All that we are is the result of what we have thought

My eyes are failing.  Not in a whoosh, more like a gentle decline.  But I notice it, and I mind.  And my knees ache.  And creak as I walk upstairs.  My mind seems as if I was in my thirties…….. teens some days even…. my body has no such false impression, its 50 and it knows it.  In fact some days it thinks it’s hobbling on for 60, maybe more.  My sibling complains of the same.  And we become two old crusties moaning about the onset of old age.  I actually called someone ‘dear’ the other day, a stranger at that.  I must start wearing comfy woollen skirts and sensible brogues.  But, despite all my moans and whinges I cannot help but recall a quote I heard many a year ago that said ‘Do not complain; old age is a gift denied to many’.  

So, I have been watching Born to be Different, and, like every year, Shelby carries on, her parents given a rollercoaster of emotions as she slips towards death and then rebounds back to life in the full.  Now she has been given a diagnosis that confirms an early death, and her family must prepare.  Like many families do, every day.  Families in hospitals, families in hospices, families in war areas, families in famine.  And it is an odd thing that a date given for death, even a rough time span, somehow brings out in us a need to be closer to that little life, maybe do more, see more, hug more.  I want to know why.  Not why do we do it.  But why don’t we do it for the children who have 30 years left, or 40, 50, 60 even.  Some do I know, but so many don’t.  Not that they don’t feel the love, but it is so often taken for granted.  Until that phone call, that visit, that piece of news.  Then you spend a moment wishing you had said more, hugged more, laughed more.  Don’t waste a day.  Not even one.

And a debate on the Radio – who should be responsible for the homeless?  This was based on a news story where local religious centres were feeding and caring for the homeless, and the radio personage was asking was it their job to do so, should it not be ‘the government’.  Well people called in and offered many an opinion.  I’d like to offer mine.  Who should be responsible?  You should.  I should.  You over there.  Everyone. Us.  We all should.  Why should we pass it on?  How can we walk by?  Who is this magic government that can absolve us from helping a fellow human being in need of help?  Do a little, do something.

We had a pretend Christmas.  We played games, we laughed, we ate, we joined as family and friends, and, I dare say, we hugged a little.  And we held a fun auction and raised some money for people with no food, no pretend Christmas and, who knows, maybe no hugs.  Simples.

"I'm proud of you for the times you came in second, or third, or fourth, but what you did was the best you have ever done" Fred Rogers quote

“Are you proud of me?” little one asked.  How to answer.  Yes, so proud, no words to say how much, of course I am.  Of course?  As in aren’t all parents proud?  Well, no, I don’t think they all are.  But I am.  Proud as punch, as they say.  I like who my children have grown into, I like their ethics, their morals, their kindness to others.  I am proud of what they have achieved workwise, and socially.  Do we just feel pride by what we hold in esteem?  So if I value honesty and truth, am I only proud of those who are honest and truthful?  Maybe.  But if they lied and were still kind to others and still happy people I would still be proud.  

I wonder, sometimes, about other mothers.  Mothers of people we don’t like.  I was greatly moved to read that parents of a child who had been killed hugged the father of the killer as the father sobbed for what his son had done.  That is some forgiveness!  And what of the parents of Dictators, parents of bullies, parents of the journalists who have hacked into people’s phones, parents of drug traffickers.  Are they proud?  Do they have quiet proud memories when things were better? 

There is a quote I love, from John Lennon, talking of his son. He says;

“He didn't come out of my belly, but my God, I've made his bones, because I've attended to every meal, and how he sleeps, and the fact that he swims like a fish because I took him to the ocean. I'm so proud of all those things. But he is my biggest pride.”

And this is what I mean.  Are we proud of the things we helped to mould and create in our little ones, or are we proud of who they are, the humanity of them, what they do and say and feel?  I think it’s both, and the latter is the larger.