case with the pain, but I set my alarm for 5.00 a.m. in order to feed the cats before the trip.  I sat with Cupid on a chair in their Hall of Mirrors chamber and the tears ran down my cheeks.  I held him for about half an hour, crying while he licked my face as he is wont to do as he feels he is in charge of my grooming.... but I think he knew how miserable I felt as well.

When I went upstairs again, I was determined to make the trip but wondered how I would manage it.

This is a very long introduction to what became quite an adventure and I am writing it not for myself but for other disabled individuals as well.  It really became a series of misadventures, but somehow they were overcome and I went to Manhattan and returned home again.  Yes, today is worse than usual in terms of pain, as is any day when I have exerted myself more than usual, but for once, if was for something worthwhile.

I triumphed over this awful physical state of impotence temporarily.  I saw LIFE again, even if my experience of it was less than it would have been if I had been able to walk and I saw my dear friend...  last year, one of my closest childhood friends died of cancer.  I never had a chance to say goodbye to him, among other things.  I did not even know of his condition.  I do not want that to happen again. Friendship is such a vital part of life.  I don't want any opportunity to see a good friend ever to pass me by again.

One reason I am writing about this trip publically is to write about the way I was treated as a disabled person.  The coach service was amazing.  Having travelled every week to New York for many years on the coach, I knew how crowded it would be.  Sometimes, during the rush hours, every seat would be taken.  I was given two seats at the front of the coach for the trip to the city.  I therefore was able to stretch out my legs when the pain of being seated became intolerable.  Some one carried my bag onto the coach so that I could hoist myself up the steps using both hands.  I did not have to worry about walking down the corridor because I was given the front seat.

I had stressed the need to have my friend meet me at the Port Authority.  I no longer have tha ability, even with the walker, to traverse more than a few yards at any given time.  It has a little seat and I knew it would be necessary for him to push me part of the way through the concourse to 8th Avenue.

He really hates Port Authority.  Many people do.  In fact, many of them probably haven't set foot in the place more than once or twice.  Unfortunately, there is no train service to the place in Pennsylvania where I live.  One either has to drive or take a coach if one wishes to visit New York.  In fact, I was rather horrified initially to discover this.  I was not fond of coach trips.  In Europe, I never took them.  I took trains, whether underground or overground.

My friend kept his promise and met me at the gate.  Unfortunately, the business of pushing me in the walker proved to be extremely difficult.  The damned thing kept listing to the left.  I finally suggested that we try to find a wheelchair service.  We were directed to a 'house phone' where dialling 54 would connect one with such a service.  About ten minutes later, a man appeared with a very large wheelchair.

He was the nicest man imaginable.  He refused a tip in fact at the end of the journey, taking us directly to the front of the taxi queue where we were placed immediately in a car in front of every one else.  A part of me did not like the idea of 'jumping the queue' but in all honesty, it would have been very painful to be forced to inch my way forward, enduring another half hour of waiting...

We went to his hotel first.  I needed a bit of a rest and he told me that they served fabulous coffee with croissants.  The Hotel was the 'Library Hotel', a most interesting place.  Not far from the wonderful New York Public Library.  There are brass plaques set into the pavement along the street in front of the hotel, all the way to the actual Library I am told, each with a quotation from a famous writer.

it was on this pavement outside the hotel where the first midadventure occurred, however.  Taking the walker from the boot of the taxi, one of the rear wheels actually detached itself and rolled forlornly into the gutter.

Upon investigation, a bolt was discovered to be missing.  MISSING!  How could this have happened?  Well, while I was travelling in the very wide wheelchair, my friend was carrying or pushing the walker.  He does not have much experience with these and the bolt must have come loose and escaped somewhere in the concourse.  He did not notice it.  It was NOT in the boot of the taxi nor anywhere on the pavement outside the hotel.

I do not think my friend realised what an utter catastrophe this was at first but I had to make it very clear that I could not go anywhere without the walker... the only way I could have gone anywhere was if I had a bearer who would actually CARRY me.  This obviously is not a viable option in the 21st century... there are no sedan chairs for people like me.  The damned thing had to be fixed or replaced.

It was here that the Library Hotel proved itself.  I was able to limp to the lift with a three-wheeled walker, very very slowly and there was a chap with a bucket and mop in the lift with us.  I asked him if he knew of any one who could help with the walker's repair.  I think my friend was a little upset with me for engaging in this conversation with the first person I encountered but it was a good instinct on my part.  The guy told me that the 'engineer' for the hotel could fix it and that he could be sent to the room.

Lo and behold, the Engineers (there were TWO of them) appeared and proceeded to engage in a rather lengthy and complicated process of repair.  Although they had a cart laden with supplies and tools of various sorts, they determined that they did not have the right size or type of bolt.  One of them then went to a local shop to fetch the right bolt... in the end, after about an hour, the walker was fixed and I was given an extra bolt in case it ever happened again.  They were not entirely happy with the repair but said they had done all that they could to try to prevent the bit from being 'stripped'.  In other words, they really made an effort!  It is not the best or most expensive walker in the world but I do need it and their efforts were impressive.

