Saturday, June 13, 2009

Indian Sun Dew

I am in the process of organizing. I stumbled again upon some Meade notebook pages of mine from a time that I was at BYU-I a little over a year ago.
Underlined and boxed was the title of the book: Soul of The Desert. One day I gazed at the beautiful pictures in the library before a math class. I wrote: "Buy this book." and recorded that on page 120, was a pic that was one of my favorites.
Online I can not locate this fern. But I wrote down some of its characteristics that stood out to me at the time. That it had the ability to cope in the aridity of the harsh environment. And, it was astoundingly beautiful. From dark terminal spikes of the plant a lush stamen emerges.
I can't even place the picture in my head now and will try to find it.
Last night I was able to read more about James Herriot from his son's memoir. I immediately went to the time period in his life that was so dark. the 60's. Why had they been dark? And how was he able to emerge so gloriously?
He was working a lot of nights. Although he was doing what he loved, he was under a lot of stress. Not many of the old farmers kept up their bills, and he always had sent his parents money. Living in Scotland he once visited after the death of his father. and apperently he went into the break down.
With the help of a vet friend who came and alleviated his work load and sent him to a vacation home of his in Marjoca, he was able to start back toward better health. They hired an asst. who worked the night shifts. So finally in his 50's he could get a nights rest.
Sleep is a huge thing. It made me look back on nights that I was kept up on prednisone and what the lack of sleep did to a person.
His son said after that time period his father learned to RELAX. He would take daily cat naps then tromp back out in the hills.
Most surprisingly it is this time that he turned to his love of writing. After many revisions and denials from people he came full circle to his style of writing and finally was published.
Like the Indian Sun Dew, his pretty stories didn't come from a life of leisure or bliss, but were forged in hard work, disappointment, and despair. But through it his resilience blossomed. Had he given up, we wouldn't have his descriptive and picturesque books that tell about life. I'm glad her perservered. That he kept those journals and kept at the publishing companies that initially didn't think much of him.
Oh, and it sounds that a pet comes in handy. He always had a dog to accompany him on his rounds and Dinah, a terrier if I recall rightly, helped him after his collapse.
I don't think that I will get the dog any time soon. But I am going to concentrate on the relazing end of it. Finding ways to unwind or not get too ruffled about certain things.

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