tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21392645111284875462024-03-04T21:36:40.809-08:00The antlers made me do itThoughts, musings, rantings and ruminations of a Wiccan living in North Carolina.Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-54767823286834138702014-11-11T19:34:00.001-08:002014-11-11T19:52:30.312-08:00My FaerieCon Weekend, or "How I fell in love with two thousand people at once and discovered the benefits of poetic vulgarity"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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My Faeriecon Weekend, </div>
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or</div>
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"How I fell in love with two thousand people at once
and discovered the benefits of poetic vulgarity"</div>
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(Brief obligatory introduction: I'm an occasional contributor to CeltCast radio, and I'd promised Alex, the station producer, a review of Faeriecon and the concerts. So here you are!)</div>
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In March of this year, 2014. I learned that Omnia was coming to Faeriecon East,
a fantasy-themed convention on the east coast. I looked at our projected bank
balance, then quickly ignored it. "It's Omnia," I told my girlfriend,
"and Faun. And Woodland. And SJ Tucker. At the same event. Fuck it, we're
going!" And plans were made.<br />
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We arrived at the hotel at about noon on Friday, and I saw a few familiar
faces, gave and received hugs, and checked into the room. Quick costume change,
and off to join the burgeoning madness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was carrying my red dragon arm puppet, who goes by the name of
"N'Aflawen Ddraig Goch ap Machynlleth." (If you've been studying
your<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Welsh, you'll know that that
translates to "The Fierce Red Dragon from Machynlleth" - a real town,
where I spent my childhood years.) </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooQeAZpIcNgpPj8ZzkhuHB1_l1z8xymrdweaYIMqUMi0NwGkjzFFZlu55ToORswjH-90IEAHcicNL8qkuASTKFJ11RWTCfmzo_s5rzEaB3mR4tbl4R0NxyX1-Ady6UEn7O2SuXjDcrcg/s1600/naflawen1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooQeAZpIcNgpPj8ZzkhuHB1_l1z8xymrdweaYIMqUMi0NwGkjzFFZlu55ToORswjH-90IEAHcicNL8qkuASTKFJ11RWTCfmzo_s5rzEaB3mR4tbl4R0NxyX1-Ady6UEn7O2SuXjDcrcg/s320/naflawen1.jpg" width="320" /><span id="goog_743269340"></span><span id="goog_743269341"></span></a></div>
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The convention itself was remarkable. SO much talent! Costumes you'd only dream
of, and spirits and enthusiasm and verve enough to make anyone believe in
magic. Within an hour, I felt as if I was in a world of fantasy, and I was in
love with every part of it. During the next three days, I took, or had taken,
dozens of pictures. I must give credit to my friend Jeremy Durant, who took far
better pictures of the concerts<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>than I
ever could. He's the above fellow with the big horns, seemingly startled by a small dragon.</div>
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We wandered about the hotel, visited the merchant's halls,
met more people, and waited with delighted anticipation for the first of three
concerts of the weekend, SJ Tucker, opening for Faun.<br />
SJ Tucker, if you don't know her, is an American musician with an
*unbelievable* voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>SJ, also known as
"Sooj", is friendly, articulate, talented beyond human reckoning, and
a delight to listen to. You can experience her for yourself by going to her
website, music.sjtucker.com. (To give you an idea of her musical skill, go to
the albums page and click on the Sirens album, and play the song Carousel. She
throws herself effortlessly off a musical precipice and never loses her way.
That was recorded in 2006. She's better than that now.)</div>
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Sooj, along with her cellist Betsy Tinney and percussionist Ken Crampton, entertained for the better part of an hour, taking
her audience through a mystical wonderland of magic, delight, whimsy,
thunderstorms and alligators. <br />
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Then after a brief intermission, Faun took to the stage. Fog machines spilled
clouds into the room and coloured lights and banners fluttered, turning the
room into an enchanted landscape.</div>
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The crowd was very soon dancing to music that.... well, it's Faun, you know
their music. If you don't, shame on you. Beautiful, ethereal, mystical,
mediaeval, enchanting.... I joined in the dance, my feet often leaving the
ground and my heartbeat at one with the captivating sound that carried us all
away. Cello, lute, bhodran and hurdy gurdy and drums and voices and bells kept
the magic alive for much of the evening.</div>
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I was not alone in noticing that the
crowd of 1200 people dancing to their music was making the light rig shake
overhead, and the floor was bouncing, literally, beneath our feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
At one point I spun around and lost my balance, and crashed into some fellow
who was likewise enjoying the music. I glanced up and apologized to the fellow
I'd almost knocked over... Steve, from Omnia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"S'alright, mate," he said easily, "It's Faun." What
a way to meet the man for the first time!</div>
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It was close to midnight when Faun completed their third
encore, and finally departed the stage. I joined the crowd spilling out of the
ballroom, still lost in the enchantment of their music and not yet willing to
return to the real world. But of course it was Faeriecon, the 'real' world was
very far away. N'Aflawen and I called it a night by one<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>o'clock, and I found my way to a soft world
of orphic chorus.<br />
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On Saturday morning I dressed in my satyr attire, with
horns, ears, hooves and tail. I made my way to the merchants hall, where one
table offered face painting. I became even more transformed into a satyr, and
set about enjoying the day.</div>
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The doors to the Woodland and Omnia show were set to open at 8, and the line
started forming at 6:30. By 7:45, the line snaked from the ballroom foyer, past
the restaurant, through the lobby, and half a mile down the guest room
hallways. So many people!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many stunning
costumes! More than once, as I walked the line meeting people, I heard voices
musically lamenting their inability to speak human...<br />
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The doors opened at 8:15, and the crowd surged into the ballroom. Most of us,
myself included, had never seen Woodland or Omnia perform live before, and we
knew we were in for a very special evening.<br />
(Sadly, we exceeded the room's legal capacity, and the Fire Marshal order that
nobody else be allowed in. So if you were one of the poor folk who left the
ballroom to use the bathroom and found yourself unable to re-enter, that's
why.)<br />
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Woodland took the stage at about 8:30, and gave the audience a wonderful taste
of their talent and music. Primarily acoustic, with guitar, lute, cello,
didgeridoo and drums, they wove a sonic veil of enchantment and mystery
throughout the ballroom. Emilio and Kelly headline a wonderfully skilled,
diverse musical band, well worth your time.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaSe01pFsMWON6x5ENT4322UERB7lIfSrB_8LqrJwEo2hstiliOekm-hMVEaGTJvMp8yYVQUbcvAdTxIwWtZBIjBflhlnGQbgSJJDFGrfXmXkPPEF1pknRZJghKqaVihar-FRpAQIeJCg/s1600/woodland2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaSe01pFsMWON6x5ENT4322UERB7lIfSrB_8LqrJwEo2hstiliOekm-hMVEaGTJvMp8yYVQUbcvAdTxIwWtZBIjBflhlnGQbgSJJDFGrfXmXkPPEF1pknRZJghKqaVihar-FRpAQIeJCg/s320/woodland2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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At 9:30, the lights dimmed again and the crowd became restless, knowing what
was to follow. Omnia took to the stage soon after, and took the enthusiasm of
the crowd to even higher levels. If you've heard that the band is 'animated',
you've been misinformed. They are so much more than that. Steve and Jenny and
Daphyd and new guitarist Philip danced and cavorted and played and spun with
such enthusiasm, I think poor Rob was the only one in the entire whole hotel
still sitting down, and that only because he had to play his drums.</div>
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Daphyd's sliding didgeridoo often extended eight-ish feet over the crowd, or else
swung wildly over Steve's head as they cavorted and capered back and forth upon
the stage, his booming bass a counterpoint to Steve's unstoppable pennywhistle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jenny danced between harp and bhodran and
keyboard, like a beautiful sprite in love with the whole world. <br />
The music flowed, Omnia and their fans danced and sang, the ballroom itself was
alive with the music... there was not a soul unchanged. Omnia's music does that
to people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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During the performance of "We don't speak human",
hearing a thousand people shout "FUCK YOU!" to the evils of industry
and greed, is a magic to behold. Poetic vulgarity, indeed! Corporate trolls, hear us. We are legion, and
we are coming.
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Omnia played until nearly midnight, returning for three encores. During the
final song, Morrigan, Daphyd split his lip on the didgeridoo but continued to
play, his mouth bloodied but his spirit unfettered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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After the concert, still afloat on the wave of music, I chatted with friends
awhile, then made my way to the bar to see if I could talk briefly with the band on behalf of CeltCast.</div>
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I had my phone with me, of course, and tried to record a
brief interview with Daphyd and Rob. (Daphyd's lip was fine by then, and he was
laughing about it.) Sadly the recording on my phone was a garbled mess of bar
chatter, so no recorded interview. Sorry Alex!! For the record, Rob did say he
thought the audience was dynamite, and that he really appreciates having all of
the amenities of a hotel in one building. No hiking half a mile to pee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Daphyd gave a very brief, humorous<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a capella soundbite for Celtcast, sadly lost
in the garble.<br />
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I introduced myself to Steve as the man who crashed into him the previous
night, and we took a quick selfie. After a day of cavorting and dancing, my facepaint was no longer as clear as it had been hours earlier... I told Steve our picture looked like "a terrorist and a convict", and he enthusiastically agreed.</div>
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<span class="fbPhotoTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"><span class="fcg"><span class="fbPhotoTagListTag tagItem">Micheál Ó Laoghaire</span></span></span> from Ravengrove Radio recognized me from my days at
Wyldwood. "Miles!" he called out. "Good to finally meet
you!" <br />
When the bar closed at 2 am, Steve and Jenny invited everyone back to their
room to continue the party, myself included. As we made our way through the
hotel, Jenny observed with amusement that only Americans call the ground floor
of a hotel the 'first floor'. "The first floor is above the ground floor,
don't they know that? It's so silly." Steve turned and spread his arms
wide, a grin on his face. "You know who's silly? Not only Americans. Everyone!
All of us mutant monkeys. Humans, such a silly race."<br />
Up in the hotel room, I chatted with Micheal, Christen Marie and Steve, while
Philip and Emilio, and Stephan and Oliver<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>from Faun played an acoustic jam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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(Personal note: I *really* like the hurdy gurdy sound. Oh yes.)</div>
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Steve commented as we were talking that he and Jenny had
both been nursing a fever for a few days now, and he didn't think the show was
as high energy as it could have been. </div>
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(Are you kidding?! If it was any higher
energy they'd have had to replace the roof!)</div>
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By about 3 am I was struggling to maintain a vertical
position, but the bands were still playing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>- Micheal says they played until 5 - but I bid farewell, blew Jenny a
kiss, and stumbled back to my room. </div>
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On Sunday, Woodland played an afternoon acoustic set in the
ballroom, again carrying their audience on wings of music and fantasy. I sadly
stayed for only half the set, because I had a long drive ahead of me.</div>
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Final goodbyes, a host of hugs and farewells and teary eyes, and even more
pictures, </div>
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and we stepped out of the world of Fairie and back into a chilly
November day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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What. A. Weekend.<br />
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Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-63789939497541437382013-12-22T19:14:00.000-08:002013-12-23T13:41:59.411-08:00My visit to England, May 2009 (Goodbye Mum)<!--[if !mso]>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The events in this blog occurred in the summer of 2009. My mother was in hospice care, and I went to England for a few days to see her again and say goodbye, and to visit England and Wales again. While I was there I kept a journal of each day's events, which I emailed nightly to my brother Philip and my Dad. Some of this was a very personal and emotional journey.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I'm reposting it here merely for posterity. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">------------------------------------------------- </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Preface: Before the journey</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">On May 12th, Snooze and I will be flying to England for a week and a bit.<br /><br />I'm
going to visit England again, and to re-visit some of the places where I
grew up. Tyglyneiddwen, Eglwysfach, Machynlleth, and other Welsh names
you can't pronounce.<br />And it'll give Snooze a chance to visit England.<br /><br />But the main reason I'm going is to visit my Mum. <br /><br />My
mother, Frances Mary Cook, has been one of my best friends and a
supportive figure for years. My parents seperated in 1972 and divorced
in '74 , but she knew I was pagan before I did! (She's not pagan; Mum is
a devout Christian, but she understands and appreciates the pagan
perspective. )<br /><br />Mum has always had a very direct way of looking at
the world. Years ago, in one of her letters, she mentioned that she'd
like grandkids one day. Really, 'mentioned' is the wrong word. The first
line of her letter was, "Miles, when are you going to
breed?!"<br />And at one point our snail-mail conversation came
around to sexuality. Out of the blue she said, "You're not
bisexual, are you? If you are, the best of both worlds to you!"
What a great thing to say! (Really, I consider myself bi-sensual -- I
embrace both genders emotionally and spiritually, but not physically.) <br />And
when I told her about my Wiccan pursuits, she immediately understood
and accepted it. She was regularly sending me newspaper clippings about
various goings-on involving Druids and Witches in the British Isles. She
devoured JK Rowling's books, and wishes she could go to Hogwarts!<br /><br />But now she is in the twilight of her life. She's in her 70's, and she is in hospice care with untreatable throat cancer. <br />She
has become a frail, bedridden woman, finding comfort in her family and
her memories. Her voice is gone; she communicates with pen and paper. <br />I
know that when people learn of a sick relative, the immediate response
is to send healing energy. While I appreciate the thought, I know that
the time for healing energy is long past. What she needs is guidance for
a smooth and painless transition. <br />My brother Philip went to see her a month ago, and now that Snooze and I have our passports (finally!), it's my turn.<br /><br />This is something I've never done before - say goodbye to my mother - but it's something I need to do.<br /><br />-------------------------------------- </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 1</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We left
Charlotte airport Tuesday around 2:30 pm. Our friend Athena is living at
the house for the time we're away.</span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Flew to
Philadelphia; I kept trying to identify where we were by identifying geographical landmarks between North Carolina and Pennsylvania, but failed miserably.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Landed in
Philly around 4, and we spent two hours at the airport getting a bite to
eat and riding the Robert-Heinlein-inspired slidewalks to get the right gate.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When we
arrived at the gate, they had British flag balloons up, people taking pictures,
the pilot and crew shaking hands with people.... this was US Air's first
flight from Philadelphia to Birmingham, and they were making quite a
fanfare of it!</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The plane
left Philadelphia at 6:00 pm US time, and rapidly rose to 39,000 feet. We
changed seats with another fellow, because the girl in front of us, an exchange
student going home to Poland, WOULD NOT SHUT UP!! When we left them, the young
man we switched places with was still talking to her. Bully for them!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The flight
was seven hours, but we'd left the US at 6:00 pm. When we landed in Birmingham,
it was 6:00 am, sun was up, but it felt like 1:00 to us. The night went by in
record time! Watching the moon reflecting over the clouds, as white as a
beacon, and seeing the sun come up over Ireland - fingers of pink dawn to full
sun in 15 minutes - was a treat!</span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We landed
at Birmingham Int'l Airport (I didn't even remember Birmingham HAVING an
airport!) at 6:00, got through customs, and picked up our car. The quite
proudly told us we'd been upgraded to a bigger car, a 2009 Toyota with all the
bells and whistles. I took a couple of careful laps around the parking lot,
trying hard not to overcompensate for the wheel being on the other side, and
tried not to drive on the wrong side of the road!</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Nosed out
of the car rental place into traffic, and kept on and kept on stalling the car.
I'm used to driving manual transmission; it's my preferred system, but this one
had a really sensetive clutch, I kept on stalling the poor thing.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then
coming out of the airport we took a wrong turn and went 15 (?) miles down
A45 to Coventry!! Got to Coventry, where I pulled into a gas station and
bought a map and a bag of Jelly Babies.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> We went back
to the airport and asked them for a different car; they gave us an automatic
transmission Ford something, with diesel (!) and we drove out in that.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Found our
way back to Solihull, and pulled into the Ravenhurst at 10:30. Linda heard us
mucking about with bags and opened the door for us. "Hello, you must be
Phil's brother - I see the resemblance." Wonderful lady, she gave us
good English tea!</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHyM_attqkBe1XsnQDBLi_BMUdkBZDr8pORfDTgKu2HXnMUVjObjpvIbFgvfjMqnGigX-PpR5gPGk79a_LJDuf68wM9-nDBC0SWeKygItW3B1ctFergP9BUM1YrIrPArVNxBsxdv5ACs/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHyM_attqkBe1XsnQDBLi_BMUdkBZDr8pORfDTgKu2HXnMUVjObjpvIbFgvfjMqnGigX-PpR5gPGk79a_LJDuf68wM9-nDBC0SWeKygItW3B1ctFergP9BUM1YrIrPArVNxBsxdv5ACs/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMr-Vt79HHRDSrjQaGE9xARfqk8f4Hbjn8IUGFUmkqTUrf_-N7G7H8OEqMwV2T-yAzcAwjuxNu0RCa_lynl25B4iqd0SxRHWtZ0m_w-KksO8F-TGVKLF4OZS6T8wpzsf5bcX3gJ7KUnE/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimMr-Vt79HHRDSrjQaGE9xARfqk8f4Hbjn8IUGFUmkqTUrf_-N7G7H8OEqMwV2T-yAzcAwjuxNu0RCa_lynl25B4iqd0SxRHWtZ0m_w-KksO8F-TGVKLF4OZS6T8wpzsf5bcX3gJ7KUnE/s320/003.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
borrowed her phone to call Janet, who first tried to give us directions to Swallow's
Meadow Nursing Home, but then said, "Hang on, make this easier, I'll just
come pick you up."</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Janet
picked us up a few minutes later, and we drove to Swallow's Meadow Road. And
drove around Swallow's Meadow Road. And drove around roads around Swallow's
Meadow. What she thought was Swallow's Meadow Nursing Home turned out to be an
unfinished block of flats, and we had to ask several people before
learning that the nursing home was one block away! Janet dropped us off at the
door.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Got to
the REAL Swallow's Meadow, found our way inside, signed in, and went up
the the second (First, I'd forgotten that) floor.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> The doctor
was just closing Mum's door as we approached, I looked in and we saw each
other and I waved and smiled; her eyes got wide them she settled back in her
bed and smiled.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Five
minutes later the doctor opened the door and said we could go in.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum
doesn't look as bad as I'd imagined she might.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She
is VERY frail and small, with pale skin and thinning hair. She has a
breathing tube connected to her neck that pumps warm mist all around. Her hair
is thing, but not white. Grey, but not white. She has liver spots, and her
right thumb was held at a funny angle, like the base of her thumb had been
broken and re-set. (Had it?)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> But her
eyes are still strong - not the watery, washed-out looked I'd been
anticipating, but the strong, vibrant mischevious look I remembered. This was
definitely Mum!</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">With
cracking voice I said hello, and told her I loved her, and
introduced Heather. Mum turned with a little difficulty to look at Heather
and smiled weakly. I wonder if she was embarrassed to be seen in that state. Mum saw my camera and insisted that no pictures be taken of her, so there are none.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Heather
left us along for a few minutes, and Mum settled back in her bed and drifted in
and out of consciousness, while I held her hand and stroked her hair and told
her I loved her, and cried, I knew I was going to, but I didn't want to upset
her, so I just cried as quietly as possible.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> Heather
left us alone for twenty minutes, and I held Mum's hand and talked quietly
about our flight and such. I didn't want my stuttering to distress her either,
so whenever I felt a block about to happen I just held my voice until I
felt I could speak easily.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum would
open her eyes every now and then and tighten her grip on my hand, but
never asked for pen and paper.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After half
an hour or so I felt really worn out - jet-lag was beginning to set in -
so I wrote on her notepad that I'd see her again soon, and that I loved her.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
left Swallow's Meadow and walked to Solihull Center, where we wandered
around the shops for a few minutes and bought a cheap phone. The T-Mobile at WH
Smith was cheaper than anything at Vodaphone, so we bought that. Then we had
lunch at the Saddler's Arms - I had bangers and mash, Heather had fish and
chips with mushy peas - and we took a bus back to Lode Lane. Of course the bus
we took went the other way on Lode Lane; Ravenhurst was behind us!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> So we got
off the bus - just in front of 160, as I think of it now - and walked back up
the road to the Ravenhurst.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> By now I
was almost delirious with lack of sleep, so Linda showed us our room, #3, and
we both fell dead asleep.</span></span><br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It's now
5:30 local time; after an eventful day and a bit of an adventure, we've had a
nap and feel much better!</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(Janet,
your hospitality and humor were a delight, please don't feel the need to
apologise for having lost the Nursing
Home!) </span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">More to
follow..............</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Love to
all,</span></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Miles</span></span></div>
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</div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 2</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Hi all,</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">We got up
around 8:30 and went downstairs to a huge English breakfast. Fruit, toast,
cereal, bacon, sausage, baked beans, eggs, and gallons of tea. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiapryTShmrR2QLYc9UOUNS0igqhuos6Ha41a2kfOcGWf0rgcwVc4EIv9p4H4mjZYpHHFo2-kUoOop5xvtaexIsXFUX7pw25X8k6r-TvGzrm-IwLIiKLiwQWtwuLbGV0tf7ejYVt9tj5Cc/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiapryTShmrR2QLYc9UOUNS0igqhuos6Ha41a2kfOcGWf0rgcwVc4EIv9p4H4mjZYpHHFo2-kUoOop5xvtaexIsXFUX7pw25X8k6r-TvGzrm-IwLIiKLiwQWtwuLbGV0tf7ejYVt9tj5Cc/s320/004.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Talked to Linda
and walked around the back garden for a bit, then drove to Swallow's Meadow to
see Mum.</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum was
awake and writing something when we went in, and she opened her arms to give me
a hug. She smiled a lot, and her eyes were bright. Her color looked better
today too, and she didn't have her neck-tube thing plugged in. She wrote
questions for us and we answered as well as we could - "What did Philip
say?", "How long are you here?". She wanted to write another
question but dozed off in the middle of writing it, and instead smiled
apologetically, crossed it out and wrote, "sorry, brain lapse. Rapid
effect of childbirth." and gave me another hug.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">At noon a
man poked his head in the door to say they would be testing the fire alarm for
a minute. We were treated to sixty seconds of ear-bleeding shrill electric
screeching that made us all wince. It made Mum cross to listen to it - I asked
her if that was common, and she said it was the second time in a week.</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Heather
gave her a gift, a tassle made of feathers and home-spun wool with a stone
cross, that she hung in the window. Heather told Mum what all the different
feathers were from, and Mum appreciated the gift.</span></span>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I asked
her when Larry would be coming by, and she wrote, "Due now I think."</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> But we
waited a while longer and Larry never came by. On the way out I asked a nurse
who said he doesn't usually come by until about 5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum was
getting more tired, her writing was getting sloppy, and she kept dozing
off in the middle of trying to write, so we let her sleep and went back to
Ravenhurst.</span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But all in
all, her color was much better today than yesterday. She obviously gets tired
easily, but if she's in pain she doesn't show it.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We left the car there and took the bus out to Walmley. When we got to 63
Fox Hollies, I saw that the security gate was open, so we walked up to the door
and rang the bell. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After a minute an eldery Sikh gentleman answered, and I
explained that I wanted to visit the house because I was born here. He asked me
how long I lived here, and I explained I was only there for a little bit, that
I grew up in Wales but used to come back every summer for holiday. When I
mentioned the names Frank and Dorah Cook, that settled something in his mind
and he said we could look around.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Through
a side window I saw a younger woman (wife? daughter?) storming through the
house to confront the man about who we were and why we were there. I suppose he
placated her enough to let us wander the grounds a bit. She watched us the
whole time we were there, but I did take some nice pictures of the house.</span>
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Changes to
the property:</span></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
trees over the driveway have been cut way back to so as to only frame the
driveway, not arch over it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There is
an ornamental pond in the beginning stages of existence, off to the right of
the driveway.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Halfway
down the driveway on the left is a new cottage.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There is a
children's playhouse on the right side of the
driveway.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The drive
around the house to the right now stops parallel to the back of the
house; there is a new retaining wall there. The side of the house was
littered with children's toys. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The little
garden behind the behind the dining room is still there, but the path going
back to the shop is boarded up.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
greenhouse at the back of that garden is no more. I don't think the property
extends that far anymore.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I wasn't
able to see inside much, only brief glimpses through windows, and I didn't want
to make an issue of trying to peer in.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After
leaving #63, we went poking around in Walmley woods. It's actually BIGGER than
I remember! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMMiyMDFSX-C3Ys70hIXraIRruBKLOi_RE-Wz0JqROSC63wGCBCY_WQHvNFTI96h1FbWSJwAROZA3DTpNT59Z9YosJCYrrx2p3OgU4Lwu691B05PhKjVLU_1Ju6WC421QI2T6B804o1I/s1600/027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We picked some bluebells and rhododendrons to give to Mum, then
went to The Fox pub for late lunch. Meat carved to order, all the yorkshire
pudding, gravy and veg you could want, for $3.60 each. Hmm, no key on this
computer for British pounds.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And I got
rhubarb crumble with custard!! I haven't had decent rhubarb since Grandma Batty
made it at Tyglyn! What a treat!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Took the
bus back to Solihull, and learned to send text messages while on the bus.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And
Philip, you didn't tell anyone about The Delhi, a wonderful Indian restaurant
across from the Saddler's Arms. REAL Indian curry, oooooo slobber slobber.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(it occurs
to me that half the content of these emails have been spent talking about
food!) </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">More
tomorrow. </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">love,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Miles</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 3</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Got up
around 8, had brekkies - another lashing of bacon, tea, etc etc - and went to
Solihull to get some cash out and catch the bus to Swallow's Meadow.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum was
dozing when we got there - had her glasses on and a notepad in front of her,
but she'd dozed off holding it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She heard
us coming in and took her glasses off, smiled brightly and gave me a hug. We
told her we'd been to Walmley, to see the house, and that we'd picked some
bluebells and rhododendrons for her. She seemed momentarily confused but
appreciated the flowers, and I tried to tell her about the trip to Walmley. She
only seemed to be halfway listening, and kept nodding off.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I asked
her if Larry was coming by, and she tried to write, "Where's Larry?".
