Today I have mostly been thinking that Mr Hilarious was absolutely right when he said there’s a big difference between WeeGee being all brave and independent and hard hearted and WeeGee cutting off her nose to spite her face. I do so hate it when Mr Hilarious is right……
I spent the day at the hospital having a ‘procedure’ A small and non life threatening procedure, but a scary one nonetheless. It ended exactly the way I had been told it would but hoped it wouldn’t. Being prepared is all very well and good but hope, it would seem, is so much stronger.
I don’t know why I insisted on going by myself, except for maybe I didn’t want anyone to see the hope I was pretending not to carry around with me. Still. I shouldn’t have gone by myself because I didn’t need to be lonely on top of scared and sad. There’s a lesson there – WeeGee shouldn’t be doing tough stuff by herself BECAUSE SHE DOESN’T HAVE TO.
When I got home I put the radio on and a song came on that took today and wrapped it all up in a neat little nutshell. It’s funny the way insignificant things take on significance when you’re in the right frame of mind:
It’s a sad little song, isn’t it? That said I also happen to think it’s filled full of hope and we’ve already established how strong hope can be.
I’m conscious that this is one of those cryptic posts I spit out every so often. I’m sorry I can’t be more candid yet. To be fair this is as close as I’ve come to a password protected post in the history of How do you eat an elephant?
Anyway. This evening I shall mostly be feeling a bit tender, and a bit sad, and a bit hopeful. I’ve decided to hang out online for company because it occurred to me today that my online friends don’t really exist. I mean that in the nicest possible way though, because what doesn’t exist can’t hurt you.
Sending HUGE hugs in the hope I get one or two back because that’s the kind of mood I’m in today.
Lots of love, WeeGee xoxoxox
* Borrowed from one of my favourite Emily Dickinson poems:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.