Our day was 'back on track'.  After they left, I said I was rather surprised to find that a hotel actually had a team of engineers on board.  My friend responded, 'You know, they used to call them 'janitors'!  He was quite right, of course.

Once the 'engineers' had performed their miracle, for it was a sort of miracle in the circumstances, we were free to move forward.  We had planned to visit a dealer in bronze medals.  There had been correspondence with the man, and he supposedly knew that we were planning to visit him on that specific day, but when we arrived at the shop, it was shut with a notice on the door to the effect that it was CLOSED.  Very disappointing frankly.  If I had known that the shop would have been shut, I would have chosen an outing to one of my favourite museums instead... but the man has a reputation for being eccentric.  The shop is what some might call a 'junk shop' really... the windows were stuffed with odds and ends, from skulls to crystal balls to a variety of bronze medals and various other commemoratives.  It is the sort of shop I absolutely adore, where I always would be able to find a treasure.  Indeed, dual portraits of MY Emperor and the awful Josephine, framed in mother-of-pearl, graced one of the upper shelves in the window and the price was very reasonable, I thought... not that it signified.  I wouldn't have bought it even if I had the money for I despise Josephine and always have.  It would go against the grain somehow to break the frames in half, jettisoning the awful woman in favour of having Napoleon to myself.  He evidently has quite a lot of Napoleonic stuff though.  Pity, pity, pity... well, I shall have to return when and if I am able to walk.  I shan't make another trip like this until then.  The price, as I knew it would be, was very high.  My pain levels today are through the proverbial roof.'

After that disappointment, we looked for a place to eat.  Fortuitously, the shop was situated in a section of mid-town that is filled with Korean restaurants.  There are no Korean restaurants where I live although, somewhat ironically, the many Japanese restaurants here are all owned and managed by Koreans.  I always have loved bulgogi.  I am very much a red meat sort of person and good bulgogi is first and foremost good beef.

I went through a phase of watching a lot of Korean films and television series, one of which took place in the presidential palace and involved a great deal of cooking.  Its title was Jinjja Jinjja Jong-a-hae or 'I really really like you.'  It was kind of a typical soap opera, apart from the amazing cooking.  Korean cuisine is extremely sophisticated, especially at the presidential or royal level.  Hundreds of side dishes grace every meal and they are visually stunning as well as exquisitely prepared.

Our lunch reminded me a little of Jin-jja Jin-jja Jong-a-hae.  We were surrounded by tiny plates and bowls containing beautiful little pickles and vegetables, every one of which had its own unique spices, flavours and even texture.  The bulgogi was cooked at the table and was tossed with glass noodles, another favourite of mine.

The restaurant where we ate was not our first choice.  Unfortunately, the first restaurant proved to be inaccessible to me in my current crippled state.  One had to sit on the floor, with ones legs in a sort of underground cellar beneath the table.  There was no way I could have negotiated my poor legs into that position at this point and they were quite clear that they could not allow anything else.

It was one of the most elegant Korean restaurants I ever have visited, beautifully appointed and very traditional.  I hope to return someday, if my condition improves.  Meanwhile, though, they recommended a place named 'Miss Korea'.

I confess that I found the name rather off-putting, too trendy or kitschy even for my taste.  Nonetheless, when my friend tried to persuade me not to hobble the distance, to settle for something closer, I refused.  I had an instinct that whatever place had been recommended really might be special... and it was!

The atmosphere was not terribly elegant and the music was less than stellar, being some sort of generic popular American radio offering,  but the food was fantastic.

Why am I writing about all of this?  It really may not be of any interest except for one thing:  I did it.  I did it when I thought it would be impossible.  I cannot make it up and down the stairs sometimes from my room to the kitchen, cannot leave the house even to see a favourite flower in the garden most days.  I cannot stand for more than a few minutes, cannot sit for more than a brief interval without experiencing extreme pain and certainly did not think I could weather a two-hour coach trip, let alone go through that TWICE in the same day.   And yet I did.  The Will can be extraordinary.  I made a promise to myself that I would grit my teeth and survive the trip, that I somehow would transcend my physical reality to be fairly decent company and have a good time with a very dear friend.  And I did.

What did that do for me?  Well, for a start, it has given me hope at a time in my life where everything was spiralling downward into total blackness and despair.  I wanted to be reminded of what life could be like, even if I have almost no life at the moment.  I wanted to be reminded that there still was a reason to keep struggling on, day by day, night by night, through the endless, unremitting agony of it all.  I did want to see my friend very badly because too many good friends have died in the past few years without me having had any opportunity to see them again, but beyond that, I wanted to prove to myself that there still was a world out there that I wanted to explore and perhaps could explore again...

I am writing this partly because i want to share my experience of taking a trip like this by myself as a disabled woman.  People were wonderful.  They went out of their way to be kind and helpful.  I was able to reserve the same front seat for the return trip to Pennsylvania by ringing a special number.  We were able to obtain a wheelchair at the entrance of Port Authority for the long walk down the concourse to the coach gate and the Port Authority employees were helpful and friendly.  It does make a difference.  I so feared and dreaded the journey.  I knew how helpless I would be.  My helplessness was countered, however, by the helpfulness of others.