But her writing has been getting visibly worse, almost hour by hour. The word
"where" was scratches and lines, and the word 'Larry' was written in
increasingly tiny letters, all jumbled together. She gave up and closed her
eyes.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">While Mum
was dozing I did look through a couple of old pages she'd written. I don't know
who she was writing to, or when it was written, but she had said things like,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"What
does the doctor say about it?"</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"I
feel like I'm only half aware of what's going on around me."</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"I
can't do anything - typically useless."</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"Why
am I here?"</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"Tell
him I love him."</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"<u>DYING"</u></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Heather
found a letter from Larry addressed to me, that he'd placed on the dresser on
Monday. I think he'd expected me to find it on Tuesday but we didn't see it
until today. So I called him and we made plans to meet at #160 at 3:00 o'clock.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then the
head nurse for her floor asked me if I'd like to have a chat in her office, so
Heather and I sat down with her to talk about Mum.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She said
Mum's deteriorating visibly, that even in the few days since she came to
Swallow's Meadow that her condition is 'not looking bright'. Salient points of
what she said was that when asked if she wanted a stronger dose of morphine,
Mum had said yes.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The other
day she had asked Mum if there was anything she could do for her, and Mum had
mimed pulling the tube out of her neck and slitting her throat.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She said
that since yesterday morning, Mum has refused having her hair done or putting
any make-up on, as if there were no point to it.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">And that
she's not picked up a crosswords in four or five days.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I asked if
she were able to go to the bathroom by herself, and the nurse said no.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She said
that last night - Thursday night - Mum was very agitated, and had
tried to pull the tube out of her neck by herself.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The nurse
asked me if I had any thoughts on further care - they have the option of
providing advanced care, or allowing a DNR (do not resuscitate) order, and I
said I didn't know if I had the authority to make any such decision. I did
volunteer, though, that knowing Mum's pride, I really doubted she would want
medical treatment to keep her lingering on like a vegetative shell. Remember
that she did refuse chemo.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She said
she'd like to hear from you, too, Philip. (She did give me her number, but
I'll be buggered if I can find it now. I'll get it for you before we head
back.) </span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After that
sobering conversation, I almost broke down in the elevator back to the ground
floor. I asked Heather, "Have I just killed my mother?" and she said,
"You did what your heart told you to do. I think Mary would be proud of
you."</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">God I hope
so.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She looks
bad, you know. Lying in bed, her mouth open, the tube in her neck breathing for
her. She can't eat, drink, taste or smell, or speak. And now she's losing the
ability to write!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She's bone
thin, her skin alternating between warm and cool. But she still has her eyes!
Those see-through-you, bright brown eyes. Still full of spirit, even if she's
not able to communicate. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We went to
see Larry at #160, and talked to him for almost two hours. He talked about how
he and Mum met, about how he's lived in that house since it was built in 1934 -
he was four when his father bought it, but now he pays rent to a landlady.
He talked about how Mum used to spend hours polishing the brass, and tending
the garden. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He's let the garden go since she's been hopitalised. He cuts
the grass regularly, but he hasn't weeded the flowerbeds or tended to the
fishpond since October. "My heart's just not in it any more." Heather
took some cuttings of ivy Mum had planted, and promised to replant them in
North Carolina. 'Mary's Ivy', we called it.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He talked
about how as hard as it is to accept, he will have to face the day
when Mum ("My Mary, my sunshine") isn't going to be coming home.
He said that she does have a DNR order in place. As much as he hates it he
thinks that's for the best.</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He worried
aloud - many times - how he's going to survive once she's gone. The whole time
he was talking about her, he was talking in the past tense. Poor soul.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Larry gave
me Carol's number, and we're going to spend some time talking to her when we
get back from Wales and Holmfirth. He also gave us the address of the cemetary
where Frank and Dorah Cook are buried. I am going to pay a vist there before we
head back. I've just realized that we went to see 63 Fox Hollies on May 14
- Grandma Cook's birthday. Wish I remembered that when I was there. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The most
depressing day here so far - but likely the most important. Bugger.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum, I
love you. Always.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Miles</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 4</span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Our
day began with yet another first-class breakfast at the Ravenhurst. Getting
spoilt, we are!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
left Solihull and drove to Sutton Coldfield, to visit Frank and Dorah Cook's
grave. The cemetary is right next to Good Hope Hospital, on Rectory Road.
Larry'd told us vaguely where their grave was, but I had to wander the graves
before I realized they are arranged chronologically. So I found my way to the
1983 burials, and soon found 'Francis Arthur Cook and his devoted wife Dorah'.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWH9c9isCmqmXRbWYatVFIYUzYx_rTWrA8inyCS9hXExUcUgW6Bkj8H5q5kveik3MvgoTahGCGiSFMUABfhbfWMc_GGxhyfThTX7Dfy46ukj7HZ7OsZsk931onvlupmMbYv1bAW5jJxU/s1600/046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLWH9c9isCmqmXRbWYatVFIYUzYx_rTWrA8inyCS9hXExUcUgW6Bkj8H5q5kveik3MvgoTahGCGiSFMUABfhbfWMc_GGxhyfThTX7Dfy46ukj7HZ7OsZsk931onvlupmMbYv1bAW5jJxU/s320/046.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">If
you ever do manage to go there, they are in plot #2317. I paid my respects, and
we took the obligatory pictures before it began to rain.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Then
back on the road, headed for Wales. Had a bit of trouble navigating the exits
(junctions) between the M42, M6 and M5, but soon found ourselves heading
towards Wolverhanpton, Shrewsbury and Welshpool.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Took
more inevitable pictures of each of us posing by the 'Welcome to Wales' sign
just outside Welshpool.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs8AH6BHNEiRdXlaJgZ_8YIfngdm6KOo1gfkIqB6LUqfY4f80pn5XItGy4-6rHoBGnraZoLUQ76-cfltB__ZoaT11SKBqicx8Gp5_Ve5wyKyyi_ejFxAReeJNkfhscPdpvDt4fDA5obFo/s1600/051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs8AH6BHNEiRdXlaJgZ_8YIfngdm6KOo1gfkIqB6LUqfY4f80pn5XItGy4-6rHoBGnraZoLUQ76-cfltB__ZoaT11SKBqicx8Gp5_Ve5wyKyyi_ejFxAReeJNkfhscPdpvDt4fDA5obFo/s320/051.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Followed
the signs to Machynlleth, and I proudly showed off the Clock Tower to Heather.
More pictures.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPrknZ2C33_ZbF102e5-qMK1J66sW0F-a9WqPstYZJELWsho4ULF0-NF56wm9XXuUHoU6K6r-6B127VZKcqjxF8XErLsCf9hZjrw-FsNqaPTQIcEBNmXIuwd7la5fnRS2y0fXpfW26gE/s1600/057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiPrknZ2C33_ZbF102e5-qMK1J66sW0F-a9WqPstYZJELWsho4ULF0-NF56wm9XXuUHoU6K6r-6B127VZKcqjxF8XErLsCf9hZjrw-FsNqaPTQIcEBNmXIuwd7la5fnRS2y0fXpfW26gE/s320/057.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
showed her some of the older buildings, and followed my nose to the Train
Station. Aside from the LED display boards over the tracks, it hasn't changed a
bit! More pictures.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4cjrzAOfDXsc3v-qLWEBRAXxQsQZFifZxCNYKHFFTG1ImCAWd8eAhdpM5JWXrw9wofTG-DlE0LZnYxKw7QeaE7qbVSorWMvYwajf9_bo6g5r_-dwjAocyhBa3_hEUNz34hLUgcCYOTM/s1600/078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4cjrzAOfDXsc3v-qLWEBRAXxQsQZFifZxCNYKHFFTG1ImCAWd8eAhdpM5JWXrw9wofTG-DlE0LZnYxKw7QeaE7qbVSorWMvYwajf9_bo6g5r_-dwjAocyhBa3_hEUNz34hLUgcCYOTM/s320/078.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Walking
back to the car, we heard violin and accordian music coming from a VERY old
(1500's?) building, "The Tannery' on the corner as you come around
towards the Clock. We poked our noses in, and a couple of young ladies had
created 'ambient scultpure', hanging hand-carved black wooden ravens and
jackdaws from the rafters. They were rehearsing for an upcoming perfomance, We
talked to them for a minute, then returned to the car.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtW_FatwwrgKBLglQ1hayI5UBxScFfAZYWIPgi1E6ENctz8E46Iw53ySaVn7c7pBK1INqheL3Af3YGuCJ69XNH767vVmipo3zEK4hxfWJvSJWK2xC6mlPbRFxogBXDhyoV9-hNWiN6ZqM/s1600/082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtW_FatwwrgKBLglQ1hayI5UBxScFfAZYWIPgi1E6ENctz8E46Iw53ySaVn7c7pBK1INqheL3Af3YGuCJ69XNH767vVmipo3zEK4hxfWJvSJWK2xC6mlPbRFxogBXDhyoV9-hNWiN6ZqM/s320/082.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Drove
onto the A487 towards Eglwysfach. Damn, I didn't remember the road being that
narrow - or that twisty!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Got
into Eglwysfach at around 5:00, and I cheered as I drove past Tyglyn. She's
still there!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
tried to find a parking space, and I was all the way to the church before I
gave up and turned around back to Craig-Y-Derin to park in from of Ruth Jone's
house. (That's how I remember it!)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Walked
back to Tyglyn to have a look around.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
didn't see any "Bed and Breakfast" signs, so we rang the doorbell
just to see what might happen. A somewhat apprehensive man answered, and I told
him that I used to live in this house - I'd grown up here, He asked me what my
name was, and the name David Batty rang a bell. He said his name is Dafyd
James, He told me Tyglyn USED to be a B&B, but that he bought the house
five years ago and it's a private house now. He's been doing some work on it. I
asked if I could take a couple of pictures, and he said Yes, and would we like
to come inside, He was obviously very proud of his work, and of the house. He
lives there with his wife and three daughters, and several dogs.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He
did insist, though, that I not take any pictures of his family.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Changes
he's made to Tyglyn: </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
privet hedge, wrought iron fence and gate are gone - just open tarmac from the
front wall to the road. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
porch is still there, but no stalwart concrete eagle. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There
is scaffolding over the bay windows in front of Grandma's room, and the
engraved "Tyglyneiddwen" sign was leaning by the side of the porch.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
inlaid tile floor in the hallway is just the same!</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjMFjN6fJz-NpqMoFGxR18HCha-yOVLR80chMY1EqJZeSAq5knOYAAHze_H4k2mxVznY0oYJO_zHp2GvlYrLZ8OYAIwdjuNrtMNfFE8rMIhg6aAz2mCPO7RsZ0F5Iof7cD4ZUFKMafIA/s1600/092.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjMFjN6fJz-NpqMoFGxR18HCha-yOVLR80chMY1EqJZeSAq5knOYAAHze_H4k2mxVznY0oYJO_zHp2GvlYrLZ8OYAIwdjuNrtMNfFE8rMIhg6aAz2mCPO7RsZ0F5Iof7cD4ZUFKMafIA/s320/092.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
ornate fireplaces and mantles in Mum's Sitting Room and Grandma's Room are just
the same, but the walls have been repainted. No pics.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
Study was locked. No pics.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
Breakfast Room and Kitchen have been totally redone - he's knocked the wall out
between the two rooms, and put modern countertops and appliances all through
the kitchen. The Breakfast Room is now off-white, with hardwood panelling
halfway up, and there's a modern fireplace in the side wall (towards
Machynlleth).</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">There's
a door in the Kitchen, leading out onto the balcony (!) that overlooks the back
garden.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
couldn't take any pics of the Breakfast Room or Kitchen, but the balcony is
visible on the outside,</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRzrMBWdl1LBy4hiBbRaYg5lfCV3i5Z6HMzORpG0HtspADoLl7k3EpbuCMZ9RL-GW-a0C3RgXfwDI0F6RkreGPMA28c_idSbDhXvg1LS3H8sicdHjyYA4dQgeaUJNU0lQxbsgKpGXEQw/s1600/096.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRzrMBWdl1LBy4hiBbRaYg5lfCV3i5Z6HMzORpG0HtspADoLl7k3EpbuCMZ9RL-GW-a0C3RgXfwDI0F6RkreGPMA28c_idSbDhXvg1LS3H8sicdHjyYA4dQgeaUJNU0lQxbsgKpGXEQw/s320/096.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
yew tree is gone - he said it was rotted and dying and in danger of falling
into the house. He had it pulled down.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
did sneak a pic of the cellar steps - just the same as always, but the walls
have been repainted. Damn, those are narrow! And steep!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(His
wife, whose name I didn't catch, wishes you'd left some Elderberry Wine for
them to discover!)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">He's
paved the driveway, put a staircase down from the back of the driveway to the
back garden, and paved the side of the garden all the way down from the
driveway to the back wall. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(I
don't know how he plans to drive anything down there, but it's definitely
paved!)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
apple orchard and Grandma's rhubarb patch are gone. The gooseberry bushes are
still there!!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
wasn't able to go upstairs, and I think Mr James was getting a bit exhasperated
with me poking around the inside of his house. So I took a couple more of the
back garden, and thanked him profusely for his hospitality.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">It
brought a tear to my eye to see that the Old Lady is being watched by someone
who obviously loves and cherishes her, and plans a lot of great things for her
future. Tyglyn is most definitely in loving care!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
plan to write to Mr James and thank him for taking such good care of
Tyglyneiddwen. I love that house!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
left Tyglyn and walked down to the School. It's become a private house as well,
and part of it appears to be an artist's studio.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">They've
put a wooden fence up along the read edge of the building, and there are tons
of construction materials, piles of things under tarps, shovels and
wheelbarrows and pallets of sacks of concrete, all in the yard where the
lavatories used to be.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
did get some pics of the building, though.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
drive up to Furnace, so I could show Heather Furnace Falls and the waterwheel.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Really
great things happening there - it's been restored to the point of not falling
into collapse, and it's been declared a Historic Site. There are information
placards up all around it, with diagrams of how the wheel worked, what it was
for, when it was built and so on. I got closer to it, and got a better view of
it, then I ever could before! I knew it was built in the 1700's, but didn't
realize it was used to make iron ingots.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ73dNi-zG-uiWnqgH6hnJGhQkeuSHVQ5Z1JZRxhY6HFTbg5jzs-vBuOdIRL8YLRlRx3ZRv0exp0bt68tcH20iDkhskK-TzVQPxAb0gzF8JWzz6VqFr2zY7lv6ArnVeFxbuE337xojl4M/s1600/101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ73dNi-zG-uiWnqgH6hnJGhQkeuSHVQ5Z1JZRxhY6HFTbg5jzs-vBuOdIRL8YLRlRx3ZRv0exp0bt68tcH20iDkhskK-TzVQPxAb0gzF8JWzz6VqFr2zY7lv6ArnVeFxbuE337xojl4M/s320/101.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Heather
took a few pictures of it, then realized that our digital camera records video
as well, and took several minutes worth of video footage of the building. And
Furnace Falls is just as vibrant as ever!!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
drove back to Machynlleth, and asked at the White Lion for B&B rooms.
$25(GBP) per person per night for a decent hotel room and breakfast. We checked
in, then went down for dinner. I had roast faggots and mushy peas, and Heather
had grilled salmon.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEB1jAMbxK3Nk21X4jHD122lMNEwGAdQS4dJdJzW0fF4tUTkO8rr_Uvu90mUilO3AdJdRPD2pmsEEb6yamJIgx0KIe1WWhfWS6GA9gsTf03baboQ6U7wRnD1tGgiYFF0IiLLwI3_cbkwM/s1600/117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEB1jAMbxK3Nk21X4jHD122lMNEwGAdQS4dJdJzW0fF4tUTkO8rr_Uvu90mUilO3AdJdRPD2pmsEEb6yamJIgx0KIe1WWhfWS6GA9gsTf03baboQ6U7wRnD1tGgiYFF0IiLLwI3_cbkwM/s320/117.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTclj_UDMqkg7J7FIhlUWFg4en9hCjT1TjsDoQNhcF7X15DgQS_5XRjtVvK5YF8m8IzTvqFMTEF89Thsf1UUM5t6_ESX2J-HBF87U1eknXhushvWahzwSTZ7gdfZHbQephtUKiKSsqqJE/s1600/121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTclj_UDMqkg7J7FIhlUWFg4en9hCjT1TjsDoQNhcF7X15DgQS_5XRjtVvK5YF8m8IzTvqFMTEF89Thsf1UUM5t6_ESX2J-HBF87U1eknXhushvWahzwSTZ7gdfZHbQephtUKiKSsqqJE/s320/121.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Tomorrow
we plan to go back down to Eglwysfach so we can climb the Foel. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">love
you all,</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Miles</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 5</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
woke up this morning in one of the hotel rooms of the White Lion in
Machynlleth. Breakfast (more food) was thick Welsh bacon, mushrooms, poached
eggs, fried bread and tea. Delightful!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Started
the day walking around Machynlleth. Got to see the public park with ornate and
impressive gate, Owain Glyndwr's parliament house, and some more 19th century
Welsh slate architecture.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhij4dZV-5NQz9gOCNsmxetQQUB65o-oLPNhFjLYRjVEvvMd_4f5kmjHJ9LGinXIeS4I7mEJ68e5t47TyAqd4Pv1XSdKze-jYg7W7KNdUPEMgaNpUTBzw1hMHIPawchGIVK_iJQ06sgZs/s1600/128.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhij4dZV-5NQz9gOCNsmxetQQUB65o-oLPNhFjLYRjVEvvMd_4f5kmjHJ9LGinXIeS4I7mEJ68e5t47TyAqd4Pv1XSdKze-jYg7W7KNdUPEMgaNpUTBzw1hMHIPawchGIVK_iJQ06sgZs/s320/128.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2N3bYoYq4kvp5mOuJ1m8bV0MJuTEUlVeCQNUA2Bxh-nzlyeHLhr-byUW8lhxrd0EaNMB_rsZIABD2372_hsgkfQFi4luRfglehr02MSQugoi0R5TzreB0NbKf9xmOk-0FGQ4FQwUP6w/s1600/125.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX2N3bYoYq4kvp5mOuJ1m8bV0MJuTEUlVeCQNUA2Bxh-nzlyeHLhr-byUW8lhxrd0EaNMB_rsZIABD2372_hsgkfQFi4luRfglehr02MSQugoi0R5TzreB0NbKf9xmOk-0FGQ4FQwUP6w/s320/125.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
saw where someone had scrawled grafitti on a wall, "Batty's wank
lane". It looked recent.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Drove
back to Eglwysfach, and went to St Michael's church. We spoke very briefly with
an old, friendly vicar, Before he got in his car and left, he said the church
was still open, to go on in. We'd just missed morning services. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
went inside and met the Church Warden, Joy Neil. I told her who I was, and she
remembered me, and all of us. She expresed her condolences for Mum's condition.
