As Garry is partly out of action at the moment (see Garry's blog) I am trying to avoid the martyr syndrome with varying success. Taking on the bulk of Christopher's care and housekeeping is tiring, particularly as we made a trip back to Toowoomba this weekend. Actually, in some ways that made things easier, with additional entertainment (in the form of cousin Emma) and extra helping hands (in the form of Granny and Pa).
Still, I am feeling a little more tired than usual.
So I tend to become a martyr. Which is not very attractive :(
I have been working on that this weekend, and am making some headway, I think. I hope. After all, it's not helping anyone if I am sighing and moaning about what needs to be done. Plus I feel bad about myself. Consciously trying to avoid that mindset has been quite helpful. Reading Maeve Binchy books also helps - she is like a bucket of cold water over the head when it comes to attitude adjustments (in a good way).
Wish me luck, guys!
1 comment:
Hi Tamara, I was reading your blog from Sunday and was reminded of a poem called ALBI, 1297 by D. Nurske b. 1949. It's from a book by Sister Wendy Beckett the art historian. Here are her introductory words to the poem: Death by enclosure or immuring becomes a complete glory for the Albigensian who, as we read the poem, is slowly enduring martyrdom. If we pray, we are indestructable and the very nature of the death becomes a means of self-fulfilment. Here's the poem:
Because I could not believe
God wills us to suffer
I was sealed up in the wall.
They left a gap in which my body
could curl like a foetus,
and a little sky, which they filled in
brick by brick, and perhaps
it troubled the masons
to be immuring a human being,
for they whistled loudly, sometimes
a trowel shook, mortar spilt,
and yet it was a tight course:
I knew better than to press against it.
When the dark closed in
I lay listening to my pulse
louder, louder, and the distant voices
singing - I knew better
than to try to guess the words
or listen for my name.
Then I was the wall itself,
everything the voices long for
and cannot have - the self,
the stone inside the stone.
Bit dark I know (please excuse the pun!) but a very thought-provoking poem. Love Connie
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