Things Pending

Apart from revising my short stories, I'm doing reading prep for the Oxford writing seminars, hence, I feel like a novice again. Some trepidation, which I have, is not usual when there are blank spaces to be filled. My days now consist of writing in the mornings, the usual home tasks have the afternoons, and evenings are taken up with academic reading. Before sleep claims me, I allocate two hours to read in bed for pleasure. This pattern of working is bringing structure into my life again. Something I need and had missed near the end of last year.

The thrill of easing into early retirement has gone now. Think it was essential to be a sloth for a while, to just drift like flotsam. Have reading binges, and fritter my days away. But in doing too much of that I was becoming aimless - and - a stranger to myself. Last night, I met up with friends at the Red Lion pub. We talked about how teaching melds with our identity perceptions. Saying goodbye to a professional life never felt like a loss. I see now, that it can be. That void has to be filled with something more purposeful. We're on the threshold of carving new pathways for ourselves.

The winter months are confining. The daylight hours pass swiftly; the dark evenings are long shadows. Winter has never been my best season. Even so, I shouldn't spurn this natural cycle. Hidden in the settled loam, are the roots of life. It's heartening to see fresh shoots popping up here and there in the garden. A garden that otherwise, has a forlorn stillness. The birds are busy surviving. They have few songs to sing, not until spring is awake for their tunes. The old walnut tree is spindly, looking quite fragile. That tree fools me every year. It has a sudden surge, which turns it into a dancing green giant.

This morning, I spied a robin red breast. He caught my gaze, and quickly flew away. Before the afternoon swiftly vanishes, I'm off to Blue Barn Farm for cat food. Purrz......:)

Manger Square

Until 1995, a feature of Bethlehem's Manger Square was the Israeli police station, a constant reminder of the occupation. Tour buses came and went decanting pilgrims to visit the Nativity Church. The square was also a car parking area, where small mop headed boys managed to extract shekels from me to guard the car.

One child named Ibrahim, a persuasive entrepreneur, who was no more than eight or nine years of age, inevitably succeeded in charming ten shekels from me. Even though the regular price was no more than one or two, I always succumbed. Thinking that perhaps his family were poor and the money would at least buy some bread and milk. It is just as likely that was spent on or some other item. It mattered not, the urchin had charm.

We always haggled, and Ibrahim faithfully protected the car, even though I was sure that was never really necessary. Ours was a game that we played out, and Ibrahim had the dignity of earning his shekels. From a cafeteria vantage point next to the Tabash brothers shop, I observed Ibrahim ply his trade, with great success. On one occasion, I offered him twenty shekels, a gift for the Eid feast. Ibrahim refused, saying it was too much. We eventually settled on fifteen. Ibrahim will be a young man now imprisoned behind a wall - Israel's propaganda security barrier.