I asked her what the vicar's name was, and would he remember us? "That's
Aubrey Newell," she said, "He'll remember you. He remembers everyone.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg30K7nX6RS-g5dpv1Y9NKlOqDxVBO9nidSdNxIEoyYizdNPVTFWUPz3ZxyW0jJWmBKVm0wbbcI7X0T8V4Ti_s6yvkFstnJngHylD_pAo22NowDI780-xTio6QdmdI_DGsB0k9yn6crR4/s1600/137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg30K7nX6RS-g5dpv1Y9NKlOqDxVBO9nidSdNxIEoyYizdNPVTFWUPz3ZxyW0jJWmBKVm0wbbcI7X0T8V4Ti_s6yvkFstnJngHylD_pAo22NowDI780-xTio6QdmdI_DGsB0k9yn6crR4/s320/137.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">She
told me about the 2008 celebration of RS Thomas, and gave me a program book
from the poetry festival in his honor, and showed me his plaque on the wall of
the narthax. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
took some pictures of the church, inside and out, and of some gravestones. I
walked the cemetary to see if I might recognize any names, but no such luck.
The name 'David Einon Jones' rings a bell, but not sure who that was.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Drove
back to the fork in the road by the Post Office (now a private residence) and
drove up the back road towards the Foel. I stopped to look in the old cave I
remembered, and got a few pics of that.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRgpgMqZioKr7t6pXwbbBr0_j7I4mtdRRgdPGVMQuYUISnjOrXo1Qd4Q0fnAfTBYDwKWxzqEN5v6IRALTHVSPuXDHz-PqVhH3jFYxsxYTQz04YZ3XS-AUeuxhDifpdoWxoeD_oWDXiPU/s1600/145.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqRgpgMqZioKr7t6pXwbbBr0_j7I4mtdRRgdPGVMQuYUISnjOrXo1Qd4Q0fnAfTBYDwKWxzqEN5v6IRALTHVSPuXDHz-PqVhH3jFYxsxYTQz04YZ3XS-AUeuxhDifpdoWxoeD_oWDXiPU/s320/145.JPG" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Drove further up to the fourth cattle
grid (bloody hell that was some white-knuckle driving! Narrow one-lane roads,
drop-off cliffs, collapsing stone walls), and parked the car and followed the
footpath up the Foel. We climbed probably two-thirds up, to where we could see
the estuary, the Irish Sea, and distant land on the horizon. (Ireland?)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-K7Yqzunm4V8SNZSyDFSeUHneJ2Ezf2lHWTX-obrQXs9ADPzUKjuKwgsyVOANIULTIw39NcLH311SLtGLp9mwTuRFURmR_Os3H7xYksXZdRAA15ilQpjbFtIqbLKUnt6EML5MDwy9Vw/s1600/161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH-K7Yqzunm4V8SNZSyDFSeUHneJ2Ezf2lHWTX-obrQXs9ADPzUKjuKwgsyVOANIULTIw39NcLH311SLtGLp9mwTuRFURmR_Os3H7xYksXZdRAA15ilQpjbFtIqbLKUnt6EML5MDwy9Vw/s320/161.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
wind was picking up and ominous clouds were looming, so we decided two-thirds
was good enough. Besides, we climbed to the top of the Foel when we used to
live here - I didn't feel the need to go right to the top again.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
realized that while I was born in England, and I've lived in several US states
and Canada, Wales - around Eglwysfach and Machynlleth - that will always be
"home" for me. Sitting on an outcropping of stone on the Foel, I felt
at home. Settled, contented, at peace.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
climbed back down the Foel, and drove on down to Aberystwyth. Stopped just
below the National Library of Wales to get a look around. We spent half and
hour exploring narrow streets and closed (not shut down, just closed for
Sunday) storefronts, before realising we were both quite discouraged by
Aberystwyth. It had an air of irritability and hostility about it that left us
both feeling vaguely depressed about being there.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Left
Aberystwyth and drove back up towards Machynlleth. Stopped off at a handicrafts
shop in Tal-y-bont to buy some touristy souvenir things for friends, then
continued up the road.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">In
Glandyfi there's a new business, a sister project to the RSPB. The Nature
Conservancy of Ceredigion has a public bird-watch program - they have an
information center and a bird-watching hide built, from which you can see a
family of nesting ospreys. I took pictures of the nest as best as I could be
holding the camera lens to the telescope.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dZmE6jBQxAiztozOTNx9c5DhICXYBO5U_VMvJ92vQ1vtyo7TdNuHifVYVpKbJkuIzEIjHhTCa3RXRS30aa5qX_4prYr-4tT4gN3qdE5EKl12k5yOYFx1EaCczBLchHw2DIaMuG-jqQg/s1600/191.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2dZmE6jBQxAiztozOTNx9c5DhICXYBO5U_VMvJ92vQ1vtyo7TdNuHifVYVpKbJkuIzEIjHhTCa3RXRS30aa5qX_4prYr-4tT4gN3qdE5EKl12k5yOYFx1EaCczBLchHw2DIaMuG-jqQg/s320/191.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Went
back on through Machynlleth, and continued up through Derwenlas. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
found out that there's a place called The Centre for Alternative Technology'
that promotes eco-friendly living, reneweable power, things like that. Their
campus is in Derwenlas. Google them sometime.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Continued
up towards Dolgellau, and overland towards Queensferry. Had to stop in Bala to
get better directions, and a really friendly chap who drives a lorry between
Dolgellau and Huddersfeld told us exactly the way to go, which roundabouts to
be careful on, even which towns have good public lavatories! Wonderful chap.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Continued
on through Queensferry, through Manchester, towards Sheffield, to Huddersfield,
and found our way to Holmfirth.</span></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqYU_o4y9FEiu7yES7UsAm1n56X0RZLTqbdGa5GLtb-Llnajr5Bft382DjUk-44kRbZISuIvCXXcLOKWvN8M3GscpVZNMAi9ZUXXIA-F_sTGPZqAEC6VUuVi_kw_FZATQprVvujQq-Rg/s1600/185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaqYU_o4y9FEiu7yES7UsAm1n56X0RZLTqbdGa5GLtb-Llnajr5Bft382DjUk-44kRbZISuIvCXXcLOKWvN8M3GscpVZNMAi9ZUXXIA-F_sTGPZqAEC6VUuVi_kw_FZATQprVvujQq-Rg/s320/185.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Driving
through the country, it occurs to me just how close together everything is!
Manchester is only 35-odd miles from Sheffield; I have to drive 35 miles just
to get from Concord to downtown Charlotte and Concord is a suburb of Charlotte!
Good god.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
drove across the Pennine Way toward Huddersfield - at night! Couldn't see a
buggering thing.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Called
Sam Chappell ("Chaps") to say we were entering Holmfirth, and where
is his house?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
met up with him, finally getting off the road around midnight, and went to an
Indian Take-away for curry.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I'm
proud to say that Hilary's grandson is a wonderful, intelligent, witty man.
Definitely a Batty. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">More
tomorrow.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 6</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D69Jlbs6jYVTmatdcu_igaYCfneoExMO3adQ9xBAyKSwTdc-wQP4M6YvK-qzAqGKfeKnhTkKfNAMiAwhfvzHv2BI-Amw11pdnJ1ur01NMGY6-TiNg6Du0B88bHSwJuCZlIA_yxUtyEo/s1600/199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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The adventure continues!<br />
<br />
Woke up in Sam Chappel's house - he slept on the couch and gave us the bed -
and we chatted about Hilary for a bit. <br />
<br />
He has a lot of fond memories of Hilary, and obviously misses her terribly. He
said that Simon left the family when he was seven, and he was never really
close to his Mum, so Hilary raised him as her own. He said that she always had
a smile on her face, that she was an eccentric and free-spirited woman. He said
he got this new house because he couldn't live there alone when she died.<br />
I got a little video clip of Sam talking about Hilary, and of him playing a
piece of music that he wrote for her after her funeral.<br />
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D69Jlbs6jYVTmatdcu_igaYCfneoExMO3adQ9xBAyKSwTdc-wQP4M6YvK-qzAqGKfeKnhTkKfNAMiAwhfvzHv2BI-Amw11pdnJ1ur01NMGY6-TiNg6Du0B88bHSwJuCZlIA_yxUtyEo/s1600/199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5D69Jlbs6jYVTmatdcu_igaYCfneoExMO3adQ9xBAyKSwTdc-wQP4M6YvK-qzAqGKfeKnhTkKfNAMiAwhfvzHv2BI-Amw11pdnJ1ur01NMGY6-TiNg6Du0B88bHSwJuCZlIA_yxUtyEo/s320/199.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"><br /><br />
We went outside and he showed me an unusual feature of the yard - buried under
an overgrowth of brambles and ivy are three little stone houses, each no more
than two feet high, and a tiny stone bridge. We think that a little girl who
used to live there (he doesn't know how old the house is) played with them.<br />
<br />
We drove into Netherthong, and Sam showed us the church, All Saints Parish, where
both Hilary and Grandma Batty's ashes are buried. They have a brass plaque on
the walk along the side of the church. We took some pictures of the plaque, and
of the still-bare patch of soil from where Hilary had been laid to rest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakNjEULYyHRUy3CGZhhKaisPxDfdyJQlgP1qqrrMvb01r-h-atVKK22Dzna3lJq_LzaoNO5RizKM9NpfvzGWOSz4iXxzBB_ZON8B3lJN4OOrIqwL2zl033xFWT-07GJpy72j6tk0PbeU/s1600/215.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakNjEULYyHRUy3CGZhhKaisPxDfdyJQlgP1qqrrMvb01r-h-atVKK22Dzna3lJq_LzaoNO5RizKM9NpfvzGWOSz4iXxzBB_ZON8B3lJN4OOrIqwL2zl033xFWT-07GJpy72j6tk0PbeU/s320/215.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<br />
Then we went to look around the church. It's a beautiful, old gothic stone
church, built in the early 1800's. Buttresses, gargoyles, huge oak doors with
iron rivets, massive stained glass windows, the works. We took plenty of
pictures. The main door was locked, but I saw a sign over the keyhole,
"For key, enquire at the shop across the road". So we went across the
road, and sure enough they gave me a MASSIVE cast iron skeleton key, eight
inches long. It would not surprise me at all if this was the original key, two
centuries old. On the same ring, looking quite insignificant, was a tiny modern
steel key. <br />
With great fanfare I turned the skeleton key in the lock and opened the massive
doors, and we stepped inside. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8bTnia2XN4jfClssvqYTJgGvCeLu2HPpTfIRMeshPEOFa6yjVcxs8g-E_qGdmj8zYY3H4IpuG4sGZph4b6lzaRAQGSXcPHFNDVPIuxGysnz9KvWTCGgxq5zvifHSS2KctZQjSXp6-Ag/s1600/219.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8bTnia2XN4jfClssvqYTJgGvCeLu2HPpTfIRMeshPEOFa6yjVcxs8g-E_qGdmj8zYY3H4IpuG4sGZph4b6lzaRAQGSXcPHFNDVPIuxGysnz9KvWTCGgxq5zvifHSS2KctZQjSXp6-Ag/s320/219.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLOc9NWQj3MyNh1UEOFawXnFHFUTjPD2W8aqSiT08_4KtpIv1ZnNBC1ifsVeMl5gdL_xmZWOMTg5uawrAN6fTTyEhd_k-FrP-x8eo09ZpHT2ydar-ZhXcupf8eZtHz-C8-X4owIvspflc/s1600/240.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">
The church is not big, only eight pews to a side, but with spectacular stained
glass windows in the over the chancel. But the sanctuary was behind locked
interior doors, so I tried the smaller key, to no avail. We went up the side
stairs to see if it would fit any other doors, again without success. When we
were about to give up and leave the mysteries of the church untouched, I
noticed a sign over the interior door that said, "push". So I did.<br />
Eureka! The door swung wide open, we all had a good laugh, and went inside.<br />
We explored the sanctuary, took more pictures, and I saw a row of books on one
pew with a collection box. So we picked out some good books on British history
and gardening, and I paid double what they were asking for them. We left the
church and I returned the Most Awesome Key to the shopkeeper. <br />
<br />
Back outside, Sam suggested that we go take a look at Hilary's old house. We
drove there, and looked around her treasured, but now overgrown, garden.
Heather suggested taking some flowers from Hilary's garden to put at the
plaque, so we collected a good assortment and headed back.<br />We put the flowers in the vase, and I told Grandma and Hilary that we love them
and miss them.
We took more pictures, and I suggested looking around the cemetery. Lots of
older graves, dating back to the 1700's. There was one, part of a pair of
graves that framed the path to the main doors. The one on the left dated to
1810, and belonged to John Prowde, the Church Warden. The one on the other side
could not be read, because the inscription was in Anglo-Saxon, or Runic, or
something like that. Definitely not English! We took pictures of it, and I
noticed a tiny little cairn, maybe a foot high and three feet across, adjoining
the mystery grave. (Wonder if there's any connection between the little girl's
stone houses and the cairn?) So we got pictures of that too, and of some
wonderfully carved headstones elsewhere in the cemetery.<br />
</span></span></div>
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Then we went to look around Holmfirth. Sam showed us his favorite pub, The
Nook, where we had lunch. Lamb and apricot burger for me. Not at all bad!<br />
We poked around Holmfirth, fed the ducks and pigeons that live by the Holm
river, and I took some pictures of a great heron that waded by.<br />
We went poking through some old shops, then went back to Sam's house to load
the car. We dropped Sam back off at the Nook, and headed out towards the M1. <br />
I am so very glad to have met another member of the family! Sam Chappel is a
good man, and definitely Batty. He's got our blood in him.<br />
<br />
We arrived in Solihull around 8:30, checked back in at the Ravenhurst, met John
Keppy, and went to have dinner. <br />
<br />
Tomorrow I'll go and see how Mum is doing.<br />
<br />
Obviously, pics of Holmfirth will be sent soon.<br />
<br />
love to all,<br />
Miles</span></span></div>
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(Back at the Ravenhurst. Last night we'd locked the room door from the inside before
going to bed. At midnight I tried to open the door to go to the bathroom, but
the lock would not open! So in desperation I called John Keppy on my mobile and
explained the situation. He opened the door from the outside and said he'd get
the lock either looked at or replaced.)<br />
<br />
We went out straight after breakfast, and took the bus to see Mum.<br />
She was drifting in and out of consciousness when we got there, but opened her
eyes enough to recognize me. She squeezed my hand repeatedly, but didn't
recognize Heather. If anything, she had a look of terror when Heather came
close - I imagine she didn't want someone she didn't know leaning over her like
that.<br />
Heather busied herself with refreshing the flowers on the windowsill while I
talked quietly to her about our adventures in Eglwysfach and Holmfirth. I don't
know how much registered, but just the sound of my voice seemed to soothe her.<br />
She kept tugging at the collar that holds her tracheotomy (sp?) tube in place.<br />
After a while she motioned to us to help her sit up, and with some difficulty
wrote,"Tell them I need a doctor," then "they don't know
me," then "Mrs Cook's daughter".<br />
Heather went to get a nurse who asked Mum what she wanted. Mum motioned to her
collar, and the nurse asked her if it hurt. Mum wrote, "AGONY",
followed by, "I don't want any more."<br />
<br />
The nurse brought her a dose of morphine to add to her liquid feeding tube. Mum
resisted it at first, I think because she didn't want to be so drugged as to be
unable to write or think. But then she relented, the nurse administered the
dosage, and Mum fell asleep.<br />
<br />
We left soon afterwards to go see downtown Birmingham.<br />
<br />
We took the bus downtown - easier than driving - and while riding, I called
Carol. We made plans to meet at Mum's room later that afternoon.<br />
<br />
In Birmingham we went to a site I'd found online - a forty-foot high statue of
the pagan Green Man, complete with live plants growing out of him. We got
several good shots, in photographs and video, of the sculpture. (You can see
better pictures of him than anything we took by opening Google, selecting
Images, and typing in "Custard Factory Green Man".)</span></span></div>
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We walked on down towards the Bull Ring, and found a VERY old inn called The
Old Crowne, built in 1383. It still has the original wall timbers and brickwork,
and pictures of every Monarch who reigned during its existence. There were
framed newspapers - probably originals - announcing the death of Queen
Victoria, the abdication of Edward VIII, and the coronation of Elizabeth
II. <br />
We took several pictures of the building outside and in, the decor and
architecture.</span></span></div>
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Onward toward the Bull Ring, we stopped at St Martin's Cathedral, THE gothic
cathedral in Birmingham. Gargoyles, flying buttresses, huge arching wooden
rafters, carvings of knights lying in state, the works. Got more wonderful
pictures.</span></span></div>
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In the Bull Ring, we window-shopped for the afternoon, and I bought several
choice Doctor Who toys for myself and friends back home who can't find such
things over there. (Do you know just how many years I've wanted a bloody remote
control toy Dalek? Got one!) <br />
<br />
Got back on the bus and returned to Mum at Swallow's Meadow. We finally met
Carol - my sister by virtue of Mum and Larry's common-law marriage - and Frank
(my assumed brother-in-law) and Larry. That's when I called Philip, just so he
could be with us so everyone could be together.<br />
<br />
We gathered around Mum's bed and chatted for a bit. She seemed to really enjoy
having her family around her - even though she never opened her eyes, her
breathing was comfortable and she smiled frequently. Her hair had been washed
and makeup applied.<br />
While we were in Mum's room, though, I noticed - and Heather agreed - that the
light seems to have gone out of her eyes. No longer is the vibrant spirit and
mischevious spark there. Looking into Mum's eyes now all I see is the shallow,
unfocused gaze of someone close to the end.<br />
<br />
When the nurses came in to replace her trach tube, the RN (Sue Angell, a
wonderful woman) asked if we could all speak privately for a moment. She asked
us who could represent Mum and speak for her. Larry said that nobody had been
granted Power of Attorney, but they did have a solicitor to authorize the will.
We discussed it - we all agreed that Larry, Carol, Philip and I represented her
family, but that since Philip and I live too far away, Larry and Carol are her
immediate family. So they signed the forms granting Advanced Care Practice.<br />
<br />
The Advanced Care form asks, should anything take a turn for the worse, if we
should move Mum back to a Hospital for emergency surgery, or keep her at
Swallow's Meadow, which only has limited surgical and emergency care
facilities. Keeping her at Swallow's Meadow would mean that such surgery would
NOT be performed.<br />
<br />
We all agreed that she should remain at Swallow's Meadow, even in the event of
emergency. We based this conclusion on several factors: <br />
Moving Mum again would likely be so stressful as to do more harm than good.<br />
She didn't like the hospital; too clinical, too noisy, no privacy, and she
can't have her flowers. Mum really loves having fresh flowers in her room.<br />
She really likes Swallow's Meadow; she is treated with care and respect, and
seems more comfortable there.<br />
Her dignity and pride, and our respect for her sense of identity, are more
important than grabbing at straws to prolong her life.<br />
<br />
So the decision was made that Swallow's Meadow will be her final care, no
matter what.<br />
<br />
With that aside, here came the difficult questions: Does she want a Catholic
service, or C of E? Do we have funeral arrangements made?<br />
<br />
Larry said that she is C of E, and that she often said that she wants to be
cremated and have her ashes sprinkled over the River Bly (sp?) so she could be
with her beloved kingfishers.<br />
<br />
Once that was dealt with and signed, we bid Mum goodnight and came home. <br />
<br />
I love you, Mum. I can't say it enough.<br />
<br />
God I wish this was easier.<br />
<br />
Miles</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 8</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
wonder if I've been unfair to Mum in prior entries.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">During
my time here, the woman I've seen has been in a state of decline, her general
demeanor deteriorating. This was really all I'd seen of Mum, every time I came
by. I wonder if the morphine and pain medication she was on were making her
more sluggish and vague, and I'd just assumed that was her normal disposition. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
was she normally more animated, and I was just seeing her on bad days?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
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</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
morning was a delightful change from what I'd seen before, to such a degree
that I think I've underestimated her. She was animated and cheerful, and wrote
quite a lot to me; we had a relatively long conversation.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When
I came, Sue was talking to her; they were discussing her pain medication
dosage.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
sat by her side and told her I love her. Mum wrote, "I love you too",
and I knelt at her bedside and cried. I've tried to be nominally objective
while dealing with this, but this was too much. I didn't know what to do.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum
stroked my hair and held my hand - I think that having the opportunity to
comfort me gave her something to do besides lie there. She could be a mother to
her son again.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Between
my speaking through tears and Mum's writing, we had quite an animated
conversation, much more than I thought she was able to achieve.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
What's that on top of the telly?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
It's a picture of a kingfisher - when we were in Wales I found this beautiful
picture and had to buy it for you.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Show me.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(I
went and put the postcard in her hands. She ran her finger across the text that
reads "Penblwydd Hapus" and looked at me quizzically.)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
That says, "Kingfisher" in Welsh, I imagine - I never learned my
Welsh that well.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(Mum
looked at the picture a moment longer, held it it to her lips and squeezed my
hand tightly.) </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
I love you.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
I love you, too. So much.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
I love you Philip. I love you David.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
Dad loves you, too. He asks about you all the time. He's very proud of his
grandchildren.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Well that's something.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(pause)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Last night I dreamt that I've died in your eyes.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
You'll never die for me, Mum. I'll love you always. You'll always be my
beautiful Mummy.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Rubbish!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(pause)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Where am I?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
Swallow's Meadow Nursing Home.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Death chamber.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
Do you think that's what it is?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
No - I have God and Christ and all that with me.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
Yes you do! You will be well taken care of forever.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(pause)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
What am I doing here?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
You're in a nursing home - they're helping you get through your cancer.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
"get through"?!</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
I'm sorry, poor choice of words, You're here to deal with the cancer. They take
good care of you here, everyone likes you.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Under the circumstances I'm glad to be here.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
It's a good place.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(Then
she saw my digital camera on the table and asked to see it.) </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
No taking pictures.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Me:
I promise I won't. I'll remember you with my eyes and my heart.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
I'm going to die quietly.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(pause)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
Where is my Miles?</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(I
started to answer that I was right here, and she tapped me on the head with her
pen and gave me an impish grin.)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum:
I've written your name on my soul. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(We
looked at each other and shared a warm, loving moment, eye to eye. There was
the Mum I remembered from childhood. Will I ever share this moment with her
again?)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum
dozed off for about twenty minutes, but when she woke up, she mimed brushing
her hair. She picked up her notepad and wrote, "Can ________ do my hair
for me?"</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"How
would you like it done?" Heather asked.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"Rollers.
