Acceptance and Anger

“That’s no sort of life,” said my inner critic, and I thought, what? That’s what people say about demented old women in nursing homes, or even a dog someone has decided to put down. It is my life, which I have created, and I will appreciate it in all its gift. It has about as much challenge as I can cope with, much to fascinate and delight-

cycling, just now, with the wind behind me, powering up a slight upwards incline in top gear; even in December rain it is mild and I am quite warm, and the water spraying from my front tyre is beautiful-

those people-
those people who, nothing-
just as they are

So I am practising Acceptance. Sadness, fear, anger, all are beautiful, for all are my reactions, this creature vibrating in sympathy with her world. It is as it is. It is OK.

I met R in the caff and told him this pure sweet wisdom, and he told me of his anger. He gets ESA, the benefit paid to the most severely disabled people who could not possibly have a job, but not to some who are incapable of independent living. He has had a form to complete telling of his serious disabilities, and will probably have an examination; he fears losing his benefit. His anger gives him energy to make it through the day, or he might despair. He has considered suicide.

Both of us manage our emotions consciously, choosing the reaction to the emotion which behoves us.

I got to the other side of Marsby before I realised I had not got my wig with me. I decided to carry on. It was alright in the caff, but I felt self-conscious about going into the supermarket. Eventually I wore my scarf like a hijab, and was comfortable enough. Other people spend less time thinking about me than I do. My mother used to wear a head-scarf, and the Queen wore one even more recently.

El Greco, Annunciation

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