Penelope Todd

And he bought a linen shroud, and taking him down, wrapped him in the linen shroud, and laid him in a tomb which had been hewn out of the rock; and he rolled a stone against the door of the tomb.

Mark 15:46

A bit gloomy today. Springing out of bed early (hooray for daylight-spending!) and swimming failed to work their usual magic. The postie brought tripe, I wrote half a page of tripe, and nobody emailed. Didn’t want to blog, probably ever again.

But gloom, like the fudge that arrived today from Edinburgh in an paper bag, has a way of melting. My housemate was cheerful; a friend shared some exquisite news; and for some reason I remembered the dogs of Iowa.

There in autumn 18 months ago, I caught wind of news that the city’s hounds had been given the freedom of the municipal pool. What matter a few hairs, drool and yellow water on the last day of the season?

Big dogs hit the water running. Little ones minced about the fringes of the toddlers’ pool. Some were too precious for words, or water.

We live in the midst of death, and many life-forms die because we live. Think of all we consume, and of the lives we interrupt inadvertently — on country roads, with the cleaning rag, underfoot.

Yesterday I heard a terrific thud and, heart pounding, looked out into the vege garden. Two thrushes among the spinach: twinned in flight, together they’d struck glass. Stunned, beak to beak, first the larger one died, then the smaller.

When we built our deck, I was the one who insisted on glass, for the view. Seen from the garden yesterday, in the morning light it mirrored a vista of blue and gold, distant trees, a clear, enticing sky.

Mea culpa.

The warm bodies were heavy in my hands.

The cooled bodies on a rhubarb leaf were light — mere bone and feathers.

You and I go on living — at least for now.

We tried these at work early in March. They didn’t taste quite foody nor the jam exactly jammy so we applied one to the windowsill — an offering to the birds and insects, the sun, rain, moulds, microbes and spirits of the air.

Four weeks later:

I doubt if many of us stand up so staunchly to rejection.

Whatever she is doing or not doing, a cat is a cat is a cat (and we call this one Biddy). I wonder if the same can be said of a person. If you stopped thinking for a few minutes, and laid aside every habit, tic, job, expectation, should or ought — each veil or disguise — awake, wordless, doing nothing, who or what would you be?

Beautiful feet. They’re to be found in the work place, on the radio, among your friends and family, via the internet, on your street and, if you’re blessed, in your own home. They might be buffed and trim, cracked and calloused, or hidden away in shoes and socks. They belong to people who are glad to be alive and are responsible for themselves, who won’t judge or slander, who pay attention, who choose — as far as they’re able — not to act from fear or aggression, whose self-knowledge blossoms into compassion, and who are often also joyful, curious and funny. They make you glad to be alive. They make you grow. I can think of quite a few and I’m immeasurably richer for knowing them. Soprano Judy Bellingham sang about them yesterday in the Catholic Basilica, to the music of Handel, in the words of Isaiah:

How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace and bring glad tidings of good things.

My challenge today: to make this dead fish marry the idea of time accelerating. Is it merely an idea, or are the days, weeks and months racing by at rates previously reserved for seconds, minutes and hours? Of course the explanation might be a purely mechanical: a month in 2009 is roughly 1/600 of my lifespan thus far. In 1969 it represented only 1/130; 1/24 in late 1960. Whether or not the whole train is rattling along more swiftly, it seems that anything not meant to be on board these days is flying out the windows. As the clackety-clack grows ever more insistent, we passengers are appraising the bundles in our laps, before things get torn from our grips regardless. Damp squibs, flotsam, and white elephants; gewgaws, small beer and small potatoes: they gotta go. What’s worth keeping? I ask myself this question most days, in one form or another, and for now I’m sticking with fresh veges, breathing more, true friends, the book I’m reading, and Scrubs. It’s on … have to go. What? The fish? It was found on the beach at the foot of a cliff — 100 metres below the train track.

I collected this stupefied fellow off a magic mushroom. The fly agarics, or amanita muscaria, have proliferated in the recent wet spell, daubing enough insanity around the fringes of the local park for the whole city to take leave of their senses. (Some already have, but the Stadium is another matter.) Anyway, Cicada was ready to exchange the hallucinogenic vapours of amanita for the cuff of my jacket, and ride home with me and Dog. Last seen shuffling tipsily into the wisteria vine.

It’s strange how happiness comes along and catches you up. Sometimes you can make it happen (swim out of your shoes; here I am at Lake Alexandrina; the ducks moved aside) and other times it comes all by itself and lifts you into the heart of your work or play; it makes your son laugh and the bread rise; plans come to pass and last night’s leftovers taste excellent for lunch. (As long as there’s food to be had) hungry and happy are probably friends.

It doesn’t necessarily help you work out how to put links on your website, or how to fiddle those widget things to best advantage, but it gives you patience, openness and good questions.

How long can I make it last? How can I make it last? Can I?