Comb. Vitally important." she wrote.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So
we helped her sit up and Heather set her hair in rollers. She had to do it
twice because the first try wasn't good enough. Eventually Mum was satisfied
with the result, and settled back to let the water dry.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A
little while later Sue came back in to see to her trach tube, and Mum asked if
we were going to be 'chucked out'. Sue said no; that we could be here anytime.
Mum asked if we could spent the night here, and Sue said yes - so it was
decided then and there that we would spent the night in Mum's room.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
told Mum we'd be back in a bit, and she motioned for me to fetch her handbag.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"Do
you need lunch money?" she wrote.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"We're
fine - don't worry about it," Heather said.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
left long enough to grab a bite to eat and see John at the Ravenhurst, and came
back a while later. Larry was already here and we chatted quietly for a while.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After
Larry left, Mum sat up in bed and swung her legs over the bed and tried to
stand up. We jumped up to help her, and Mum wrote, "What am I? A cripple?"
We asked her if she wanted to do and she wrote, "See the garden." So
the nurse went to get a wheelchair, and we helped her get clean pajamas on,
settle her in the chair and off we went.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">When
we got outside, though, it was colder than we realized. Mum pulled her cardigan
closer and shivered, and when asked if she wanted to go back inside, nodded
yes.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">So
we came back inside, and sat just inside the front door where Mum could see two
cats roaming the street, and birds and flowers. We all sat quietly for a few
minutes until Mum was visibly falling asleep and nodding forward in her chair -
and impeding her airflow by doing so. So we came back to the room and helped
her back into bed.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">As
I write this, sitting at Mum's bedside, part of me wants her back just like I
remember and part of me wants her to go ahead and go. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">This
waiting is hell.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(12:30
am)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
think that the love one feels for one’s mother is greater, and stronger, and
more life-defining, than the love one may feel for any other woman in his
lifetime. (I’m sure both Oedipus and Freud would have a field day with the
notion, and that a thousand books have already been written on the idea.)
I used to love Kelly, and Melody, and I love Heather more today than I thought
I could. But Mum is… Mum. There is nobody else like her in my heart. There
never could be. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(2:00
am)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Mum
tried to get out of bed. She sat up and swung her legs over the side, and tried
to stand. We helped her stand, but didn’t know where she wanted to go. I gave
her a pen and she wrote, “need to wee”. We explained that the catheter takes
care of that for her. She relented and sat back down, and as we were helping
her back to bed Heather noticed that her leg was wet. Catheter tube must have
gotten pinched or something. So we left the room and let the nurses re-set her
catheter and her dressing. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(3:00
am)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I
think I’m glad to be pagan. I embrace Mum’s devotion to the Christian faith,
I’m glad she has it. But Christianity does not allow for the duality of
divinity, father-god and mother-goddess. I see the Goddess in my mother, as
Mother to her sons, and Crone, awaiting the crossing of the veil. The
recognition of feminine divinity needs to be valid, or else how can I accept
that God has a place for Mum in heaven. I’m not making a lot of sense.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(3:30
am)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I’m
sorry Mum, I know I said I’d be right here by your bed all night, but I need to
lie down. I can’t sleep unless I’m lying flat. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">(6:30
am)</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Morning.
Watching her sleep, I want to cradle her and make everything better. She's Mum,
she deserves it.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Day 9</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";"> We were awoken in Mum's room on Thursday morning by the night nurse, a cheerful
woman named Joy. Mum was still dozing, so we quietly gathered our belongings
and headed back to the Ravenhurst to freshen up. I was still emotionally
drained and dreading (is that the right word?) saying goodbye to Mum for the
last time.<br />
<br />
We'd planned one last 'big outing' on this trip, a visit to a Bronze Age
archaeological reconstruction site called Flag Fen. But my enthusiasm for the
trip was tempered with the painful realization that I would never see Mum alive
again. Several times on the short drive from Swallow's Meadow to Ravenhurst I
was overcome with tears, and Heather had to drive.<br />
<br />
We got back to Ravenhurst, showered and freshened up, checked the map, and set
out for Flag Fen, near Peterborough.<br />
The drive was luckily uneventful, despite occasionally getting lost. Road
markers for Flag Fen didn't agree with the directions we'd gotten online, but
we did eventually find the site.<br />
<br />
Flag Fen is a wonderful place! Archaeologists discovered several rows of
timbers, driven into the ground 3,000 years ago, which formed roadways, bridges
and processionals over the fens. The roadways predated anything Roman,
confirming the notion that early Britons were quite capable of building their
own roads. A large portion of the uncovered timbers are preserved in a
building, with a monitored climate, exactly as they were unearthed. </span></span></div>
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Also on the site are reconstructions of Bronze Age and Iron Age dwellings,
wattle-and-daub roundhouses with shallow, conical thatched roofs. Despite the
fact that the houses were only three feet high at the top of the wall and
twenty feet across, they feel very spacious inside. <br />
The site includes recreations of Bronze Age crop and livestock farming, and a
museum displays tools, jewelry, bones and weapons found in the site.</span></span></div>
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We took pictures and video, of course, spent a little while chatting with
members of the staff, and bought some souvenirs and a couple of books by
archeologist Francis Pryor, the site director, that are currently out of print.<br />
<br />
At 3:00 we left Flag Fen, and drove back to Solihull. Congestion on the M1 kept
us tied up in traffic for an hour. We made it back to Swallow's Meadow at 6,
and met with Larry, Carol and Frank.<br />
<br />
Mum was sleeping deeply; even with people talking in the room and the nurses
administering her nebuliser she barely awoke.<br />
I confess that I was glad of that - I had been worried what would happen if she
would were awake on my last visit. I feared the scene I'd envisioned, leaning
over Mum to tell her, "I have to go back to America now." We'd both
know what that meant, and I dreaded my emotional collapse and the distress it
would cause her. So maybe it was for the best that she was asleep. That meant
that the last conversation we had was positive and loving, and that's what
she'll take with her.<br />
<br />
The five of us talked about Mum, and the trip back, and my journal entries, and
we took some group pictures. Carol had given me a treasured photograph of Mum
in her youth, and I held that for the pictures.</span></span></div>
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Larry, Carol and Frank left about an hour later, and Heather went down to
collect our possessions, and dispose of trash, in the car.<br />
<br />
I sat next to Mum, watching her sleep. I laid my cheek against her arm, and
whispered to her how much I love her. I must have dozed off - after last
night's vigil, and my emotional turmoil throughout the day, I was exhausted.<br />
<br />
Heather returned to the room and sat with us a little while longer. Then when I
confessed that I couldn't stay awake any longer, we got ready to leave.<br />
<br />
I knelt next to Mum and watched as her chest gently rose and fell. Her fingers
occasionally twitched and her eyelids flickered as she slept, but she didn't
wake up.<br />
<br />
"I love you, Mum," I whispered. "I love you so much. You are my
life. I'm going to miss you. Thank you for - oh god - thank you for everything.
Thank you for making me the person I am. Thank you for your sense of humor,
your wit and charm. Oh god, I don't want to go. Mum, I need you. I need you.
I'll always love you. I need you, Mummy. Come back please!"<br />
I was leaning over her, my cheek touching her forehead as I whispered to her.<br />
"Mummy, I love you, I love you. Be safe."<br />
<br />
I closed my eyes and saw a glow around her.<br />
<br />
"Keep her safe, God. Please do that. Keep her safe. This is an amazing
woman, one of your masterpieces. Oh God please keep her safe. Take care of her.
Take care of her. I love her so much.<br />
"I'm giving her to you, God. I'm giving her to you. Please take care of my
Mummy. Will you do that? I love her so much. Give her....." I couldn't
finish the sentence.<br />
<br />
I looked down at my mother through tear-streaked vision.<br />
<br />
"Mum, go with God. You'll know when the time is right. Go when you need
to. Be safe. Be safe in God's arms. He'll take care of you. Oh I love you, Mum.
I'm going to miss you so much. Dammit I'm going to miss you. Go to Heaven, Mum.
You won't have to hurt anymore. It'll be okay. God I love you.<br />
<br />
"Goodbye, Mummy." <br />
<br />
I turned to leave, and Heather knelt over Mum and whispered something. I
couldn't hear what she said. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">"Ready?" she asked me after a while, and I nodded.<br />
We left the room and I turned for one last look at my mother. She was laying in
bed, asleep, frail, breathing softly. In the twilight of her life, she still
looked beautiful to me. Part of me wanted to rush back in and hold her, hug the
life back into her, but I knew I couldn't. <br />
<br />
We turned and walked down the long hallway to the elevator.<br />
<br />
That walk from the room to the elevator felt like the longest walk I've ever
taken. Each step was taking me further and further from my Mum, from the woman
who gave me birth. Memories of her flooded my mind as we walked.<br />
<br />
Mum wrote to me frequently - really, she wrote to me more times than I wrote to
her. She always wrote about going to the River Blythe with Larry, and would
mention the kingfishers and other birds she saw. She loved the kingfishers. In
one of her letters she mentioned seeing clumps of frogspawn in the reeds, and
wanted to take some home to have some tadpoles and frogs in the pond. But how
would it look to see a middle-aged woman wading in the river up to her knees
collecting frogspawn? Maybe she should hire a young schoolboy to do it for her,
she mused.<br />
<br />
(Every step down this long hallway feels like hell. My heart is breaking, I can
barely breathe. God Mum I miss you so much already!....)<br />
<br />
Montreal, 1991. We'd all traveled there to see Philip's (graduation? wedding?
God I've forgotten.) Mum didn't stay long there, but while we were there, there
was some confusion about finding the right elevator in the hotel. Mum made
light of the situation and accused Dad of getting all of us into trouble.<br />
On that same trip, she talked to me quietly about going to her mother's house
in 1988 and finding her dead in her rocking chair. Grandma Cook had died
peacefully in her sleep. Mum took one look at her mother, and her first thought
was, "God I need a drink." So the first person she called was her
Alcoholics Abuse sponsor. Then she got on the phone with her solicitor, the
funeral director, and other relevant people.<br />
<br />
(The hallway feels so long. Taking me away from my mother. God, what kind of
son abandons his mother when she needs him the most? Who the hell did I think I
was? Dammit, what am I doing.....)<br />
<br />
Wales, 1984. I'd come back to the UK to visit; I was staying at Grandma Cook's
house. Mum and I made plans to take a train and spend a couple of days in
Wales. We got to Machynlleth, and found our way to the White Lion, where the
regulars recognized us! Mum asked for a ride to Eglwysfach, and we spent the
night at Tyglyneiddwen, which had become a Bed and Breakfast. The following
morning, Mum wrote in the guest book, "Feels just like home."<br />
On the same trip, we'd gone exploring the lands around the village the house.
We found our way to the train tracks, and walked along those until we came to a
signal box. In the little maintenance shed (the door was ajar so we had a peek
in) we found a railway logbook, open to the last entry, dated October 1973. At
the bottom of the page was a space for comments, and Mum had taken out her pen
and written, '1984. Still no train. Late as usual. Sack all the lazy
sods." Continuing on that walk we found ourselves on the RSPB
bird-watching trail, so we followed it, long enough to realize we'd walked the
trail in reverse, coming out at Ynis-hir Hall! <br />
Mum said that it was typical for the Battys to find our way through a maze by
going the wrong way.<br />
<br />
(Passing another open door in the hallway. Inside, a nameless, forgotten woman
sleeps all alone, her family far away. I'm sorry for you, tho' I don't who you
are. God, I'm sorry. You deserve to be loved.....)<br />
<br />
In another letter, she wrote about seeing a van parked outside the house marked
'Stationery Control'. She said she could imagine a conversation between two
employees of such a firm. "Oy, Frank, open the van. I just caught this pad
of notepaper trying to make a furtive getaway!"<br />
<br />
(I can't do this. I can't go on. God how long is this hallway?! I miss you,
Mum. Please come back to us......)<br />
<br />
Montreal. Tuesday, May 5th,1972. Dad and Mum had been fighting a lot. They're
arguing loudly every night, and Mum's drinking more. We used to occasionally go
to the airport; Philip and I liked to watch planes take off and land. Today, we
all packed into the car and drove to the airport. On the way, at the foot of the
Champlain Bridge we passed a burning house. I was worried that the fire would
melt the metal of the bridge! We got to the airport, Mum got on the plane and
left. Dad, Philip and I came home. Nobody had bothered to tell Miles that Dad
and Mum were breaking up, or that Mum was going back to England for good. I was
scared and confused. I didn't know why my Mummy had left us. For eleven nights
afterwards I cried myself to sleep.<br />
<br />
(I love you, Mum. So much!)<br />
<br />
Montreal, 1972. We often went out to eat - two of Dad's favorite restaurants
were Le Colibri, and Joe's Steak House. On one such drive, we went past a
massive cathedral. It was dark, and raining. Mum noticed a row of statues of
saints on the very top of the building, overlooking the road. "Ho, see,
bods, perched up there like!" We shared a good laugh over it.<br />
<br />
(Only a few more feet to the elevator. I can barely see for the tears. I love
you, Mum. I want you back.....)<br />
<br />
Montreal, 1971. Every Christmas morning for several years, Mum would fill a
pillowcase with sweets, toys, puzzles, all carefully wrapped, and leave the
pillowcase at the foot of our beds. Philip and I would lie awake listening for
it, then pretend to be asleep as the door was opened and the pillowcases
carefully placed. I'm sure she knew we were only pretending to sleep. We always
knew it was her pretending to be Santa. There was always an orange wrapped in
tin foil in the bag, and a toy car, among all the goodies so carefully wrapped
with love.<br />
<br />
(I'm having difficulty walking. Heather has to hold me up. I can't feel my feet
moving. Why isn't it me in that bed - let Mum be strong and healthy again. God
this is so damn unfair....)<br />
<br />
Wales, 1969. The day before, we'd gone to Machynlleth. In a shop on the corner
I'd spotted a toy robot I really wanted, but Mum and Dad hadn't bought it for
me. I knew I had enough money of my own - 35p - so I was determined to go and
buy it for myself. So early Saturday morning, I set out walking the six miles
to Machynlleth. I figured I could go, buy the toy, and be back in bed before
anyone knew I was gone. But there was a police roadblock set up halfway there
to catch an escaped convict or something. They saw a seven-year-old boy walking
a long road all by himself, and assumed he was a runaway. So they drove me to
the police station and called the house. Mum answered the phone. "It's the
police," she'd told Dad. "They have Miles." Then she came to
pick me up.<br />
<br />
(I don't want to think about what I'm doing. I'm leaving my Mum behind forever.
God I feel like hell. Nothing makes sense.)<br />
<br />
Wales, 1967. I was four years old. We'd gone to a garden bazaar, I don't
remember where. There were tables of things to buy, and I'd spotted a brooch
made from an old British penny, when the penny was a massive coin. The price on
it was 3p, but I only had 2p on me. "It's for my Mummy", I told the
lady, who let me buy it for 2p. I gave it to Mum, who smiled brightly, gave me
a big hug and put it on. I felt so proud!<br />
<br />
(Heather pushes the button on the elevator because I can barely move. I make it
to a chair in the lobby and collapse, crying uncontrollably. Heather holds me
and lets me sob into her shoulder. I'm a wreck. Nurses coming on for their
evening shift see us, and they know immediately what's happening. I'm sure its
a scene they see regularly. To their credit, none of them make any inane
goodwill comments about "I hope it'll get better." They all know who
we are, and know who Mum is. "We'll take care of your Mum," they tell
me.) <br />
<br />
Wales, 1966. When I was a little boy, I slept in the middle bedroom in
Tyglyneiddwen. I used to get terrifying nightmares, and I would often
wake myself up screaming for Mummy. "I want you, Mummy!" Then she'd
be by my side, holding me close, whispering to me, making everything better. "I'm
here, Miles. Don't cry. I'm here."<br />
<br />
(I'm sitting in the chair of a nursing home lobby. I'm a 46 year old man, with
a house, a job, adult responsibilities. But right now all of that is crap.
Right now I'm a terrified little boy who wants his Mummy to hold him close and tell
him everything is going to be alright.<br />
<br />
I want you, Mummy.<br />
<br />
I need you. Oh god I need you. I always will. I love you.<br />
<br />
Heather helped me and we got outside. I was in no shape to drive, so she helped
me into the car and we left Swallow's Meadow, and Mum, behind. I'll never see
her alive again. That's it.<br />
<br />
I'm never going to see my Mum alive again.</span></span></div>
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We drive to O'Neill's, our favorite pub in Solihull. Larry'd had told me that
it used to be called The Barley Mow, and that's where he'd met Mum in 1974. We felt
it only right that should be where we have our last good meal on this
trip. <br />
<br />
We share a toast for Mum's final journey, finish our meal, and get home close
to 11 o'clock.<br />
<br />
Repack our backs, and get to bed for a few hours sleep before our 5 am alarm goes
off to start the journey home. </span></span></div>
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The trip back was exasperating; we had to go through US customs THREE times -
in Birmingham, and in Dublin, and again in Philadelphia. The US customs in
Philadelphia took so long we missed our connecting flight to Charlotte, and
they had to squeeze us in on the next flight. <br />
<br />
But we got home safely late Friday evening!<br />
<br />
The animals are all safe and sound; they forgave us for leaving.</span></span></div>
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________________________________</span></span></div>
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My trip to the UK, May 2009 - addendum</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">A week after we got back - Sunday May 31st to be exact - I
got the telephone call from my brother.<br />
<br />
"Mum passed away early this morning, around 6am her time. She went
peacefully."<br />
<br />
We'd all been expecting this news for weeks now, and I think I'm lucky I was
able to see Mum when I did. Heather thinks - and I agree - that she was just
waiting to see her two sons again before she let go.<br />
<br />
When he told me, I didn't react, I just thanked him for the news. We talked for
a few minutes, and I hung up.<br />
<br />
In the few days since then, though, I've felt moody, depressed. Not overly
emotional, just 'out-of-sorts.' I thought I'd gotten the grief out of my system
with my daily journal, but I guess not.<br />
<br />
The funeral service for Mum will be on June 11th; alas I won't be able to
attend. I've sent Philip a short letter to read on my behalf.<br />
<br />
(I still love you, Mum - I always will.)<br />
<br />
blessings,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Miles</span></span></div>
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Frances Mary Batty 1934 - 2009 </div>
<br /></div>
Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-54175563034452886302013-11-03T11:08:00.002-08:002013-11-03T11:08:12.858-08:00Things I learned from two silly party hats<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things I learned from two silly party hats</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(or, an awareness of the absurdities of gender)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other evening, I went to a birthday party for my friend
Lee. There were friends and co-workers there, and friend’s kids, music, and a
big birthday cake and drinks, munchies, streamers and silly conical party hats
on cheap elastic strings.</div>
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Everyone put a party hat on, and we all looked like clowns
or tie-dyed traffic cones. One guest’s son was there, and he put two on his
head like horns. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This gave me an idea,
as things often do, and I grabbed two conical party hats and dashed off to the
bathroom.</div>
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I secured the cheap elastic cords onto the edges of the
cardboard, and carefully squirmed my way through the elastic bands until I had
two paper cones on my chest, like Madonna’s infamous costume brassiere.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzFhbtV51gzldMPkT6bSDuVd6xdinhz4jIhaeqCprTLg4s_K8J2DcJzxMPiDiscOJ1CvpMoCDr2aX2TJhiRzCcFts0RS6nFZkoDdauVC2MOjYyNRtiDGjjN2iupsUpcxhnP6Jlf370lU/s1600/IMG_20131102_201341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUzFhbtV51gzldMPkT6bSDuVd6xdinhz4jIhaeqCprTLg4s_K8J2DcJzxMPiDiscOJ1CvpMoCDr2aX2TJhiRzCcFts0RS6nFZkoDdauVC2MOjYyNRtiDGjjN2iupsUpcxhnP6Jlf370lU/s320/IMG_20131102_201341.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With my cardboard breasts securely in place, I went back and
rejoined the party. Everyone laughed as I approached, and there were lewd
comments, of course, and the occasional grab or photo-opportunity licking of my
fake breasts.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over the next hour and a half, though, I got to experience a
few things that I hadn’t even considered, and which I am very grateful to have
had the opportunity to experience. I mentioned these to a female guest, who
shook my hand and said, “Miles, welcome to our world!”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hey, my eyes are up here!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was talking to people with my fake cardboard breasts
on, their eyesight was inevitably locked on my chest. I know I’ve done the same
thing when talking to women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what I
hadn’t expected was my inner reaction. “Hey! How the hell do I know you’re even
listening to me if you won’t look me in the eye and acknowledge what I’m saying?”
I felt that people regarded my words, my thoughts, as less important than the
opportunity to stare at my chest. That was, I realized, somewhat insulting to
my intelligence as well as to their own.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This bra strap is NOT comfortable!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The two thin elastic cords were never designed, of course,
to stretch around a man’s torso. Head, yes. Ribcage, no. So they were somewhat
tighter than originally designed. And I was VERY aware of the constant pressure
on the back of my ribcage and under my arms, of this annoying strip of elastic.
