Ha... I just posted my blog with nothing in it. Does that count? No, it doesn't count, you nobber. Stop being silly.What is this picture, please, and why? I put in the search term 'The Chocolate Tree'. Google, explain yourself. Please. Is this a chocolate tree? No, it's an apple pig. Or a yoni-faced edible creation. not sure, then, what it is, but I like it.
Thank you, this morning, for outstanding bus luck (a number 27 doodling up Dundas St just as we arrived, in time to see it and cross the road without risking our lives) and to Lawrence, who bought my ticket too with his change.
What beautiful weather for a walk. It was harsh and achy Edinburgh cold, made of damp that finds the damp that you're made of in your body and echos it with cold. I was grateful for my hat (with its appendage folded under) and for my £1 magic gloves, which did the trick on the first stretch. Less so later in the day, when I left them in my bag. Repeatedly. And seemed unable to take the step of putting them on even when said bag was right there with me.
The moon (it's back!) hung ghostly in the sky as we walked up Arthur's Seat the steep way (sorry, Lawrence). The sun was very bright and the air all thin with cold. There was very little wind, but frost on the stairsy stones on the way up and proper crunchy ice at the top. I saw further from the top today than I think I ever had.
White mountains to the north, which, despite marvelling at their beauty, I think I still took a little bit for granted. White mountains. Highland hills with actual snow. Ranges that were miles and miles and miles away, but that were easily seen. Snow to the south too, the Pentlands spattered, not completely coated, but very beautiful.
We took a gentler route to come down. Part of me ached with the need to go and work, but this was the way to go. A good walk, and one I haven't done before, in that direction. At least I think that's true. I love that there's a little mountain kind of in the town centre, and about 5 minutes from my flat. Good news.
And thank you, Lawrence. Without him, my trip up the hill would have been another good intention, but I would not have actually done it. I'd have sat somewhere thinking how good I'd have felt if I had. Imagining. Like I imagine how good I'd feel now if I'd done some yoga practice. But no. Up we went, to the icy top. It was worth every step.
There was a Dalmatian en route, a few Labradors, a pair of Boxers that I had a go on (along with the Dalmatian) and a number of other hounds. The Weimaraner was not fussed, but brushed past. Lawrence isn't a dog man, so he carried on. I had my fix. Handful after handful. Some pleasing creatures. Two puppies this week - the one in the airport and a teddy-bear-looking thing yesterday on the end of a slightly irritated man.
I have found it hard to be authentically grateful for the itching. It's getting worse. There isn't much of me left now. It's like my skin is not my own, like it's rebelling. Some is bruising now, slightly swollen and oddly coloured. Most is very hot and very, very itchy. It's definitely spreading. I've been writing about heat recovery today. If only I could make use of the heat coming off my skin.
I've decided: tomorrow, I cash in the prescription for steroidal cream. Tuesday, I go to the doctor again if nothing has started to change. It's more than a week now, and it's the opposite of improvement. I'm lucky (ah... gratitude) that it's not on my face, but I'm counting my blessings while that's true. I hope it won't happen, but if it does, I'll just have to accept it.
I could be grateful that it isn't pain. I was thinking that today. It's horrible, but not actually painful - not much. A little bit in some places, but it's not as bad as toe-stub pain, or even pinching. It's terribly uncomfortable, distracting, horrid, but god, it could be worse. Imagine the constant nausea that goes with chemo. People go through that every day and it's question of whether or not they stay alive.
Grateful to Danny for the suggestion of aqueous cream instead of E45, and to the massive Boots on Prince's Street for staying open long enough for me to go in and buy some.
Grateful to Lawrence for cooking a supper of haggis pizza, salad and garlic bread. Haggis pizza! MacSween's haggis. Lawrence knows James MacSween, of haggis fame. In my world, that's celebrity that counts. Does he order lung in bulk, I wonder? I should ask L to ask him.
Grateful too for an education in books and TV, recommendations, even lends. Kenneth Clark, who talks like he's channelling the Queen, Rankin, a story about Tibet, Moby Dick and a book on why it should be read. My grandfather, Walter Ronald Edwards, a codebreaker, linguist, doodler and shell-collector, loved that book, as did Uncle Phillip (Lawrence's grandfather), fisherman, tither, full of war stories and humanity.
Grateful for work almost finished, for a call rescheduled and for flat stuff all sorted. Grateful, finally, to my old tenant. How indignant I was, how annoyed, that she insisted the only day she could move out would be December 24th, Christmas Eve, but if she hadn't, our paths, Jess, Danny & Ouzo's path and mine, might not have crossed. They are delighted to move into the flat. I am delighted to have them there. So now I'm grateful. It doesn't matter at all what each intention was. What's pleasing is the outcome.
There's a story, isn't there, a Zen one, I think, about a man to whom a string of seemingly good or bad things happen. People exclaim in the appropriate direction for each ('how terrible' or 'how wonderful') and he repeats 'maybe' or 'we'll see' or something similar. His son falls from a horse and breaks his leg and all exclaim 'how awful' (cue bloke: 'maybe'), then the army comes in and takes away all young, able-bodied men to fight in the war, leaving the son behind; 'how wonderful' (cue bloke: 'maybe'). And on and on. And the people never learn - they always interpret. And the man always says 'maybe' or 'we'll see'.
It's a story to illustrate equanimity, but if you wanted to refuse to embrace that message, you could use it as a tool for gratitude. It's that mental game again. If I COULD see something to be grateful for, what might that be. Whether you feel it or not, whether or not you're conscious of (or bothered by) playing with your own mind to achieve a result... I bet you can always find something.
Grateful for a final few goes on Ouzo's black and white head, for funny chat and an easy, human time in The Chocolate Tree. Here's to good times to be had by all, whatever the context. Good people. Good spaces. Goooooood vibes.
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