Skip to main content

The giggle-monger, Christmas, many feet and trying to worry enough.

What makes you happy?

What makes me happy?
Finding good words written on a page; discovering adventure in a book and not turning back; laughing and calling my daughter a Giggle-Monger and finding that she liked it and laughing more; shopping for presents; eating too much food in good company; planning Christmas and remembering Christmases past when little hands decorated the tree with a skirt of decorations, all at 1-2 feet above ground level and the top of the tree bare; cooking a feast; sharing the feast; hugs; ice-cream ... always ice-cream; and chocolate; a pale crisp white wine or a fruity beaujolais, and feet. No, not the smelly, hair-sprouting, thick nailed sort. No. Definitely not! The fall of feet - the feet of my children and their friends and our friends and family - as they walk into our home and do a soft-foot-settling-contented-happy shuffle. On my floors.

Feet.

Feet on floors.

The footfall of passing lives. Here. At home. At Christmas.

But ... but ... but ... warning: this is where light and breezy and a faintly unhinged procrasti-ramble clouds over and shadows fall across faces and brows become heavy ... what of the unheard footfall beyond our homes? The silent sound of thousands of fleeing feet. Of feet running from terror. Of feet hunting for food. Of feet ripping a deep rift across the earth looking for the child whose hand slipped from theirs as bombs fell.

Why can't we hear them? The silent feet; that fall.

What are you worrying about, right now?

What size of turkey to order? Do you have turkey at all, or opt for beef, instead? Or duck? Or goose?How do you cater for the vegetarians joining you for the big day? Have you finally finished your present shopping? Why are crackers legally classified as fireworks? Do you need a Christmas joke? Will you break with tradition and actually remember the punch-line? What about last year's Christmas jumper - will anyone notice if you wear the same one again? Will it fit? Do enough of the family/your guests like sprouts/Christmas pudding to bother with either? Where will everyone sleep? Does it matter if Stir-up Sunday is on 15th December in your house (as it will be in ours); not a Sunday and too late for a fully boozed-up, matured cake on Christmas day; and can last year's cake be dynamited and used to build the foundations of a lego castle?

I worry that everyone will like their presents. I worry that we won't get a dry day and will be prevented from walking Four-legged-friend and Bertie Baggins. I worry that if I admit here that my pair of faithful companions won't be getting gifts, some of you will judge me mean. They're dogs. Dogs don't need Christmas.

I worry. Most of the time. But ...

I don't worry that my children might go hungry.
I don't worry that I may never see my son again, after all the young men were taken away.
I don't worry that I have no medicine to give my asthmatic child when her throat is sore and she has a fever. And there is no hospital to take her to if she gets worse.
I don't worry that all the doctors have gone and that my neighbour died in childbirth.
I don't worry that I still lie at night dreaming her screams.
I don't worry that I may not wake up.
I don't worry that living may be worse than dying.

I don't worry. Because I am not one of them. And I don't hear their feet.
I don't hear them and I should.

I should worry about nothing else. All my worries are joys. They are privileges; indulgences. Freedom and blinkered selfishness.

I want to worry. About peace. And compassion. And hearing their feet.

I want to worry enough to make a difference. To make time to worry about them.

Think about it: insert the name of your favourite charity here *           * and make a gift. Easy-peasey!

Then stop worrying; worry about nothing for a while and have a happy Christmas. But keep back just enough worry to listen for feet in the New Year.

Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Colour, Delacroix, flochetage and why don't we all have a go at inventing words

Yes - it is a real word. Flochetage. Well, a real-ish word. One invented by the painter Delacroix, when he found the dictionary cupboard bare and required a word to describe his technique of layering different coloured paints, using lightly pulled brush strokes to create texture and pattern and thereby enhance his base-layer colours (... lost? - stick around, read on and all will become clear. Or perhaps muddier ...). Flochetage implies both stringiness and threadiness. Apparently. And it sounds good - in a filling-the-mouth-with-sound sort of a way. Try it ... flochetaaaage. Not that I speak French. So I am probably mis-pronouncing it. Nor am I an artist. So what do I know about painting techniques - except that I think this one works. What I do like is the concept - you invent a new technique in whatever it is you do, hunt around for the vocabulary to describe it, find the dictionary is lacking, so make up a word of your own and announce to the world what it means. Delacroix isn&#
Post a Comment
Read more

Confetti for the brain. A little bit of history regarding a use for holes and a couple of quotes.

Confetti - noun: small pieces of coloured paper thrown over a bride and groom following their marriage ceremony. Also the bane of church yards and wedding venues - who wants to exit church after their favourite spinster aunt's funeral and slip on the papier mâché mush of last weekend's weddings, or step, in your wedding gown, onto a pink spattered step when your colour theme is lilac? Confetti - derived from the Latin confectum, meaning something prepared. Which suggests that there is something missing from the traditional wedding rhyme 'something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue ... something prepared.' How about something shared ... declared ... or ensnared?? Nature's confetti is all over the ground at this time of year - The garden, footpaths, and pavements are covered in blossom snow. And, when he falls asleep beneath the apple tree, it speckles Four-legged-friend's black coat. The confetti we know today - bits of b
Post a Comment
Read more

My beloved boy, how lucky I have been

It's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die ... and I say someone here even though the one in question was a dog - but to us he had character and a place forever in our hearts and was more of a familiar someone than some of the people in our lives. So, I'll start again - it's an odd thing that when we are waiting for someone to die, our senses go into overdrive. We notice things that normally would be part of the background of our every day. We breathe more - or rather, we don't but what we do is notice our breathing more, as we watch his. We pause. We think. We listen to ourselves and our inner voices speak. Memories flood our dreams ... though sleep is fitful.  Why am I telling you this? ... ... we lost this beautiful boy today And in the hours before he went, I saw perfect spheres of dew on blades of grass - little orbs holding micro-images of our world; a bumble bee drunk on nectar, yellow-dusted with pollen, resting in a crocus; ten - yes, ten!
Post a Comment
Read more