I found myself constantly reaching around back to move the cords to a slightly
new position, or just pinch under my armpits to offer a slightly different
physical sensation than constant irritating pressure. Wow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Physical logistics.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a very huggy person – I’ll hug anyone. But with two silly
cardboard cones sticking out the front, hugging, or physical proximity at all,
suddenly became concern, and I was running a constant proximal evaluation, ‘How
can I safely hug this person’, ‘Can I fit between these two people to get to
the bar,’ ‘Damn, I almost put her eye out!.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to resort to positioning myself at a sort of
three-quarter-profile position so that my cardboard conical breasts would not
get in the way of my actually hugging someone. Lee’s girlfriend Angela did hug
me ‘full frontal’, and the sharp cardboard cone almost pierced her clavicle! I’m
glad none of Lee’s friends were below a certain height.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And along with the constant mental juggling of where I would
or would not fit with my new expanded chest, was the awareness that trying to bring
my drink to my lip, I had to swing OUT and AROUND this new interference to get anything
accomplished. Wow, how irritating that soon became, And I only had them on for 90 minutes, not an entire adult existence.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My fake breasts were intended as a laugh, a quick party
gimmick, but they actually taught me more in an hour and a half than I had
imagined they might.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They did not have
the actual weight or swing of real breasts, and I did not have to deal with any
considerations such as back pain or tissue damage, but they did teach me a lot
about what women have to go through every single day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like breasts, but no I don’t plan on getting that sex
change operation any time soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-13729381692287081432013-08-19T15:21:00.001-07:002013-08-19T20:07:09.503-07:00In Memoriam: Mugwort Alphonse 2003-2013<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Hey Miles,
do you want to be a dog rescuer?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
It was a simple question. I’ve always had pets around, usually cats when I was
a child, but dogs entered my life when I was 29, and I adopted my first snake
around the same time. And Snooze has been involved with wildlife rescue and
rehab, and at-home animal care for years, long before we ever met. So when we
got together, I became involved with rescuing squirrels, possum, a snake
trapped under a house, you name it.<br />
And we had space in the house for another dog.<br />
“Um, sure,” I said, “what do we do? Where is it?”<br />
“At my work,” Snooze said. She was working at a vet clinic, and a dog was being
boarded there. “You’re getting a dog.”<br />
“Ah. Fair enough, what kind of dog?” In the past, I’d known several dogs, and
had been the human companion to Silme and Tristan, a pair of wolf hybrids.<br />
“Boxer/Staffie mix,” Snooze said. “He’s a rescue from a dog fight camp.” ‘Staffie’,
I was savvy enough to know, is the code word for ‘pit bull’ when you don’t want
to say Pit Bull. American Staffordshire Terriers are another of the pit bull
family. <br />
“Um, sure,” I said again. “Yes, I’ll rescue him. What’s his name?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Muggsy. He
was rescued from a dog fight camp, and had been fostered by someone else. But
he kept getting away from there, and kept going back to this other yard. That guy
keeps returning him, and he keeps getting loose again. So he wound up at the
pound. They have a law that they’ll euthanize pits, no question. But – and this
is typical politics – they brought him to the vet to make sure he’s healthy,
before they kill him. Gotta love Mecklenburg County. But Mecklenburg County’s
animal control board has no jurisdiction in Iredell County. So he’s coming to
live here. You’re rescuing a dog.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So the next
day, when Snooze came home, she helped a large, dark colored dog out of the car.
I’d heard all the horror stories about pit bulls and viscous dogs and all that,
and to some extent I believed it. So when I saw this dog coming up the lawn, I
was a little apprehensive. His head was HUGE, and he had a stocky chest, and
the very obvious brindle markings. Like narrow tiger stripes, where someone had
gone back over the orange with dark rust brown paint. As he was walking up the
path, I remember thinking that two things I knew about pit breeds are that you
usually can’t see the whites of their eyes, and that they do not have as
expressive eyebrows as some dogs. They appear… reserved. Wary. And yes, Muggsy
had the dark eyes and the not-so-expressive eyebrows. Was this something to be
cautious about? Or was I just being stupid?<br />
I swallowed my fear and opened the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Look
Muggsy, here’s Daddy!” Snooze said, in her skillful pet-soothing voice.<br />
Muggsy looked at me, and I looked at him. <br />
I was in love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
I knelt down to greet him, and Muggsy reached up and gave me a big slobbering
kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s something about pits, they
love to kiss. Well, lick. Slobber. All over you. Muggsy was GREAT at that.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I looked
into his eyes, and traced my hand down his back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And felt the scar.<br />
“What’s this?” I asked. He was a rescue from a dog fight camp, so who knew what
he’d seen. Or experienced. On his back was a wide, red scar, that ran from the
back of his neck to two-thirds down his back, and side scars ran down the
flank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whoever had
him before, they poured gasoline on him and lit him on fire, to make him mean
and crazy. A fighter. That’ll probably never heal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy was
standing on his hind legs, front paws on my shoulders, slobbering me with more kisses.
Big, mean fighting dog, this one.<br />
“Where’s – where’s the owner – the dog fighter guy - now?” I said, hoping I’d
like the answer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Doing time.
Sadly he’s not doing time for abusing dogs, but for cocaine possession. But I’ll
take what I can get.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And as
Snooze tells it, while he was there, another dog came in, a poodle that needed
a blood transfusion. Muggsy had only been there maybe 90 minutes, and he lay
down quite still as the vet drew a pint of blood from him, to help save
this poodle’s life. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thus began my
relationship with Muggsy. That’s the name he came with, although it was
originally spelled Mugsy. I liked two G’s, so Muggsy. Like in the Bugs Bunny
cartoon, with the tiny gangster with the enormous fedora. “Happy Boithday,
Muggsy!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I wanted
Muggsy to be short for something. And I wanted to make him mine. My dog. So we
retconned his name to be Mugwort Alphonse Batty, Muggsy for short.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We learned
that he was born on September 19<sup>th</sup>, 2003. September 19<sup>th</sup>
is also International Talk Like a Pirate Day, which I always thought was funny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Those first
few weeks we learned a lot about Muggsy. I’ll never know his childhood, but for
the first year he was with us he had nightmares. He’d cry in his sleep. Moan
and wail and almost-bark, and twitch and whimper. We’d wake him up to remind
him he was safe, and he’d lick our hands. And I sometimes play video games,
which occasionally have gunshot sounds. Those didn’t bother him. But if I held something
shaped like a gun, even a toy one (I don’t have any real guns), he’d get very
nervous and back away from me slowly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
did have to teach him not to chase other pets off their food. Starvation is one
technique dog fight breeders use to teach aggression in dogs, and Muggsy had
obviously been a victim of such treatment. We did have to teach him that it’s
okay to share food, that he will get his own. I’ll never know all the horrors
of his childhood, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but I promised him
that those days would never return. Unlike many pits you see, and I am so very glad of this, he never had his ears docked or his tail clipped. I hate that look.He had big goofy floppy ears, and a tail that would bruise your kneecaps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy was
remarkably talented. He could – we learned the hard way – scale and climb<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and leap over a six-foor high chain link
fence. Our dog pen held all the other dogs, but Muggsy knew how to get out. We
really didn’t want him getting out, because (a) pit, (b) big bad burn scars on
his back, and (c) big dog running towards you with his mouth gaping open, would
be enough to make many people dial 911 in terror. And we had no illusions, we
knew, his breed, his appearance, his breed’s reputation, one phone call and we’d
be minus one dog. So we did our best to keep him safe.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy loved
people. Everyone was his friend. He’d eagerly greet anyone, with that whip-strong
enthusiastic tail that could shatter kneecaps, a three-mile-wide pitty grin,
and those kisses! I eventually got him to ease off on the kisses. Big soulful eyes that always make you feel welcome.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A few months
after Muggsy came home, we went to a friend’s house for a cookout/hot tub
party/bonfire. Muggsy came along, so we could judge his interaction with
strange people and environments. (We’d checked with the hosts beforehand, who
told us that he was more than welcome.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One of the
other people there had a black lab puppy, named Cinder. Cinder was only a few
months old, and a quarter, if that, of Muggsy’s size. Muggsy quite happily let
Cinder climb all over him, bite and his nose, his ears, his tail, run circles
around him and do it again. If we’d had any fears that interactions with
another dog would lead to a violent reaction, but watching him play with
Cinder, we knew that Muggsy was never going to be a fight risk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The following
year, we took Muggsy to a pagan festival weekend. We brought his ball along, so
he’d have something to keep himself busy. That ball, by the way, was one of the
loves of his life. A “Jolly Ball” is made for horses to play with. It’s as big
as a basketball, with a handle, and made of molded rubber as opposed to being
filled with air. Crush it, squash it, flatten it, it always pops back into
shape. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Muggsy and I would spend hours
playing fetch with that thing. So at the festival, EVERYONE took turns throwing
Muggsy’s ball for him, and he loved all the attention. Lots of running and
fetching, lots of happy pitty smiles. Lots of hearts warmed and friends made.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Snooze has
been doing pit bull advocacy seminars for years, and Muggsy was a shining
example of what such a breed is supposed to be like. She’d often bring him
along to speeches. Friendly, devoted, loyal, loving, playful, considerate,
intelligent… these are the traits you’ll see in a pit bull breed of dog. As we’ve
both said, many times, a dog is a blank slate. If you raise a dog with love and
care, you’ll get a loving, caring dog. If you raise a dog with anger and
aggression, you’ll get an angry, aggressive dog. “It’s not the dog’s fault if
the owner is an asshole!” is a phrase I’ve heard Snooze use at least once.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryeON8RP2F_-1PhgQNtxrByiIwA98AiWF5TsyQ1r4Sms5wVP-61NaEK8cjqRbd8G-4mYb-Brv9NYlN-LYwC2FxC2RHzE-aq8LBwUGzioZ4e7GAyrLSVlCKH1lPZAenuBT878b57RJAZI/s1600/save+a+pit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhryeON8RP2F_-1PhgQNtxrByiIwA98AiWF5TsyQ1r4Sms5wVP-61NaEK8cjqRbd8G-4mYb-Brv9NYlN-LYwC2FxC2RHzE-aq8LBwUGzioZ4e7GAyrLSVlCKH1lPZAenuBT878b57RJAZI/s320/save+a+pit.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy’s
scar was always a talking point when he met new people, and that almost always
worked to his advantage. They’d see the scar and ask what it was about, and we’d
tell about his early years in the dog fight camp, and the gasoline. And they’d
see this happy, silly dog roll over and lay on his back, begging for tummy
rubs. "Oh, just give me five minutes with that loser....." and we'd nod in agreement. Only one or two times did anyone try to warn us that any pit bull is just
a time bomb, and you’d never know when it might go off. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah, right. Have you SEEN this dog??</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy and I
were friends from the first three minutes together, and that relationship only
grew stronger. If I was more than fifteen minute late from work, he’d wait by
the door. Daddy will be home soon, I just know it! </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUln2NCSoF0S40gdvjhzxB1qWuvtckkFf4eSnmnv9isbZ_ThiFGUelRRcJGJk2fziIMwLq2ZFtKAxPkqmxHOHeaW3nI9r2EcMHukHvbf56h5UPHRKH4AgW3F1_ciLRYsVdX7x7ChAq9U/s1600/muggsy+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUln2NCSoF0S40gdvjhzxB1qWuvtckkFf4eSnmnv9isbZ_ThiFGUelRRcJGJk2fziIMwLq2ZFtKAxPkqmxHOHeaW3nI9r2EcMHukHvbf56h5UPHRKH4AgW3F1_ciLRYsVdX7x7ChAq9U/s320/muggsy+window.jpg" width="301" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We’d sit on the couch
together and watch movies, go for long walks, sleep side by side… Muggsy was my
companion, in every way a dog can be a man’s companion. He understood me, and
loved me. If I sneezed, he’d be in my face, concern in his eyes, licking my
cheek. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Muggsy knew me better than most
humans know me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He was first
diagnosed with cancer in 2009. We saw a lima-bean-sized lump growing on his front
leg, and another on his back hip. We went to the vet, and they took blood and
samples and ran a biopsy. Yes, it’s cancer, yes, it’s malignant. We had the
tumors removed, and the follow-up was clean. Muggsy could add cancer survivor
to his list of accolades. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t deny
that the surgery was exhausting for him, and worrying for us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In late 2012
we saw a new growth on his belly, and a spot growing on his gumline. The tests
came back benign. Yes, he has new tumors, but no they are not malignant. Just
keep an eye on them, the vet said. Give him Benadryl, that’s been known to
inhibit tumor growth. So we did, and they did.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By now
Muggsy was eight, almost nine. A bit older, a bit slower. Statistically, the
boxer/pit mix has a life expectancy of ten or eleven years, so we were counting
our blessings.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We took him
to the ATTS Temperance Test, where dogs are put through a series of encounters
and experiences to judge their reaction. Loud noises, walking on strange
surfaces, sudden bursts from seemingly aggressive people. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Muggsy took it all in stride, and passed the
test with flying colours. ANOTHER credential to his resume!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCECa19B-XqqrpQhvUmpoYEvLjI-_7xIlx56d6CSfaKZkXqzLoDRAbw96B30r7o2c3Cozrxc5MjCGVFdn4pw84Zkq4NBHipsM6KcQ9ehiY-pz2RBQ2tzr5CyucsMgEUOVQIZMmTFxNq84/s1600/muggsy+atts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCECa19B-XqqrpQhvUmpoYEvLjI-_7xIlx56d6CSfaKZkXqzLoDRAbw96B30r7o2c3Cozrxc5MjCGVFdn4pw84Zkq4NBHipsM6KcQ9ehiY-pz2RBQ2tzr5CyucsMgEUOVQIZMmTFxNq84/s320/muggsy+atts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And he kept
on making friends. He charmed everyone he met, human and canine alike. Muggsy
was a dog among men. He was cool. He wasn't just cool, he was Samuel L Jackson cool.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1mSDds0V7YjJMJJukag025cQUiPcBO6ImTRnjTuljL_RHK3dzm8d45AICaxofEqc14GK_HA7F4BkgiLTdBNf7K3M2CCZHVBl6R81EQosOxwDutCD2z1R6VWlAUhO1yJH8G6Q3dNc14o/s1600/muggsy+storytime.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1mSDds0V7YjJMJJukag025cQUiPcBO6ImTRnjTuljL_RHK3dzm8d45AICaxofEqc14GK_HA7F4BkgiLTdBNf7K3M2CCZHVBl6R81EQosOxwDutCD2z1R6VWlAUhO1yJH8G6Q3dNc14o/s320/muggsy+storytime.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But his
tumors got worse. By June of this year, we knew that they had probably passed
the point of reasonable surgery. And at his age, chemo was out of the question.
(I didn’t know they could do chemotherapy on dogs!) We had a scare in July,
when he suddenly lost the ability to move his left side; his nose was dry and
his gums were pale, pale white, and his belly was swollen and distended. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off to the vet we went, and we learned that he
very likely has tumors on his spleen. Or a ruptured spleen, which could be
leaking blood into his abdominal cavity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ultrasound a
few days later confirmed it – he had metastasized tumors growing on his spleen
and his liver, and they were causing internal blood lost. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Snooze and I
knew that surgery was out of the question, and I’d done research and found that
a splenoctomy in dogs is only a temporary cure – a dog needs his spleen; they
usually die within six weeks of having one removed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So we knew,
we’ll love him and care for him, keep him warm and safe and comfortable, until
he’s ready to go. And when he’s ready to go, we won’t stop him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Last night he
was in pain, moving about and breathing with great difficulty. At one point he
looked at me with sad eyes – not accusatory, but remorseful. “You’re my hero,
my Superman,” they said to me, “you can fix anything. That’s what Daddys do.
Why can’t you fix me?” Oh Muggsy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He went from
the floor to the carpet to the chair to the bed and back again, trying to find
somewhere that didn’t hurt. He didn’t understand that this isn’t something you
can move away from.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He finally
laid down by my side, my brave, loving, noble dog, and died at 5:00 this
morning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQNzlwkpdc5cNsZ95bqimSwvjzx9yZdnxqrPjuZq7GxfyMVZnMKBj-pzzr1WS23LBpSLAu-Eg7EBZC3vx_8o-yPnw_xNE_asyW5gQmymvzHFKFjA1u8RtcHQVjuy7B_Blddt_M8wpB3A/s1600/muggsy+papasan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkQNzlwkpdc5cNsZ95bqimSwvjzx9yZdnxqrPjuZq7GxfyMVZnMKBj-pzzr1WS23LBpSLAu-Eg7EBZC3vx_8o-yPnw_xNE_asyW5gQmymvzHFKFjA1u8RtcHQVjuy7B_Blddt_M8wpB3A/s320/muggsy+papasan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Muggsy, you
never stopped being my best friend, my hero, my companion, and my muse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And you
never will. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You are
walking with the Horned Man now, my friend, and I shall visit you often in my dreams.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And one day
we shall walk again together, and chase a rubber ball. And laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My father
died earlier this year – 2013 has been a year of suck – and he wanted two short
passages he’d written, to be read at his eulogy. I’m reprinting them here.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Never Forget</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The dead do
not always leave us lonely unless we choose to think so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They leave
themselves as we knew them: their spirit, their words.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We grow with
their help, not just from the past, but through them within us,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From what
they know now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mourning</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When we
mourn for those who have died we mourn for ourselves; we are the losers, left
without them, our lives emptier for their going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If we are
honest we should rejoice. They are done with this ragged life ad now are
nothing, or alive in heaven, by their believing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As we
remember them is what we have; that, we should treasure. We were the better for
their being with us; we should grow in that loving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQ3PNE-3_IgG4rlRRr3PN2uJ6Rxnd14CY3ntmF0S7Z6E_AX91tpthMJpNNldj3XQ57NY98tnBxNpoFaxSJJnt4ceVXW0CV9r1dZqamlrQuUfcfWeY0weLsSGwzCbzzhqcZwWnMjzedf8/s1600/muggsy1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPQ3PNE-3_IgG4rlRRr3PN2uJ6Rxnd14CY3ntmF0S7Z6E_AX91tpthMJpNNldj3XQ57NY98tnBxNpoFaxSJJnt4ceVXW0CV9r1dZqamlrQuUfcfWeY0weLsSGwzCbzzhqcZwWnMjzedf8/s320/muggsy1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To Mugwort
Alphonse Batty: I will always love you. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-31644016082895167002013-02-20T16:52:00.004-08:002013-02-20T17:00:24.777-08:00Fox News said what? Did anyone ask Why?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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A few days ago, Fox News (that utterly reputable news
source!) broadcast a talk show in which three people of the Fox News staff
discussed the fact that the University of Missouri had added Wiccan holidays to
their list of recognized holidays.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The broadcasters of course had great fun ridiculing the
Wiccan faith (Wiccanism, as one of the presenters inaccurately called it), and
made mention that 20 percent of all holidays are pagan. That point is true, but
it got immediately misinterpreted to say that Wiccans have twenty holidays.</div>
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If you haven’t already seen the piece in question, it’s
here:<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=J22mI-P0a1M" target="_blank">http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=J22mI-P0a1M</a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Naturally, Wiccans and Pagans were up in arms over this,
saying that Fox News was misrepresenting or ridiculing their faith. That’s
absolutely true, they were, and many voices, including Selena Fox of the Lady
Liberty League took to the defense of Wicca.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I don’t think that the Fox News people were doing that
simply to have fun poking fun at Wicca. They weren’t out to start a War On
Religion or any such foolishness. No, all they were doing is much more simple
than that.</div>
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Have you ever encountered someone who will say whatever he
thinks it takes, just to gain the attention of his superiors? The kind of
brown-noser who’ll overhear a conversation making fun of, say, autistic kids,
and add a comment to let the others know he’s ‘one of them’? That’s all it was.
Glad-handing their superiors, in a way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Fox News folks were just making the right kinds of
noise, saying things their wealthy, corporate-owned Christian Conservative Coalition
(capitalization mine) would want to hear, so they’d give Fox more money. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could just as well have made detrimental
remarks about gays, handicapped people, vegans, whatever. Today it happened to
be Wiccans, and the University of Missouri’s decision happened to be the
target.</div>
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Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely detest the things they
said, and the attitude they took. They could have done so much better. But remember,
they hold Wiccans and Pagans in as much regard as the dirt they scrape off
their shoes when they walk inside. They don’t care about Wicca. They just
wanted to win the favor of their corporate backers, so they made the sort of noises
that they’re expected to make. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Which, as far as I’m concerned, makes them even less a
reliable news agency than they were before. </div>
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<br /></div>
Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-59020639812925294412013-02-16T12:43:00.000-08:002013-02-16T13:02:19.622-08:00Charles David Batty 1932 - 2013<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I love my Dad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
Anyone who’s known me for a reasonable length of time knows that I am so very
proud to be my father’s son. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He is my
mentor, my hero, my compass, my best friend. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He’s always nurtured
me, supported me, guided me. Even when I was 19 and thought he was a buffoon, I
knew that I loved him and needed him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Dad died
this week.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He’d been
diagnosed with liver cancer about eight years ago, which had spread to his
pancreas. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He’d always
had something of a cavalier attitude about his health. My Dad was the sort of
man who controlled his health by sheer force of will. He didn’t want to get
sick, he didn’t get sick. He had the kind of willpower that could stop a tank. When
I was very young he used to smoke cigarettes. One day he decided he didn’t like
them anymore, and that’s all it took, he stopped smoking. That kind of
willpower. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
So he called
me when he got the diagnosis, and we talked about it for a little while. I don’t
know if he took it seriously – he always seemed dismissive and glib about his
health – but I was worried. He underwent various treatments, which had successfully
overcome BOTH cancers, but the treatments rendered him diabetic. He never had
the full-body chemo that makes your hair fall out; he didn’t want that. He’d
agreed to experimental laser surgery that zapped and neutralized the tumors. The
tumors came back, and he’d get zapped again, and they’d come back again. Stupid
cancer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Six months
ago he began to get noticeably worse, and his condition worsened rapidly. A
month ago he was hospitalized, and agreed to at-home hospice care. The doctor
said he had maybe three to six months. But Dad was in a lot of pain, and I
think that when he lay back in the hospice bed that had been set up in the
living room, he simply said to himself, “That’s it, time to go.” His last words
to Gayle, my stepmother, were a few hours before he died. “I love you,” he whispered,
“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” Then he went back to sleep, and a few
hours later just stopped breathing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Dad was
truly a renaissance man. He was a teacher, an author, a poet, a musician, a
chef, a philosopher, a dreamer, a world traveler, a fighter, a father, a
husband, a friend. Music was one of the joys of his life; I grew up in a world
of classical music. Dad was the kind of person who could pick up any instrument
and play it. He’d be able to play it well within an hour. My brother has the
same skill, but I never did. The only thing I can play is a radio. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He loved to
cook. Pottering around in the kitchen, experimenting with new dishes, tasting
the food of different cultures, always delighted him. It was through my father
that I learned to enjoy trying new dishes, and the general willingness to try
anything new.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many’s the day you could
walk in the house and find something remarkable bubbling away on the stove,
making the whole house smell warm and inviting. Dad had libraries of cookbooks,
and volumes of pages of recipes clipped from newpapers or printed from
websites. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s from him that I learned
to appreciate good food and to make cooking an adventure, and why I worked as a
banquet chef for so many years.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My Dad wrote
and performed music for church; he wrote, directed and managed the Tudor
Christmas Feast for three years running for the University of Maryland in the
mid-80’s. He was a University professor, who taught Information Science at
McGill University in Montreal, and the University of Maryland at College Park. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After retiring from teaching, he created a
consulting firm and helped major corporations develop in-house library systems.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He was a man
of deep faith whose devotion to God was without measure. But he wasn’t one to
follow God’s word without question; Dad always questioned everything, and
expected the same level of inquisitive dedication from everyone he worked with.
