“I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring
Feeling thin would be nice in many respects, but not in this context, though it is a feeling many of us are familiar with in all too many ways. I remember reading that line for the very first time in Lord of the Rings, more years ago than I care to mention and thinking what a perfect metaphor that was. Back then, I was no more than a teenager and had no real concept of what it feels like to be spread too thin. These days, of course, I do. Like many, I held down a full time job when my children were young, whilst running a home and being a carer for my late partner. Later, the boys were grown, but still around, leaving a trail of sweaty socks and empty wrappers as teenagers do, and the workplace came home with me as responsibilities grew, invading the time that should have been spent on other and unquestionably, more important things.
These days, there’s just me and the dog and you would think life might have settled into something more spacious. Not so, of course. Like the contents of cupboards, we seem to have a knack for expanding into whatever space… or time… we have available. The biggest difference today is that most of what I do is a matter of choice rather than necessity. I still have a living to earn, of course, and I am still a carer, but as that currently entails spending time with my eldest son every day, the workplace does have its up-side.
Even so, the other stuff piles up and the demon to-do list has to be re-prioritised with practically every inbound email. You wouldn’t believe how far down the list gardening has been sliding…! The computer crashes without warning several times a day. The internet connection is so unstable that a single Tweet may take a dozen failed attempts that have the dog diving under the table to hide from the stream of imprecations I end up voicing. The monitor is giving up the ghost and taking twenty minutes to warm up each time it has been allowed to sleep and I get awfully fed up losing work halfway through. This (though I may just possibly grumble and write silly poems about it) is not really a hardship, but perhaps more a lesson in patience and perseverance, for what I am doing is something I love…something I have chosen to do … and, technological glitches notwithstanding, I am happier now than at any other time of a life lived frequently ‘in interesting times’.
And yet, there has always been joy. Even in the worst of times, there has been a kernel of something always ready to bubble up and spill over into a liquid laughter that has little to do with normal human emotion. It takes no account of grief or sadness, nor has it anything to do with happiness…though happiness facilitates its expression. I see it with my mind’s eye as a shower of dancing, golden motes of light, like a fountain rising from the inner heart, without rhyme or reason, simply because it is and it can. It seems separate from the rollercoaster of daily emotion, sourced from a different level of being… a foundation of joy upon which being itself is built. It is not mine, perhaps I belong to it. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. I think it is something to which we all have access if we open up and let it flow.
And sometimes you see it, feel it, in others. Like today, reading through the blog posts in my inbox, when I came across a post from George Weaver, a woman with a parrot, a wicked sense of humour, an amazing eye with a camera and terminal cancer. For a moment I shared her birthday flowers and chuckled at her cake, looking at the pictures on the page. Then that indefinable something as I read:
I had a great birthday.
I expect that it will be my last, but that’s good, too.
I have enjoyed a great seventy-three years.
I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do.
I’ve lived far longer than I ever expected.
And I am happy.
As I read those final words there was something in them that reminded me of Bilbo Baggins’ birthday speech. And although I may be happy to wait till I’m eleventy-one, I thought to myself, I hope, one day, that I can write that too.
And then there it was, that bubbling sparkle of joy… and I realised; I already can.
Sue Vincent's Daily Echo 
I hope you will never have to write ‘I expect it will be my last” and that you will go on letting our joy come from that little wellspring of inner happiness.You’re an exceptional lady Sue and the World needs you to occasionally remind it what’s really important.
xxx Massive Hugs xxx
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PS. I hope your son is still coming along in leaps and bounds and is perhaps ready to do leaps and bounds.
Cwtch. xxx
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Thank you, David. Do you know, when the time comes, I think I would prefer the early warning in a lot of respects… though not yet awhile if the Powers That Be are listening! If I get to eleventy-one though, I don’t think I’ll be too fussed at a quicker exit 🙂
My son is, indeed, coming on in leaps and bounds, and we are working on the details of his next big adventure…something I can’t wait to share 🙂 Hugs xxxx
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Reblogged this on oshriradhekrishnabole.
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I am glad you have found your bubble, Sue, and hope it stays with you. I get glimpses of one now and again, leading me to hope it will be here soon, hopefully while I’m still fit enough to enjoy.
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It never leaves, we just lose sight of it sometimes, I think.
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Reblogged this on Anita & Jaye Dawes.
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Now that is a positive post! I thought it would end slightly downbeat but how neatly twisted. Yay! Let’s party like it’s still tomorrow!
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It’s always tomorrow 🙂 Now is flown before it reaches our brains 🙂
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Lovely post of reality and rejoicing!
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Thanks, Judith 🙂
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Amazing how some things just spark special feelings! Thanks for sharing 🙂
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Sometimes it seems to make little sense when you try and capture it in words.. but the feeling remains regardless 🙂
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Gosh, that describes the feeling of hope I had when I was pregnant with Carys! Great things rise up out of sadness and hard times. They may not define us but they shape us, while an easy life and contentment makes us lazy. Your amazing and varied life with its ups and downs has enabled you to achieve this spark of knowledge and deep joy… you probably wouldnt have been able to recognise it otherwise. Its quite an epiphany, isnt it?
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Nick and I were talking this morning about you and your family. I was telling him about the Walkalong… an almost identical set-up to something I created from luggage straps and pipe lagging to do exactly the same job when he was learning to stand. He said, “It’s hope that makes the difference, isn’t it?” That, and love. x
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I enjoyed this Blog very much and resonated in particular with your ‘knack’ – I do exactly the same; “a knack for expanding into whatever space… or time… we have available. The biggest difference today is that most of what I do is a matter of choice rather than necessity.” Blessings x
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Thank you, Ashtara… to expand into the landscape of your home town must be quite an experience. 🙂
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sparks much reflection
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It did for me too 🙂
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What a beautiful message. Thanks for sharing it…and her. 💕
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Thanks, Van. 🙂
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Ha, Sue! >>> you can always get me with a Lord of The Rings quote, and I very much like that “butter scraped over too much bread” too. And you can always get me with a mention of George Weaver too – what wonderful words of her’s those are! Adrian
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I can’t thank you enough for introducing me to George, Adrian. She really is a hell of a woman.
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Garry is 73 and I have not had him with me nearly long enough. I don’t suppose any amount of time would be enough.
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I don’t think it ever can be when you love someone so much. x
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“I see it with my mind’s eye as a shower of dancing, golden motes of light, like a fountain rising from the inner heart, without rhyme or reason, simply because *it is* and it can.” Sooo beautiful, Sue. You certainly have a gift for words.
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And yet, some things need more … and less… than words to capture them.
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A great post, Sue!
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Thanks, Ellen x
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