Knowing true responsibility for your actions means this: be a man of action in small things. Because much of what is done in the world is clearly done by men of influence who are not aware of the far reaching repercussions.
Let other men gather bright gold to themselves and own many acres of well-ploughed soil, let endless worry trouble them, with enemies nearby, and the peals of the war trumpets driving away sleep: let my moderate means lead me to a quiet life, as long as my fireside glows with endless flame.
Let me plant the tender vines at the proper time, tall fruit trees, myself a rustic, with skilled hands: nor let hope fail, but deliver the pile-up fruits, and the rich vintage in overflowing vats, since i worship wherever there's a stump left in the fields, or an old stone at the crossroads, wreathed with flowers: and whatever fruit of mine the new season brings I set as an offering before the god of the fields. –Tibullus
In reading Ann’s summary of her year I was moved to tears. What a tremendous thing to be able to put into a concise description, for others to peruse, the many afflicted moments of drama, but also joy, that stand in inverse proportion to the inability of a bare description to give them their due.
“What a great idea”, I thought, but am entirely unable to do the same as the tears which I shed while reading are becoming more and more spare. Last week two children from the Ohtahara support group passed away. Tiny little things that barely lived but because of their precarious condition, that much more loved. Each of us have a realm of focus, our interests and concerns but my dry eyes and dry throat present an empty retort to such an onslaught of misfortune.
With another visit to Alyn hospital looming in January, bereft of the regular machiavellian urgency that would normally accompany a stay in hospital for my son, everything feels flat and barely necessary. And I know the opposite to be true. So what is this feeling? I’ll spare you the mystery; I’m feeling sorry for myself.
Recently I felt entirely betrayed by a friend, with true friends being so hard to come by, a necessarily hard surface in my psyche like the rough grating of granite on granite, seems to take the place of trust and openness.
By the end of this month one year will come to a close, without my mother’s laughter and good nature. With her needless suffering echoing in my thoughts, waiting for due process, waiting for me to address them.
It seems to be all about me and my inability to galvanize a plan to set things right. But of course everything is fine if we have mild intentions, humble opinions and are soft spoken. If we accept that there is nothing left to chance, only to personal ignorance and the mechanics of a process unknown. Strange to feel let down by oneself, but then I know the accruement of fatigue plays tricks on our minds. Fewer thoughts, small ambitionless actions, tiny circles with slight ripples are the order of the day.