There were times we’d have long debates about religion, and it was only after I’d
published my textbook on teaching witchcraft that he came to accept my own
faith. And after that, of course, we’d have long discussions in which he
encouraged me to deepen my own understanding of my faith.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If there was
anything he detested, it was idiots. There is a phrase, “I will not suffer
fools lightly”. That is so very true of Dad, who could not abide simple-minded
people. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>God gave you a brain, use it!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Knowing that
my Dad is no longer here is not easy. I’ll miss being able to call him to chat.
To be honest, one thing I don’t think I ready for will be walking back into my
parents’ house for the first time, knowing that he’ll never be there again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
If there is
any consolation to my grief, it is this story:<br />
My Dad’s father was killed in World War II, when Dad was only 9. He left his
wife – my grandmother – as a single parent, raising Dad and his sister Hilary.
Grandma never remarried. The years went by, and in 1995, Grandma Batty died of
old age.<br />
On the day she died, Dad was at work in his office, and his sister Hilary was
at home in England. As Dad tells it, he heard his mother’s voice – as if she were
talking in the next room, say, “You waited for me…” and then he heard his
father’s voice which he hadn’t heard in over 50 years, say, “It’s alright, time
doesn’t mean the same thing here.” Straight away, Dad called Hilary, and she
said that she’d heard the very same voices, at the very same time. They both heard it, they both knew.<br />
So, yes, death is a chance for another meeting with those loved ones you’d
thought you’d left.<br />
I am glad that Dad is no longer suffering, and while I do miss him, terribly, I
know that he is at peace, and enjoying long fireside talks with his father and
his family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In closing,
here’s an excerpt of a poem he wrote shortly after his mother died.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On Grief for
the Departed</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
"The room is
empty now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Between the
curtains, sunlight’s fingers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Touch first
the bed, the vacant chair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The day
moves on. No point in time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The room is
empty now.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grief for
the dead is based in love.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Felt as
guilt, expressed in sorrow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They left
too soon,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Before we
had the time</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For all the
words, for all the gestures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Always we
could rely on tomorrow – </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Until
tomorrow became a yesterday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did we ever
say enough?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did we ever
do enough?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Enough
perhaps is any, and any, all."</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dad, I love
you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-82132485277985263362012-01-02T10:57:00.000-08:002012-01-02T10:57:30.970-08:00God's Gift, or God's Wisdom?<div class="MsoNormal">God’s Gift, or God’s Wisdom?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> In which I try to explain, borrowing a Christian perspective, the social concepts of sharing God's gift, or honoring God's wisdom </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I live in <st1:state><st1:place>North Carolina</st1:place></st1:state>. The prevalent religious atmosphere can be somewhat conservative; concepts like recycling and environmental concerns, things that many pagans take for granted, are generally ignored. Or worse. I tried to explain this to a friend during a telephone conversation. Our conversation had drifted around to, as it often does, religious awareness in different parts of the country, and differences between pagans and mainstream religions. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “When I was in <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>,” I told her, “I was waiting at the bus stop one evening on the way home. A man next to me had just unwrapped his hamburger. His bag shifted on his arm, making him slip and drop the wrapper, and the top half of the bun, onto the ground. I watched as he picked up the bun and blow on it. Then he held the bun up, look upward to the sky, and whisper something. A prayer, obviously, something like, “Please God, wipe any germs from my bun so I don’t get sick, thanks.” Then he rebuilt his burger and ate it in about four bites before the bus came. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> ‘“What about the wrapper?” I asked him. He glanced at me as if he hadn’t noticed I was there before, and his eyes slid to the wrapper lying under the bus stop bench, and back to me. He shrugged and gave it a dismissive wave of his hand. “That’s littering, man,” I said. I didn’t mention the crumpled newspaper lying on the bench, or the trash can overflowing with papers and bottles of various kinds. But the hamburger wrapper, that was his trash, a piece he’d just now thrown away. It suddenly became important to me to make this a point, I don’t know why, and I spoke to him as if I were a member of the Christian faith as well. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> ‘“If you’re going to ask God to clean your hamburger bun for you, the least you can do is clean your part of what he made for you. This world is his gift to you. Leaving your trash on the ground, that’s like disrespecting what your Father made for you, you know?”’</div><div class="MsoNormal"> This made an impression, and he picked the wrapper up and left it lying precariously on top of the pile of trash on the garbage can. When the bus arrived and we all got on, I saw the exhaust from the bus blow it off again, but left it at that. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I think that’s cool, what you did,” my friend said, “I wish more people would act like that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I’ve done something like that a couple of times,” I said, “usually adopting a Christian perspective. I call it giving somebody a ‘Jesus Kiss’. It’s like a wake-up call to them to be more spiritually aware of what they’re doing. You know, wheel of life, the interconnectedness of the web, all of that. Pagans, I’m happy to say, are often already more aware of their actions than that.” She made a consenting sound like a happy grunt.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So what’s <st1:state><st1:place>North Carolina</st1:place></st1:state> like, then?” she asked, “the same kind of vibe?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “I wish I could say it was. There’s a lot of good people here, but, well… you know the general notion a lot of conservatives have, that hippies are just no-good bums?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “…yeah?” she said carefully.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Well amplify that notion about a gazillion percent. Not only are hippies no-good bums, but anyone outside the conservative mainstream, if that is what they are, is suspect, and the ideals that such people would endorse are equally suspicious.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “What, like recycling? Taking care of the environment? Like that?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Um, yeah, like that. But even moreso. There are people down here who think that recycling is against Christ.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> There was a pause, and over the phone I heard the backs of her eyeballs constrict.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “What?” she said slowly, “say that again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Some people think that to recycle, to put something back into the system to be used again, is against God’s plan. It’s evil.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “How in the hell can they justify that?” she demanded.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Okay, lemme try to explain, from their point of view.” I paused, thinking. “First, a little backstory. I used to work at a big banquet hotel in <st1:state><st1:place>Maryland</st1:place></st1:state>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Umm..”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Don’t worry, this connects. Stick with me.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Okay…”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So at the banquet hotel, the Head Chef rules the kitchen with an iron… spatula. He makes the final decisions on everything, and what he says, goes. If a dinner banquet needs, say, two hundred chicken <st1:city><st1:place>dijon</st1:place></st1:city>, then they cook two hundred chicken <st1:city><st1:place>dijon</st1:place></st1:city>. Not a hundred and ninety nine, not two hundred and one. The Head Chef is never wrong. If, of course, five extra people show up at the banquet and they have to cook five more, they bend over backwards to justify what the Head Chef had said. He knows exactly how much is needed, and nobody questions it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Okay,” my friend said. I think she saw where this was going.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So there are Christians down here who believe that when God made the world, he knew EXACTLY how much of everything would ever be needed, and he set it up that way. So if we recycle, if we try to extend the use of something, we are as much as saying that God got his figures wrong. We are implying that we have to HELP God manage the world, that we think he might need help to get his figures right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “And to hint that God might have gotten something wrong, is as bad as blasphemy. Because God is always right, about everything. End of.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So… but….” Her mind was scrambling to keep up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So. Recycling is bad because it questions God’s wisdom. Taking care of the environment is bad because we’re assuming God wants us to extend the life of the planet. God has a plan, remember, and our job is to follow it. Not try to change it, not try to extend it, just follow it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “But what if recycling IS part of God’s plan?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Now now, that’s putting words in God’s mouth,” I said, “if we were supposed to recycle, it would have been mentioned in the Bible.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So….. my brain hurts,” she said after a short pause.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “So the guy in <st1:state><st1:place>Colorado</st1:place></st1:state>, with the hamburger wrapper? He understood about taking care of God’s gift. But down here, it’s more important to respect - unquestioningly - God’s wisdom, even if it means risking one’s health.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “And that’s life in the conservative Bible Belt?” she asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Pretty much, yeah,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Oy veh.” Which sounded funny coming from a pagan Jamaican woman living in <st1:country-region><st1:place>Canada</st1:place></st1:country-region>. </div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-70775303289661476482011-08-09T17:59:00.000-07:002011-08-09T18:28:25.601-07:00Toward the Divine Event Horizon<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: arial,helvetica,clean,sans-serif; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 15px; orphans: 2; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"></span></span><br />
<div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;">Toward the Divine Event Horizon (or, “Another argument against organized religion”)</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;">Part One: Seeking the Divine Event Horizon </div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;">A brief introduction, just to confuse you…… What is an ‘Event Horizon’?</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>According to scientists, rocket scientists and people smarter than myself, an event horizon is that part of a black hole where anything sucked in is irretrievable, invisible, gone forever. It’s like when you watch someone drive out to the horizon, and *pif* they’re gone – but in a black hole’s event horizon, they’re REALLY gone – and so is anything and everything else that gets too close.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>According to general parlance, an event horizon is that point in the far distance where you cannot distinguish one thing from another – or, that point at which individual items or concepts are ultimately unrecognizable as individual, or have no discernible differences.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>According to one author – namely me, the event horizon is that point at which one realizes that</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>(a)items or concepts, when under close enough scrutiny, have so many more similarities than differences that differentiation becomes irrelevant; or</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>(b) if you take two dissimilar concepts on a single topic, and follow them to their logical conclusion, you will find that they reach the same results.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;">Did that make sense? I hope so.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>To take my definition of the event horizon to an even sillier plateau, let’s add spirituality to the mix. There are dozens of religions, with dozens of ways to worship/understand/honor/devote oneself to/follow, various forms of god/goddess/divinity/divine mystery/ultimate truth. It has been observed, I forget by whom, that the different religions are like different paths through the forest, all leading to god. (It has also been observed that, and I really like this line, ‘when scientists peer into their microscopes and finally crack the ultimate mystery of life, they will find that god has been looking back at them the whole time.”<span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>I forget the author, and I’m probably horribly misquoting it, but anyway.)</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>So you’ve got Christianity, Judaism, Islam; paganism in all its myriad forms, Hinduism, Buddhism, Humanism and a whole slew of isms, Heathenry, Native American, so on and so on. Followers of this faith worship this god, followers of that faith worship those gods, followers of this philosophy believe that (x=y), and so on.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>You could spend hours, years, millennia, debating the minutae of each religion, its practices and dogma, its pros and cons, and arguing for the validity of this religious perspective over that religious perspective.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Or you could look for commonalities in different religious perspectives. (Here’s a tip: Every religion exists because someone thought it would be a good idea to try it that way.)</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>I found a website that helps – the<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://www.religionfacts.com/big_religion_chart.htm" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1312937615_0" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Big Religion Chart</span></a><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>has a listing of 43 belief systems, and includes origins, human situation/life’s purpose, afterlife, and more. It’s worth a look!</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>You’ll find, if you scroll through the chart, that a lot of religions deal with human issues, understanding or coming closer to understanding god, knowing right from wrong. For example, let’s look at Baha’i Faith:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;">“<span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">The soul is eternal and essentially good. Purpose of life is to develop spiritually and draw closer to God”</span></span></i><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">,<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span>Cao Dai:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;">“<span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Goal is peace and harmony in each person and in the world. Salvation by "cultivating self and finding God in self,"</span></span></i><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>and Taoism:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;">“Purpose is inner harmony, peace, and longevity. Achieved by living in accordance with the Tao”.</i></span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Sure, there are a few faiths that don’t fit this altruistic model; the human situation of the Greek religions (presuming they mean Ancient Greece) is:<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;">“<span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Human life is subject to the whim of the gods and to Fate; these can be controlled through sacrifice and divination”</span></span></i><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">, and Islam is listed as “<i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;">Humans must submit (</i></span></span><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-style: normal; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">islam</span></i><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><i style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">) to the will of God to gain Paradise after death”</span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">. But even there, the ultimate goal of the faith is to develop a benevolent relationship with the divine.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>So if you examine the religions of the world and look for shared interests, you’ll find that they all have the goal of enlightenment and understanding.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>But all of that is only half the journey to the divine event horizon; the inherent differences between religions are still there. Despite the commonalities of purpose, we still have a long way to go. People will argue that Islamic terrorists believe that all infidels must be killed; or that Christianity denies enlightenment without absolute devotion; maybe, but those are extremist viewpoints. If you can still see the road you’re walking on, you aren’t there yet. Keep going.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Let’s take a moment to define what we mean when we’re talking about religion. There are two commonly accepted definitions of religion; I’ll address those and then go off on a tangent, and then we can continue toward the event horizon.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></span>Religion is defined as<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/religion" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">(a)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">re·li·gion<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>noun</a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>1.a set of beliefs concerning the cause, nature, and purpose of the universe, especially when considered as the creation of a superhuman agency or agencies, usually involving devotional and ritual observances, and often containing a moral code governing the conduct of human affairs; or<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="http://oxforddictionaries.com/definition/religion?region=us" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1312937615_1" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">(b) a particular system of faith and worship</span></a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Myself, I’ve always defined religion in one of two ways: either the practices and rites used in the veneration or worship of the divine; or the mere awareness, the searching for, divinity and the answers it may hold. I once heard that religion, by definition, is nothing more than the system of worship itself. That’s fine for theosophical scholars, but I wasn’t content with that. Religion, for me, means not only the practice of worship, but also the quest itself, the seeking answers.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>That’s the one I want to examine, and that’s where the road to the divine event horizon is taking us. As we travel this road closer to the event horizon, we’re also going, you may notice, backwards in time.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>People who argue that religion is this, or that, or worse, argue that religion is NOT this or that, have lost their way toward the event horizon. Don’t worry about dogma, moral codes, which hand to raise first in an invocation. That’s window dressing. Keep going. Don’t be scared.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Don’t look at the WHAT of religion, don’t look at the HOW of religion. Ultimately, they don’t matter. Yes, we’re getting closer. See that bright spot ahead? There’s a question in your head, I can see it. We’re heading toward the WHY of religion. That’s where the different paths become irrelevant. Like I said, trappings like dogma and politics don’t matter. Leave them behind.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Religion, in the end (or the beginning) is the yearning. It’s the hunger in the mind, the question in the soul. The fire in the cave.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>In seeking the divine event horizon, you have to be brave enough to be scared. Religion is where the soul goes when it wants to understand.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>“Dear G_d, please help me see what I am.”</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>“Please help me see what you are.”</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>“Help me to understand – or let me know that you understand, even if I don’t.”</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px; text-indent: 0.5in;">That’s where every religion takes us, if we follow them to the event horizon. “Help me to understand.” That’s the commonality across cultures, across centuries, across boundaries.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>(Along the way, people have revealed some wonderful truths – benevolence is more useful than selfishness; the divine smiles upon those who help others, and so on. “<span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Lead a good life, and the divine will reward you.”</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Or to simplify it further:</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>“God smiles upon those who do good.”</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>Or even further:</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>“Don’t be an asshole.”</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">There, that was easy. The search for the Divine Event Horizon leads us to the collective conclusion that:</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.75in; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">(1)<span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">It’s okay not to know everything, and</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.75in; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">(2)<span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></span></span></span><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">We should not be assholes.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.75in; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.75in; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Part Two: In which we find that Organized Religion weakens the Soul.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>In the course of writing the first part of this blog, I kept hitting walls, arguments kept cropping up in my head. “But what about this aspect of that faith?” I asked myself, “What about this law or that decree?” “Wait, this religion conflicts with that one – how can they both be loving and benevolent when they are in opposition?”</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>That, sadly, is where I find an argument against ‘Organized Religion’.</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">(Quick, time for another definition. What is ‘Organized Religion’ as opposed to, say, Disorganized Religion?</span></span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="yiv498560976apple-style-span" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black; line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">Organized Religion is just that – “a system of rites, rituals and beliefs</span></span><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span>used in the veneration or worship of the divine”.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span>A system, a set plan. Organized religion has a structure of practice and belief, a hierarchical system, and it (whichever version of ‘it’ you’re looking at) has drawn its own conclusions about what the Ultimate Truth is.</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>In following an organized religion, you are doing just that – following. Someone else has already decidwhat the questions are, what the answers are, and how to find them. In any organized religion, someone else has already written all the rules. Someone else. Not you. (Granted, if you’re happy with knowing only as much as they are willing to tell you, if you accept that their interpretation of the divine is good enough for you, then all is well.)</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>But for many of us, faith is a much more personal question. What does god look like to you? Is it the same image that your neighbor sees? Is it the same image that your partner sees? Is it the same image that you saw when you were ten?</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>The problem with organized religion is that it has structure. Boundaries. Laws. (And with laws come.... politics. Remember the separation of church and state? Let's start with the separation of 'the quest to understand god' and 'someone else's rules'.) It’s finite. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. You aren’t allowed to seek the divine event horizon, because doing so might make you ask more questions than they are willing to answer. (How’s that apple taste, by the way?)<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DwNow966px4" rel="nofollow" style="color: #003399; line-height: 1.2em; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1312937615_2" style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;">fnord</span></a><span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span> </div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"> So being part of an organized religion, embracing the ideals, concepts, god-image, etc, that someone else has created, means that all you're really doing is following someone else's spiritual path. Where'd yours go? </div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><br />
</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;">(Disorganized Religion, by the way, isn’t disorganized so much as just non-regimented. You are an individual and your quest for divinity is a personal journey – you don’t need someone else’s rules, unless you just need handrails to help you on your walk.)</div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> </span></div><div class="yiv498560976MsoNormal" style="background-color: #eeeeee; display: block; line-height: 1.2em; margin: 0px; outline-style: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="line-height: 1.2em; outline-style: none;"> <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span>If I were me, and I am, I would say that each and every one of us has the right to seek our own definition of divinity – to walk our own path to understanding.</div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-16647747890876693462011-04-24T15:55:00.000-07:002011-04-24T15:55:29.391-07:00My co-officiated weddingYesterday, April 23, I had the honor of co-officiating the wedding of two dear friends, Thomas and Christine. (To be fair, while I've known Christine for about 5 years, I only met Tom for the first time during the wedding rehearsal.)<br />
Christine had asked me a while ago if I'd officiate her wedding, and of course I said I would. Then questions of faith and such crept into the discussion, and she thought that a more neutral, as opposed to Wiccan, officiant might go better with the predominantly Christian families. So during the weeks of negotiation other clergy was considered, until it was decided to have TWO priests officiate the ceremony, one male and one female. (They also had a Best Chick - Tom's best man was his friend Kimberly.)<br />
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<br />
During the discussions and negotiations and such, I'd sent Christine a wedding ceremony proposal, using many of the elements I often incorporate into my handfastings. When all was said and done, I'm proud to say, a good portion of my work was used in the final ceremony. I've done Wiccan handfastings before, but never before a crowd of people I just straight-up didn't know.<br />
<br />
Since most of the family(s) are Christian, Christine had asked me to keep any mention of Goddess, magick, pagan, witch, etc, to a minimum. Like, none. But likewise, there was no mention of Jesus Christ, Jehovah or Heaven either. In fact the only mention of any such notion was one use of the word ' divine' in the opening statement.<br />
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But this does not by any mean say that it was a drab or un-spiritual union; the elements were invoked, energy was indeed raised just by the fact that so many people were in such good spirits during the service!<br />
