Full Circle

I remember sitting with my students on a warm afternoon in March. I remember the peremptory summons and the events thereafter. I remember my astonishing calm in the face of the inquisition. That was Day 001.

It is too easy, when you have been unjustly treated, to be vengeful. Six consecutive years of injustice do not make it easier when the final blow falls. But vengeance is not for any individual to claim; far better it be left to the mills of God.

I have to be thankful for friends of all kinds who reminded me that good things come to those who marshall themselves, and seek good but not evil. I have to realise that to retire with the gifts of God and the friendships of a lifetime in hand is no bad thing. Leaving the table with a stack of chips is better than gambling until you have none, so to speak.

And here we are, sitting around on a warm morning in November. Life is good; it is very good indeed.

Graveyards

Every three feet, you feel the crush of melancholy. The season is black, the humour is dark, the bile is like atrament. But when you were in it, it was golden.

If such a thing lived, it would be a monster. It does, and it is. But it does not bury as much as it fertilises, for even monsters can be made into blessings, and even death can be turned to life.

Soon, it has been heard. Soon. This is a word that sounds like the hiss of the sea returning, not quite in a crash of waves, but in the first breakers as the tide rolls back in. Soooooon.

Friendship

A wise man once said:

He who has a thousand friends
Has not a friend to spare;
And he who has one enemy
Will meet him everywhere

How true! Thank goodness I have only met friends in this part of my journey, from spring this year and into winter.

The House Of The Seasons

I live in an old two-storey house now, beautifully renovated just recently. It is not as large as the huge bauhaus-type monstrosities sometimes found in the area, but it is spacious and largely uncluttered. I am comfortable here, and despite having a few other options, I am very happy to be living here.

After a couple of months, I've also noticed that this house faces north (which is tolerable feng shui for a house just north of the Equator) and thus offers a daily cycle of seasons.

It is cool and sightly damp in the early morning, as the sun begins to light the eastern approaches, bringing sounds from the road across the patio to the breakfast table. The world is shaded, ripe with possibility, but still a little chill and dim.

It is a bit warmer and drier approaching noon, as the sun rises above the hedgerow and is rebuffed by the shielding eaves and the high roof. Heat rises from the garden and the world is thrown into a frenzy of movement and evolution. But the inside of the house is still cool, because the sun is actually shining less into the building.

It is really hot in the afternoon, as the sun reaches its zenith and begins to shine on the other side of the house. That side of the house is where the workroom, kitchen and study are. But we are normally away from home working, and if not, there is always the air-conditioning.

In the evening, as the sun is hidden by our neighbours' houses to the west, it is cool again. It gets dark quickly. And the house settles down to watch us eat, amuse ourselves, and get some creative work done, far from the hubbub of the day and into the silence of the night.

March

Hey. It's March now. Somewhere under the turnings of the earth is vigour, sparking into life. You think we have no seasons here? Let me tell you about two seasons, the season we are leaving and the season ahead.

The first of the seasons is Muddle. Muddle begins just after Christmas; it starts the moment you realise that you are confused about what to do before school starts and after the holiday season has begun to die. And it muddles on, bringing newness and chaos, newts and toadstools, rain and the promise of rain and tantalizing summery days which are just spots of light in grey and messy schedules. Muddle is the period in which the mind is engaged in work, but the heart is unwilling, and the soul is angry at the difference - but the spirit is resigned and somehow we negotiate Muddle, and the term ends, somewhere around the Ides of March.

And that brings us to Distal. Distal is the season of being further-into-the-year-than-you-want-to-be. It is in Distal that one thinks of approaching deserts and distant mirages and a sense that one is being worked to death despite it being only the middle of the year. April's Fools offer scant respite; April and all her Fools do not compensate for a long March, although sometimes they just May. And then comes June. Distal is the period in whcih the mind has taken a break, the heart has stirred to life, the soul feels ill at ease because the engine-brake is now working against the flow - and the spirit soars at the thought of a long break. Which it will never get.

Ah, life. In all my forty years, I have enjoyed it. Some people think it is sinful or immature to enjoy it this much. But I have only one thing to say: "I am young, still."