Day 50

Molly and the baby elephant. 

Molly is going quietly crazy not being able to run, poor thing, but her leg is healing nicely, just a few more days and she can run behind me again.  It was pretty again today, blue and white sky, 38F, but with a chilly breeze.  I ran 3.2km with an easy stride. 

You can go along in your daily life feeling passably good, running comfortably around a meadow behind your house, when suddenly, thoughts of the actual physical distance between you and your daughters singes your mind, such pain that your eyes sting and weep. 

I hope I am not much much older before they live around the corner and we can meet for tea and I can feel their soft cheeks against my own as we hug and laugh.

I have just read a brilliant and beautifully written book, How to Paint a Dead Man, about art and existence and the messiness of Life and Death. 

When Matthew and Nick were 11 we went to a little circus, well, Tim took them actually, because I gave up circuses when Jess and Emma were little girls after I took them and cried for the sad lions and tamed tigers and elephants made to do stupid tricks.  But I had the car, so I waited with Tim and the boys in the queue to see if they managed to buy tickets in case I had to take them home again. 

A little Indian elephant was taking people on rides around the grassy, tree-lined park and Matthew decided to spend his $5 which he had been given for refreshments, on an elephant ride instead.  He waited in line for a long time, letting several people go before him.  He told me later that he had calculated where to stand so that he would get to sit right up front at her head.  The elephant's name was Tina and she was 35 years old.  I watched him sit in rapt wonder atop her head, stroking her bumpy skull and talking quietly to her for the duration of the ride.  After his ride he was wide-eyed and happy, and, Tim and Nick still waiting in line for tickets, Matthew went back to stand at the rope which marked the looping shape where the little elephant walked dreamily, unconsciously carrying each new burden of people back and forth, back and forth.  As she came past Matthew, I saw her abruptly come awake, stop and look at him, then she carefully investigated him all over with her delicate prehensile trunk, letting it drape over his head for a few seconds, before moving on at her handler's behest.  He was elated! She knew him! She remembered him because he had taken the trouble to appreciate her and stroke her gently and talk softly to her.  My son had experienced that rare connection between human and (large, semi-wild) animal, fellow creatures communicating, a specific kind of empathy.

So this is an image I did of the Tree of Life, it is a kind of etching.