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Christine had wanted a medeival/renaissance theme, so everyone who could do so attended in period garb. I really think EVERY wedding should be performed this way! People look so much better than in plain old tuxedos and formal dresses.<br />
Reverend Jane officiated most of the ceremony, but I performed the Seven Bindings and the Eight Sacred Blessings, which I've used in every handfasting I've performed to date. <br />
The Seven Bindings are a part I borrowed from my friend Beth; I first saw her use them for a friend's handfasting a few years ago. Each Binding uses a ribbon, and Christine opted to use the seven chakra colors, one for each of the ribbons. It goes as follows:<br />
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Thomas and Christine, I have some questions for you.<br />
Do you truly love each other and choose to affirm that love today?<br />
"We do." <br />
Thomas, will you burden her?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
Christine, will you burden him?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
(To Both) Will you share the burdens of each other so that your spirits may grow in this union?<br />
"Yes" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(First cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists)<br />
<br />
Christine, will you cause him pain?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
Thomas, will you cause her pain?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
(To Both) Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?<br />
"Yes" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Second cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists)<br />
<br />
Thomas, will you share her laughter?<br />
"Yes" <br />
Christine, will you share his laughter?<br />
"Yes" <br />
(To Both) Will both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?<br />
"Yes" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Third cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists)<br />
<br />
Christine, will you share his dreams?<br />
"Yes" <br />
Thomas, will you share her dreams?<br />
"Yes" <br />
(To Both) Will you dream together to create new hopes and realities?<br />
"Yes" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Fourth cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists)<br />
<br />
Thomas, will you cause her anger?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
Christine, will you cause him anger?<br />
"I may"<br />
Is that your intent?<br />
"No" <br />
(To Both) Will you take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?<br />
"We will" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Fifth cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists)<br />
<br />
Christine, will you heal his wounds?<br />
"I will" <br />
Thomas, will you heal her wounds?<br />
"I will" <br />
(To Both)<br />
Will you offer healing to each other in times of need?<br />
"We will" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Sixth cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists) <br />
<br />
Thomas, Will you honor her?<br />
"I will" <br />
Christine, will you honor him?<br />
"I will" <br />
(To Both) Will you seek to never give cause to break that honor?<br />
"We shall never do so" <br />
And so the binding is made.<br />
(Seventh cord is tied around Christine & Thomas’s wrists) <br />
<br />
I like this because it acknowledges that yes, sometimes there are going to be fights and disagreements. But it also acknowledges that their relationship is stronger than the dispute, and they can weather it. (The audience did have a laugh at the first binding, when I asked Tom if he would burden her. Caught up in the "I do" vibe, he said, "Yes!" and then caught himself and said, "oh, wait, um, no!")<br />
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The Eight Sacred Blessings are something I first wrote in 'The Green Prince's Father', and which I've used on every handfasting and wedding I've done since. They are a way of offering the blessings of the spirits and the elements. They are: <br />
We honor this union with simple blessings, spoken with love by friends and family.<br />
We give you the blessing of air, in wind and thought. May the winds bring you many joys.<br />
We give you the blessing of fire, of warmth and passion. May the flames of love fill both your hearts.<br />
We give you the blessing of water, changing and flowing. May the deep well of emotion be yours.<br />
We give you the blessing of earth, constant and stable. May the foundation of earth keep you at peace.<br />
We give you the blessing of spirit, of the mysteries of life. May the wisdom of the universe be yours to share.<br />
We give you the blessing of the sun, bringer of life. May his warmth and radiance fill you with joy and health.<br />
We give you the blessing of the moon, lady of mystery. May her ever-changing face guide you through life’s changes.<br />
We give you the blessing of the stars, distant and serene. May their light bring you guidance and tranquility.<br />
As a change of form that I hadn't considered, but which I thought worked well, the second part of each line was printed in the wedding program, making it a call-and-response for the audience. So I said, "We give you the blessing of air, in wind and thought,", and the audience replied with "May the winds bring you many joys." Nice touch!<br />
<br />
I do have a speech disability and I'm always concerned that it's going to get in the way. I feel that it did, briefly, but the families took it in stride and nobody seemed offended by it.<br />
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All in all the day was a resounding success. Even the DJ had fun, dressed up in a Merlin costume, complete with huge pointy hat.<br />
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To my dear friend Christine, and my new friend Tom, congratulations!! And may the future ahead be as bright as the love that showed in your eyes at the wedding.Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-35721284372490996772011-03-14T13:07:00.000-07:002011-03-14T14:59:12.684-07:00An interview with the GoddessI recently enrolled in a class at Cherry Hill Pagan Seminary, in a class studying Doreen Valiente, ancestors and the Charge of the Goddess.<br />
My final report for the class was a rendition of the Charge of the Goddess, as if it took place between the Goddess and an interviewer. <br />
The instructor urged me to publish the report, so here it is. Enjoy!<br />
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<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">An interview with a Goddess </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> (Author’s note: Before the interview, we tried calling her office to nail down a time to meet, and a location, and the name by which she preferred to be called. She chose midnight, for some reason, and the middle of a forest. As for the name, it kept changing – she said Aradia one day, Diana the next, then Cerridwen. Eventually we just gave up and called her ‘the Goddess’. Although at the office we referred to this subject as ‘Sybil’.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Interviewer: Thank you for meeting, you know we’ve been trying to meet you for quite a while.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Goddess: Yes, about seven thousand years.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I’m sorry? We only contacted you seven weeks ago….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: But I’ve been waiting for you for, oh, millennia. Since your grandfather’s grandfather’s grandfathers looked up at the night sky and wondered at the stars, I’ve been waiting to sit down with you, these trees and your microphone. That’s how long I’ve been waiting for you to find me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Um, alright. So if I may ask, why so many names?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Because different people know me by different names. Look at it this way – at home, your kids – do you have kids? I know you do, Ashley is 7 and Jeremy is 4 – your kids call you ‘Daddy’. And your wife calls you ‘honey’, and your boss calls you ‘Robert’. Your photographer calls you ‘Mr Henderson’. You’re known by many different names, depending on how people want to relate to you. It’s the same with me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Wait, how do you know my kid’s names? I never –</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: I know everything. It’s part of my job.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Um, right, I guess. So, you wanted to meet under a full moon? What’s that about?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Because that way I can see you better, silly.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Moonlight is better than daylight? Or in a room with lights? What’s that about?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: There’s a line from a song that you might remember. Do you? Yes – you were two when it was recorded. Do these lines sound familiar? ‘Cold hearted orb that rules the night,steals the colors from our sight. Red is grey and yellow, white. But we know which is real – and which is an illusion’. Well I don’t ascribe to the ‘cold-hearted orb’ business, but under the moon’s light you all look the same to each other. Brown skin, pink skin, red? Doesn’t matter, I know who you are, and if you open your eyes – not the ones in the front of your head – you see yourselves as all the same. So the moonlight brings everyone into my sight, but where you are all free of limiting perception.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: And you do know it’s .. midnight, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Of course! My favorite time of day.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: What’s with midnight? Everyone should be in bed?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Well answer me this – what time is it right now?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Midnight, like I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: So is it yesterday, or today, or tomorrow?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: It’s um, well, both? Neither? All three?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Exactly! We are, as it were, between times. At the stroke of midnight it’s not any time, is it. Or all times. I like the eternal ambiguity. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: And the once a month thing is…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Guess.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: When it’s full?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Bingo! Well done.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So, the forest, this is pretty weird. </div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Did you have a hard time finding it?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Yes, it wasn’t on my GPS, I almost got lost…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Good. Next question?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: What is it, exactly, that you do? Here in these trees, under a full moon.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: I answer questions. I ask questions. I offer advice. I heal you. I make you grow, and learn, and let the world spin around me. Through me. And through me, I set you free.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I (nervous laughter): That seems like a big job…… (adjusts his tie)</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Oh, you have no idea. By the way, you keep fidgeting in your clothes.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Oh, I’m just, you know, it’s late and…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Remove them.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I’m sorry?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Your clothes. Take them off.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Now listen here, can I ask why –</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Because I want you to. You’re the interviewer, asking me questions. You wish to understand me. Part of understanding me is letting me understand you.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Is this some kind of kinky –</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Nothing kinky at all. Remember what I said about how moonlight makes everyone equal? Well if you look at a police officer in uniform, you know what he is. If you see a soldier in his combat vest, you know what he is. If you see a doctor, or a nurse, or a butcher, you know what they are. The clothes, as they say, make the man. Yes, stack them over there, thank you. Oh you don’t need to be shy, I’ve seen you naked before. Now, how does that feel?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Um, chilly? Embarrasing? Exposed?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: But if someone else were to meet you right now, would they know you were a reporter? They’d see no microphone, no jacket with the company name on it. You’d be unidentifiable, no?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Well, okay, but I don’t see….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: And if they were also naked, you’d have no way to judge them. You wouldn’t know if they were a politician, or a homeless man, or anything. You’d be on equal footing.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I suppose….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: And without those identifying labels you give yourself, you’re liberated from your restrictions. And I might add, you don’t have a way to hide from me, either. Granted I can see through you anyway, but this way you would be consciously acknowledging that I can. It’s a way of saying, “I’m free to be myself – my inner self - before the eyes of the universe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I think I see that. Can I put them back on now?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Do you want to? I don’t want you to.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Well then can you be naked too? You’ve got all this shining robe thing on….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Very well. For you, I will. Not because you want to see a naked woman, but because you want to see me as an equal.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Are you my equal? I thought you were a Goddess….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: I am your equal. And your mother. And your daughter, sister, lover, friend, teacher, enemy, confidante..</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Enemy?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Have you ever had someone tell you something you didn’t want to hear? A boss reprimand you at work, or a doctor give you bad news? For a split second there, and this is quite normal, you despise that person, you wish you’d never asked them whatever it is. That’s when a friend becomes an enemy. But then you think about it and see their side of things, and your understanding grows. I do that.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So you – you’re a Goddess – don’t you always love people?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Yes! Oh yes. I have love for everyone. For the newborn baby who takes his first breath. For the child who learns to keep a secret from his parents. For lovers enjoying the blossoming romance – and the occasional spat. For a mother who cries out when her child is hurt. For the man who knows the pain of burying his father. For the crone, frail and wise, who draws her last living breath. I know them all, and I love them all so much!</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So how do you, you know, show it? All that? </div><div class="MsoNormal">G: I show you, or them, by showing them a mirror. I urge them to celebrate the love the universe bestows upon them. I urge them to sing, to dance, to embrace and feast. The joy of life is revealed in the celebration of being alive! And when people celebrate, even alone, I am there. I am the light shining in their eyes, the joy I their voice. I am the tears on the cheeks of lovers reunited, and the slap of the hand on the drum-head. I am the taste of meat on the tongue, and I AM the meat on the tongue. My love is everywhere – and when people see the love they share, they see me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: That seems like….. I don’t know what. A secret, um, they share a secret with each other? </div><div class="MsoNormal">G: It’s no secret. It never was. Tell me, do you remember the story of King Arthur? His quest?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: King Arthur, yes, he had the sword Excalibur, and he sought the Holy Grail, right? Jesus’s cup?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Good for you! Now then, let’s re-write history for a moment. Imagine you are King Arthur. What part of you, right now, resembles a sword?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I (mimes a chopping motion with his hand) : Ummm…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G(smiling) : Not quite. Look down. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I, um, oh. Oh! That’s my sword? Oh I get it, symbolism. That’s, what, Freudian?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Older. Freud used the idea, but I wrote it. Okay so if that part is your sword, what part of a woman is the ‘sacred cup’?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Oh, I get it. The whole yin and yang thing, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Not bad for your first lesson! Now, if the sacred cup is what you seek, then is the sword used to conquer, do you think? Or something else?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Using my …. To conquer, that sounds like, I don’t know, rape?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Please, don’t be so apologetic on my account. I’ve been at this a long time. No, when you use your weapon, or when your weapon is, shall we say, drawn from its metaphoric sheath, you feel empowered, yes? emboldenend?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I suppose…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: And when you feel more empowered, if you, let’s say, suddenly have the answer to a question that’s been bothering you, you feel invincible! Suddenly everything is in your grasp!</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I think I understand.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Of course you do! And here’s the other side of that story – when you feel that sense of victory – and this is absolutely not restricted to men, the cock-sword thing is just a reference for you to, as it were, grasp, believe me – the sense of victory makes you feel young again! Like you see the path through the maze, everything is easy. You know the exuberant joy of youth! The cup of immortality that I offer can give you that. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So the sword is… or my, um, cock, is….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Your strength. Your will. But like I said, it’s not a gender thing. Have you heard of Boudica?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Boo-who? No I haven’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Okay. Marie Curie? Xena, Warrior Princess? Janet Weiss? Hypatia of Alexndria? Sekhmet? Oprah Winfrey? Mother Teresa? Doreen Valiente?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Some of them, yeah. </div><div class="MsoNormal">G: They all had it. Warrior spirit. Find your warrior spirit, and marry that with the love you see in me, through me, and you know what I can help you find.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Which is…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Immortality of spirit. Oh everyone dies, sure. Eventually everyone becomes as dirt. But the spirit, that is immortal. And when you celebrate my love for you, when you celebrate my belief in you, when you use your own spirit to see beyond the maze, that – THAT – is where you find your true freedom. You know your own strength when you see yourself as I see you. Immortal, beautiful, loving. Magnificent. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Well that’s… huge, that’s…. wow, what do you ask for to give someone that? What, do they have to give something up, like Lent? Do they have to kill a goat?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G (laughing) : It always comes back to goats! Oh those poor goats. No, please, don’t kill anything on my behalf. Well actually, yes, yes, do. I do ask one sacrifice. There is one thing you need to kill for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: And that is?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: The fear of not being good enough. Kill that. Because you are, you always were. You are perfect, and I love you! You just need to see that in yourself the way I see it.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So what do you want people to do, you know, for you? </div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Easy! Celebrate me. Worship me – and worship the me that is in you, in every part of you. When you cry, I’m there. When you laugh, I’m there. When you make love, I’m there. When you see your daughters grow up and have daughters of their own, I’m there. And when you fuck up, I’m there, kicking you in the backside. I am in all aspects of your life, and all those aspects are as worship, to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: But …. Where do you start? I mean, we called to set up this interview, but aside from that, where does a person, you know, begin?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Have you ever looked in a mirror?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Of course.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Start there. Have you ever spent hours working on a problem only to figure it out, and say, “Oh I knew that all along!”</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Um, sure….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: The answer was always in you. That’s where I am, and that’s where you’ll find me. Because if you don’t know how to look inside yourself to find me, you’ll never know how to look anywhere else. Every question, and every answer, that you’ll ever face, begins right there – inside your heart.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: So I’m….</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: You are, already, the answer to the question you haven’t even asked yet. Look up. What do you see?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Hmm? Treetops, stars… the moon…..</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Stars. Do you know where you begin? Where you came from? Where I came from?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Lemme guess. Stars?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: From the universe. You are one of the universe’s beautiful mysteries, and every day you see yourself a little more clearly. Every day the universe reveals itself to you a little more. And every day, when you open your eyes, you can know that I am looking back at you, and that I love you. I always have. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I (still looking up at the stars) : That’s, it’s almost too much, it’s…. wow, this interview isn’t what I expected!</div><div class="MsoNormal">G (smiling) : Oh? What did you expect?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Um, talking about books, history, you know. Religion.</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: You want to know the truth of religion?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Do you know the truth of religion?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Of course! I helped your great-great-great-grandfather figure it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: Okay what is the truth of religion?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: ‘Don’t be an idiot’.</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: What, that’s it? Don’t be an idiot?</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: That’s it. Be the person you know you can be. If you pretend you’re less than you believe you are, you’re fooling yourself. Be the ‘you’ that I see. Here, at midnight, in the light of the moon. No disguises. Here, I see you as you truly are. And you are not an idiot. So don’t act like it. </div><div class="MsoNormal">I: I don’t know what to say……</div><div class="MsoNormal">G: Thank you?</div><div class="MsoNormal">I: You’re welcome!</div><div class="MsoNormal">G (laughing) now you’re getting it! </div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-67728101819923860912011-02-26T13:59:00.000-08:002011-02-26T16:02:09.943-08:00Shari'a Law and the Republican Agenda<div class="MsoNormal"> Recent events in the world have got me to thinking. They often do. I’m wondering at the stance the “UnitedStates Republican/Conservative/Right-Wing/Tea-Party/Call ‘em what you will” has taken, regarding social freedoms and laws.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Actually what prompted this was the uprising in Egypt to overthrow Mubarak, and the uprising in Tunisia to overthrow President Ben Ali, and several other Middle-Eastern countries that seem to be at the same point – compared with the rise in foolish (in my liberal, left-wing mind) laws proposed or enacted by several US Republican politicians.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> You’ve heard, doubtless, about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharia">Shari'a Law</a>. It’s the set of laws central to Islamic domestic policy. Shari’a (which means ‘the way’, or originally, ‘the road to the source of water’) is inspired by, or derived from, the Qur’an and the teachings of the prophet Muhammed. It’s the foundation of law in every Muslim nation, and many Muslims living in other countries follow it within their homes. Well and good so far.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Shari’a Law is a decisive and strict code of laws, governing everything from religious observation to who and how to marry, how to handle family matters, business negotiations, sexual relations, marital relations, etc etc. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top: 12pt;"> Now, following the various terrorist-threat uprisings since 9-11, whether real or imagined, we in the US have been inundated with reports of Islamic terrorist threats on an almost-daily basis. Islamic extremists will steal your rights, we’re told. Islamic extremists will steal your children. Islamic extremists will do this and that and any other horrible thing we can think of. Muslims, Islamists, followers of Allah, however you choose to phrase it, have become an easy target of ridicule, and focus of fear, for anyone wanting a scapegoat. And because of the severity inherent in some articles of Shari’a Law (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apostasy_in_Islam">The punishments include amputation of one/both hand(s) for theft, stoning for adultery, and execution for apostasy</a> ), it was an easy fear-tactic to say that all of Shari’a Law is bad. It’s not. Some articles of Shari’a Law are very tolerant and considerate, even more than some western laws. Still, the fears linger (and are promoted) because fear are easier to influence than common sense. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> A while ago, Oklahoma passed a law <a href="http://muslimlawprof.org/2010/11/13/the-oklahoma-ban-on-sharia-law.aspx">banning Shari’a Law</a> , Tennessee has bills to do that <a href="http://www.tennessean.com/assets/pdf/DN170847222.PDF">same thing</a>, and reports came out that two municipalities, Dearborn, MI and Frankford, TX, had actually adopted it! (In Dearborn, Christian evenagelicals were arrested for <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503544_162-20019405-503544.html">disrupting an Arabic cultural Festival</a>, and Frankford, TX… <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/8301-503544_162-20019405-503544.html">doesn’t even exist</a>!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> So, fear mongers are happily spreading the word that “those evil Islamites” (I made that up) are out there doing everything they can to corrupt your way of life, deprive you of your god-given rights, and make life generally miserable for everyone.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> While all that’s been going on, the same people who want you to be afraid of the encroaching evil, have been passing, or at least proposing, law after law, to restrict people’s rights and civil liberties. Let’s have a look at some of the fun ones. Utah and Georgia both have proposed laws that would <a href="http://jezebel.com/#%215479032/the-next-anti+choice-target-miscarriage?comment=19764837:19776854">make miscarriages a criminal act</a>. In Utah (again Utah!) bills were filed that would <a href="http://www.deseretnews.com/article/705365875/Lawmakers-proposals-have-Utah-gay-rights-community-concerned.html">restrict gay and lesbian’s civil rights</a>. And we still have that silly McDonnell’s observation that <a href="http://www.realclearpolitics.com/articles/2010/10/22/christine_odonnell_and_a_christian_america_107679.html">America has always been and is currently a Christian nation</a> . And Gov. Walker, in Wisconsin, trying to deny worker’s <a href="http://host.madison.com/wsj/news/local/govt-and-politics/article_7ff37af2-3562-11e0-8ff9-001cc4c002e0.html">bargaining rights</a>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Wading through all this, I noticed an interesting correlation of activity, or perhaps a reverse-polarity-shift, between what’s happening in the Middle East – the various political uprisings and overthrows – versus the rise of Republican’s ‘antiprogressive’ bills and proposed laws in this country.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Want a comparison? Let’s have a look…….</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal"> Many US municipalities have laws banning homosexual acts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Under Shari’a Law, homosexuality is against the law and carries severe punishments.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Many US municipalities have unspoken laws promoting Christianity over other religious beliefs, and will work to deny ‘non-believers’ the same rights they afford to Chrstians.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Under Shari’a Law, apostasy (converting away from Islam) is illegal, and contact with infidels (non-believers) is to be discouraged.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Many US municipalities are hard at work to make abortions illegal. Screw <a href="http://womenshistory.about.com/od/abortionuslegal/p/roe_v_wade.htm">Roe v Wade</a>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Under Shari’a Law, <a href="http://www.parstimes.com/law/abortion_law.html">abortions</a> <i>are</i> legal if they occur by natural causes; if the fetus is not yet infused with life (has a soul); or if the health of the mother is at risk. Abortions are illegal if they are performed intentionally, to kill the fetus which would otherwise be as healthy as the mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> (Interesting note here: In South Dakota, <a href="http://thehill.com/blogs/pundits-blog/state-a-local-politics/144437-north-dakota-sharia-law-and-abortion">Rep. Phil Jensen</a> wants to not only make abortions illegal, he also wants to make it legal to kill doctors who perform abortions. Yes, justifiable homicide! He’s also the same guy who proposed a law against the enactment of Shari’a Law in South Dakota…. because, in his words, Shari’a Law is “<a href="http://thehill.com/blogs/pundits-blog/state-a-local-politics/144437-north-dakota-sharia-law-and-abortion">barbaric ... completely at odds with core American values of freedom, equality, tolerance and justice</a>.”)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> There’s more, but my head is beginning to bleed. But you get the idea. The more that the conservative/anti-progressive/Republican/tea-party crowd want to pass laws restricting human rights, the more they resemble the harsher rulings found in Shari’a Law …. The very same legal code they are trying to suppress! Oy the hypocrisy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> (Oh sure, they’ll rally and cry that the laws don’t matter, it’s the fact that if – IF – Shari’a Law were enacted as legal in this country, they’d have to give up Christianity and be forced to follow Islam. But, guys….you’re trying to do the same thing, just the other way round!)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Hello, Kettle? This is Pot. You’re black!</div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-58194005634931163702011-02-01T18:13:00.000-08:002011-02-01T18:13:26.734-08:00Why not Jesus too?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">(author's note: this was originally presented on Witchvox, posted on August 24th, 2008.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Introduction: A little while ago, I wrote an article criticizing Wicca for using deities out of context, wherein just taking the name and a few base details was deemed sufficient. This started a conversation where we discussed the pros and cons of incorporating ALL the aspects - and baggage - of a deity's worship or influence. Specifically, Jesus Christ. <br />
<span> </span>In this article, it could be argued that I am contradicting that article and that taking the deity out of context IS allowed. My feeling is that knowing as much as possible about a deity is good, but letting dogma and doctrine get in the way of magick is bad.<br />
<span> </span>The events recounted in this article are loosely extrapolated from an actual occurrence, fleshed out for the sake of clarity and artistic license.<br />
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<span> </span>Jenny, a friend of the Coven, sat down with us to ask a favor.<br />
<span> </span>“My husband’s very sick – I’d love for you guys to raise some magick healing for him. I know he’d appreciate it.”<br />
<span> </span>We Coveners looked at each other over mugs of herbal tea, and nodded wisely to one another. <br />
<span> </span>“Of course we’ll help, ” I said, “when would you like us to do this?”<br />
<span> </span>“Oh, next full moon, I guess – that is the best time for healing magick, right?” she said.<br />
<span> </span>“That, or the waxing moon, when it’s going from new to full, ” Moonwood volunteered. “When the moon is growing, that’s when you do positive stuff.” Moonwood was new to the Craft and to the Coven, and I gave her a smile and a thumbs-up across the room.<br />
<span> </span>“He has leukemia, they just found out, ” Jenny said, “and he doesn’t have health insurance. It’s hit us all real hard.”<br />
<span> </span>Among appreciative sounds of sympathy, Lady Manatee asked if anyone know any goddesses who would work specifically with leukemia or blood-borne illnesses.<br />
<span> </span>“Well there’s Isis, of course, ” Moonwood said.<br />
<span> </span>“Asclepius, Greek God – demi-god - of healing, ” Dragonwalker suggested.<br />
<span> </span>“Or his daughter, Hygeia, ” I said.<br />
<span> </span>“Maybe Brigit?” Lady Manatee asked.<br />
<span> </span>“Oh, no, sorry, I should have told you, ” Jenny said, “Mike’s Christian. He wants you guys to do a healing for him, but he wants you to use Jesus for the God, and Mary for the Goddess.”<br />
<span> </span>You could have heard a cricket chirp three houses away.<br />
<span> </span>“Um – hello? Pagan?” Moonwood said, “Not Christian?”<br />
<span> </span>“Well, that’s not to say we couldn’t, ” Hummingbird said slowly, “but do you think Jesus would WANT to be called into circle by a bunch of Witches? Exodus 22:18 and all that?”<br />
<span> </span>“Guys, we’ve been debating that ‘All Gods are One God’ thing for a while – here’s a good test!” I looked around the Coven, and waited for someone to challenge it.<br />
<span> </span>“I dunno, ” Moonwood said, “I think it would feel weird, invoking Jesus Christ into circle.”<br />
<span> </span>“Is Jesus a bad god for Witches?” Jenny asked. She was clearly confused.<br />
<span> </span>“Let’s just say that a lot of people in Wicca came from Christian backgrounds, and left with bad experiences. Invoking Jesus would be like, letting your abusive ex-stepfather back into the house after so many years.”<br />
<span> </span>“Wow, I didn’t know that, ” she said, “I figured you guys would be cool with the idea – with Jesus being like a rebel and a hippie and all that.”<br />
<span> </span>“Hmm, interesting point – are we opposed to Christianity because of its history? Dogma? Philosophy? Because of the Burning Times? What would—“ I smiled at myself for saying these words – “what would Jesus do?”<br />
<span> </span>“Jesus, the healer, ” Hummingbird said, catching on, “would have looked past the politics, and seen a sick guy who needs us. He’d have grabbed the incense and cast a damn circle, and joined in on us helping Mike get well!”<br />
<span> </span>“Indeed, ” Dragonwalker said, “Why not Jesus?”<br />
<span> </span>“I’m still not sure, ” Moonwood said slowly, “Christianity still feels icky to me…”<br />
<span> </span>As followers of a polytheistic faith, is there any reason we should regard some gods as ‘off-limits’? If all gods are indeed one god, then all aspects of divinity are facets of the Divine Mystery – so Jesus is as sacred a deity as Aphrodite, or Osiris. Granted, the viewpoints of some aspects may seem cross-purposes to Wicca - I would rather refrain from invoking the wrathful Old-Testament Jehovah, for example, or Cthulhu; but all gods, regardless of pantheon or paradigm, can be regarded as part of the Divine Mystery.<br />
<span> </span>So, indeed, why not Jesus, too?<br />
<br />
<span> W</span>ell, folks, a week and a half later, we did cast that healing circle for Mike. Moonwood opted not to participate, and we understood, but everyone else was there – including Jenny.<br />
<span> </span>We had a picture of Mike on the altar, and a small resin statue of the Risen Christ. We’d decided to use that instead of a crucifix – we agreed that the crucifix represented sacrifice, whereas the Risen Christ represented success and transformation. I wanted a Buddy Christ, from the Kevin Smith movie ‘Dogma’, but we couldn’t find one. Jenny brought a small statue of Mary, standing on a globe crushing a snake. We didn’t like the snake imagery very much – same reason we don’t celebrate St Patrick’s Day – but we let it go.<br />
<span> </span>Everyone filed into circle, we cleansed and consecrated, invoked the elements, and I held aloft my athame.<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Jesus Christ! God of healing, god of forgiveness, god of the poorest of the poor! We seek your aid in the healing of one of your own. Join us in our circle of magick, oh Lord. Hail, and Welcome!”<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Mary, full of Grace, ” Hummingbird said, “Goddess of mercy, mother of the sacrificed king, join us in our rite. We have a man seeking your aid and tender mercies. Hail, Mary, and Welcome!”<br />
<br />
<span> </span>When preparing his invocation, I'd put some thought into what Jesus, the man, would have been known for. Healing the blind, the lepers, walking among the common man, all that. I think that if you take Jesus the Christ out of the context of Christian politics and propaganda, he’s really not such a bad guy. It’s his followers, people speaking on his behalf – or assuming to – that have given Christianity such a bad rap. Constantine and his mother, for starters. Torquemada. Fred Phelps. But Jesus? <br />
<span> </span>Yeah, invoking him did feel a bit weird at first, but if you think about it for a bit, Jesus, as he was then, is one of us, really. Part of an underground – and misunderstood – religion, trying to make good. A rebel, a hippie. Lose the Christian doctrine; that was written centuries later. Think of him in terms of his mythological origins, of the archetype of the sacrificed king. Jesus the Christ is part of that myth-cycle, and as much a qualified deity as Mithras or Osiris.<br />
<span> </span>And maybe those Witches, like Moonwood, who are still suffering from the psychological damage of bad experiences with Christianity, could benefit from working with Jesus as an individual deity, without all the baggage of Christian dogma and doctrine.</div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-37369255510390142011-02-01T18:02:00.000-08:002011-02-01T18:02:16.934-08:00Is Wicca becoming a plug-n-play religion?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"> (author's note: this was originally presented on Witchvox, posted on March 2nd, 2008.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Are we ready to go with the rest of the Sabbat?” Willow asked, as she helped Morganna clean wax from candleholders.<br />
<span> </span>“Yeah, I think so – got candles, new incense, charcoal, Oakwind wants to consecrate his new athame… Starsong might be late, but no worries, we’ll cut her in.”<br />
<span> </span>“I like your Litha Sabbats, ” Willow said with a smile. “Who are we invoking?”<br />
<span> </span>“Cernunnos, natch, and Razivia, for the goddess. Hand me that toothbrush, will you?”<br />
<span> </span>“Razi-who? Never heard of that one.”<br />
<span> </span>“I got it off some website, ” Morganna said, as she scrubbed the last remnants of wax from antique candleholders. <br />
<span> </span>“Razivia – I guess I’m saying that right - also called Siwa, Polish goddess of love and fertility. It said she’s married to a god named Siebog, but Oakwind always uses Cernunnos.”<br />
<span> </span>“Huh, okay. I’m game to try a new one. Let’s give her a shot.”<br />
<br />
<span> </span>An hour later, the coven’s Litha Sabbat began. The circle was consecrated, quarters were called, and Oakwind raised his new athame as he invoked Cernunnos.<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Cernunnos, horned one! Join us this Litha as your power flares to its fullest! Come dance with us on midsummer, and share your primal magicks. Hail, Cernunnnos, and welcome!”<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Cernunnos, and welcome, ” the coveners dutifully repeated, as Oakwind lit a green candle.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>Then Morganna held aloft a bouquet of flowers.<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Razivia, Goddess of love and fertility! We ask that you join us this day, as we celebrate the bright rainbow of magicks on midsummer’s day. Bless us with your presence; share with us your sacred wisdom. Hail, and welcome!”<br />
<span> </span>“Hail, Raz… Razi… uh… hail, goddess, and welcome!” the coveners said, as a yellow candle was lit. Unfamiliar with her name, they stumbled through it and eventually settled on the default title.<br />
<br />
<span> </span>How many times have witches and covens all over the world repeated this scene? Many modern witch and Wiccan observances have so diluted the essence of faith, that the validity of worship seems compromised. We do have our standards, who have become universally recognized: A great many pagans honor Cernunnos, or Herne, and have no trouble envisioning a huge, stern man in a green cloak, with antlers on his head. And Gaia, called by myriad names, is seen as a rotund, benevolent woman. Athena, Herne, Odin, Osiris, a few others, have become the ‘recognized pantheon’ of 21st century pagan worship. <br />
<span> </span>There are hundreds of deities that pagans name and honor in rituals and sabbats. As a polytheistic faith, we claim to honor many deities from many different cultures, and it is not uncommon to mix pantheons. <br />
<span> </span>But how well do we really know the deities we are invoking? When Razivia, or Siwa, heard the call, how do you suppose she reacted? Was she glad to oblige and attend? Did she feel slighted because her name was mispronounced? Was she outraged at being so grossly misrepresented?<br />
<br />
<span> </span>This scenario highlights a common trend in Neopagan and Wiccan-eclectic rituals. Well-intentioned witches find a lesser-known deity who fits the spellworking or ritual focus thy want to employ, and do as much background research on the deity as is needed to fulfill the requirements of the spell. <br />
<span> </span>“I need someone who focuses on house blessings.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Who do I know that works on breaking bad habits?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <span> </span>“What’s that name of that goddess in the water? With no hands? I need to write a spell to protect fish in a local lake.”<br />
<span> </span>The deity in question is called upon to fulfill the task at hand, and no other aspect of that deity is even considered. Wicca is becoming a ‘plug-n-play’ religion. We – I do this too – simply plug in the appropriate deity of choice, flesh out the rest of the ritual, and off we go! <br />
<span> </span>If you want a love-oriented deity, there’s Aphrodite, Ashtoreth, Freyja. <br />
<span> </span>If you need help with money, there’s Fortuna. <br />
<span> </span>Sick cat? Go see Bast.<br />
<span> </span>America has been described as the ‘melting pot’ of the world. And contemporary Wicca has become a melting pot of ancient cultures, in more ways that one. It used to be that Coven-dedicated witches would devote years to their study. Modern eclectic Wiccans have the freedom of Google and Wikipedia to do their research for them; all they have to do is spend three or four minutes in a search engine, find an article or picture vaguely appropriate, and with a drag and a right-click, their ritual is written and ready to go, their research paper is written, their Goddess icon is downloaded – and they don’t even have to really read or review what they just found! <br />
<span> </span>What was, years ago, a thriving polytheistic culture, has become whitewashed and homogenized, streamlined for our convenience. No silly details to get in the way. Wicca has become a ‘plug-and-play’ religion. The problem is, the deeper mysteries of religion are being ignored, omitted, if all we do is plug in a name and a few choice details. <span></span>How can we truly call upon Fortuna to help us win the lottery, if we don’t offer her the worship and devotion she deserves? To ‘know’ a deity requires faith and devotion, a lifetime of commitment. Otherwise it’s just lip service, devoid of honesty and faith. If there is no faith, there is no religion. And if there were no religion, then where would we be?<br />
<br />
<span> </span>To look at this another way: If I have a leaky toilet, for example, I call a plumber. I look one up in the phone book, maybe check a few references, and pay him when the job is done. I don’t need to know his father’s name, what he had for dinner last night, or where he grew up. None of that is important – he’s here for a single purpose. He does the job; I pay him, end of story. Faith is irrelevant here.<br />
<span> </span>But a god is not an employee or a subcontractor. Quetzalcoatl won’t punch in and punch out and expect to get paid. We can’t assume that Freyja will come at our beck and call, even if asked nicely in ritual, as if that’s all she has to do with her time. (It has been commented that modern Christians spend hours debating WWJD – or rather, WJWD, ‘what Jesus would do,’ or ‘can do’, <span> </span>as if it’s up to them to decide who issued him a uniform and a nametag!) <br />
<span> </span>If you’re going to invoke a deity into circle, at least take the time to KNOW who you are invoking - give Him or Her the honest devotion and integrity worthy of a deity. Find out what offerings would be appropriate, and give something back. If all we do with the gods is call upon them when we need something, as if they live to serve our whims, to work for us, is a gross disrespect. <br />
<span> </span>And to regard them as interchangeable figureheads, one’s as good as another - that is the ultimate arrogance. <span> </span></div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-27610616815827034642011-02-01T15:31:00.000-08:002011-02-01T15:31:31.930-08:00"Yeah.... and?"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">People occasionally ask me, where do I see witchcraft in ten years. Twenty. A hundred? <span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I could ramble on for a bit debating the logistics of where and how different facets of faith might mutate and grow – how will covens change? Will there even BE covens? How will our perceptions of divinity change? What effect will social networking have on spiritual dynamics? etc etc etc. <span> </span>Well, religions and our approach to faith, divinity, worship and magick are always changing, every single day. That aspect of what we do is a constantly evolving and adaptive creature, and I am always amazed and delighted to see it grow, but that’s a blog for another day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Because beyond our personal magicks and spiritual development, which gods we worship, we have to consider how witches and witchcraft will fit in the cultural landscape tomorrow, or in ten years, or twenty. Whether we have to hide our belief, defend our right to religious freedom, worry about how families, neighbors, bosses, etc, will react if they find out – these are aspects of our life that cannot help but have an impact on how we address our belief and how we present ourselves to the outside world.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>So, my ultimate vision regarding where witchcraft stands in the social forum is… </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Apathy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I want people to not give a crap less what religion I am. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>I want people to be as unimpressed to learn that I’m a witch as they might be to learn that I’m left handed, or that I like 80’s music, or that I have no problem with it if they are gay or not. It really should not be a big deal.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Neighbor A: “Hey, your daughter goes to the same school as my son Jason. You heard they have a new teacher? Did you know that she’s …. a witch?!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Neighbor B: “Yeah, and….?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>“Yeah, and….?” is a great response! ‘Yes, I know what she believes. No, I don’t necessarily believe the same thing, but that’s not a big deal either. I don’t have a problem with whatever she chooses to believe. She’s qualified to teach my children about math, or art, or history, that’s what matters.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>There are, of course, different aspects to apathy. I think of the example here as ‘benevolent apathy’. This is not the same as ‘dismissive apathy’ (“Hey, that guy just fell off his motorcycle, his leg is broken in three places!” “Yeah…. and?”)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> When people reach the point that whether that thing you wear around your neck looks like two sticks at 90 degrees, with the lowest segment longer than the other three, or if it looks like 5 lines in a circle, intersecting at 72 degrees, or if it looks like a T with a lump at the top, really doesn't make a freaking difference, that would be delightful! Oh, having them know what they all mean would be nice, but imagine not having to be judged by someone else for wearing a ‘wrong’ symbol. No symbol should be judged as appropriate or inappropriate, except by the person wearing it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> W</span>hen you cut past all the drama and the name-calling and the misguided assumptions, the ultimate realization of someone else’s faith is that it’s just that – someone else’s faith. Something you really shouldn’t have to worry about.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>To be honest, we still have a long way to go to see this goal of mine come to fruition. It might not happen in my lifetime. But eventually, someday, someone with learn that someone else is a witch and will simply shrug and say, </div><div class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah….and?” </div>Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-76180660101677501712011-01-11T11:26:00.000-08:002011-01-11T20:04:56.410-08:00Tolerance has many faces"You have to help me," my friend implored me, "I don't know what do to! My daughter - your god-daughter - doesn't want to join us in circle. She says she wants to go to... Sunday school!"<br />
I considered briefly what was going on. The girl in question was raised by pagan parents in a pagan household. Mom is Wiccan, Dad follows his Native American heritage. The parents observe the Wiccan sabbats, heavily flavored with Native American spirituality.<br />
Mom was adamant that her daughter's interest in Christianity was unacceptable, and that I should talk to the girl and open her eyes. She IS my god-daughter; not only did I accept responsibility for her spiritual guidance if needed, but I had been present, by invitation, in the delivery room when she came into the world.<br />
According to Wikipedia, a godparent is defined thus: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Godparent">"Traditionally, godparents were informally responsible for ensuring the child's religious education was carried out, and for caring for the child should it be orphaned. Today, the word godparent might not have explicitly religious overtones. The modern view of a godparent tends to be an individual chosen by the parents to take an interest in the child's upbringing and personal development"</a><br />
So as the girl's godfather, my role is to see that her religious education is provided for, and to take care of her should both parents be unable to do so. Well, I know what matters to me spiritually, but I also know that we are all individual people with thoughts and ideas of our own. So I asked her - the daughter - what she thought about it all.<br />
"Well, I do listen to my parents views," she told me, "but I want to go my own path. Only because none of the things they teach me strikes me spirtitually. And I do let them teach me. I participate in what they do, but I don't believe it. I just don't think it makes sense. But the church I am currently going to is amazing. It's not Baptist so they don't yell that you are going to hell for every breathe you breathe wrong, or every time you trip (haha) But they only explain the values of what God did, how much He loves the world, and the things to do to respect Him. And see that makes sense to me, because you can relate a little." <br />
Mom's insistence that the girl's interest in Christianity is a bad thing, got me to thinking.<br />
The girl is in her early teens. She grew up around pagans, raised by pagans, and the pagan household is all she's known. So she's being a little rebellious, and exploring other possibilities out there. <br />
<br />
Many pagans I've met come from Christian households or childhoods, and turned away from the church at some point, after hitting a roadblock, finding unanswerable questions, or simply feeling that it didn't 'fit' them anymore. We all know people who have reached this same conclusion and left the church behind them, some peacefully, others not so much. (At some future point I'll write a blog about my own views on the matter, and why I am not Christian.)<br />
For many pagans, the Christian church symbolizes overbearing, unyielding dogma, doctrine or philosophy; a demand for obedience we are unwilling or unable to provide; and (or perhaps or) a spiritual foundation that is in opposition to our core principles. The degree of disappointment, distate, loathing, rejection, or outright hatred that some pagans feel toward the Christian church is almost palpable aspect of their spiritual path. Not all, but some; others simply feel that they 'didn't belong there.' But a common objection I encounter regarding the church is that they don't have a right to preach to others, to 'shove it down our throats'. I must agree that aggressive, in-your-face fundamentalism ultimately helps nobody, not even - if they stop to think about it - the ones doing the preaching. <br />
And many pagans, in wanting to assert their independence from such hierarchy, will demand tolerance and acceptance of their pagan leanings. "There must be tolerance!" they cry, "You must be tolerant of my right to be pagan!"<br />
"But," I humbly suggest, "are you being tolerant of their right to be Christian?" <br />
<br />
So back to the mother and her daughter. Mom has her own ideas about paganism and religion, and wants what is - in her eyes - the best for her daughter. (And I've known her since she was in her teens, she was a rebellious youth herself.) I am her godfather, and I want what's best for her as well. And I did accept the responsibility of, if needed, seeing to her religious education. But is it my responsibility to force her to accept a religion that she finds unfulfilling? I'd be no better than the in-your-face preachers. She's just trying to branch out on her own, find her own path. Will she embrace the church she's going to? Is she merely enjoying the attention of her friends and peers in the Youth Groups offered by the church she is attending? Will she find, somewhere down the line, that it's not where she wants to be, and explore something else? Only the girl, herself, has the right to say.Our job, as her parents and godparents, is to help her grow into the person she wants to be, even if that's not the person we imagined when she was born. We just have to make sure she doesn't get hurt along the way. <br />
<br />
To her mother, and others who demand understanding of their belief and right to practice, I ask if the tolerance they request is reflected in the tolerance they afford others.Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2139264511128487546.post-58887059808414588002011-01-08T17:48:00.000-08:002011-01-08T17:48:36.290-08:00An Open Relationship with God"Do you believe in God?" someone asked me once. Actually I get asked that question rather frequently, living as I do in the deep south, in Charlotte, North Carolina. Well, Concord, but who's counting.<br />
I gave the person a grin and said, "I love that question - because I have so many ways of looking at it."<br />
""Huh?" he asked, confused. I wasn't playing the game right. By his question, "Do you believe in God?", he was challenging me to accept or deny Jesus Christ as my personal savior. I knew this was where we were going, but he'd asked me the question so it was time for my answer.<br />
"Well by looking at the question from my perspective, there are so many variables to consider.<br />
One: 'Do I believe in God?' means, "Do I accept the existence of divinity as a force present in our lives?" By that reckoning, Yes I do. I believe that gods do indeed exist.<br />
Two: 'Do I believe in God?'means, "Do I accept the existence of - I'm sure this is where you were heading - Jehovah, Yahweh, Jesus Christ, etc. Yes I do. There are myriad pantheons of gods all across human culture, and I do believe they exist - and therefore I do believe the Christian pantheon exists as well.<br />
Three: 'Do I believe in God?' - we're narrowing the field even more closely, but I think this is where you wanted me to go. 'Have I accepted Jesus Christ as my sole and absolute savior and divine force, to the existence of all others?' There, the answer would have to be No."<br />
My friend wanted to give me the smug smile that I'd been trapped, but my previous answers still had him confused. So I offered him a consolation.<br />
"Yes, Yahweh, Christ, all of that, are real gods. I have no problem with that. And as a pantheist Wiccan, I recognize their legitimacy in the grand scheme of things. But my personal devotion belongs to one God: Cernunnos, the forest lord revered by many modern Celtics."<br />
He'd never heard of this 'Kernoo-something' fellow, so it was obviously something evil. 'Cos we all know, if it ain't Jesus, it's evil. Black or whte, no shades of grey.<br />
"But," I went on, "I have an open relationship with God. While my devotion is to Cernunnos, I am allowed to see other Gods."<br />
His head was visibly smoking by now, and his eyes were beginning to cross.<br />
"Having an open relationship with God means that I can visit other gods, other pantheons - as long as they're cool with it - if the need arises. If a dear friend who follows an Egyptian pantheon wants help with her sick cat, Bast is the first one I turn to. If a Heathen friend is having trouble with fertility, Freyja is on speed dial. If a Christian friend wants help, then I look to Jesus for guidance in helping him. But at the end of the day, Cernunnos is where my heart is."<br />
My friend was looking for a quick exit - his 'entrapment' question so hadn't worked.<br />
"So do I believe in God? Emphatically yes! The trick is to understand the question. And, for me, to have an open relationship with God."Miles Battyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17650195383094365412noreply@blogger.com6