Being Mindful of the End of Days.

A few days ago I was walking along Meadow Lane in the Shire. The temperature had dropped after a spell of warm weather and a stiff breeze had developed. The glowering grey sky was all-pervasive: low, dark, heavy, and oppressive. And then I noticed that nowhere along the half mile length of the lane was there any blossom to be seen in the hedgerows – all were come to black and red berries, and these, I knew, would soon be ripped away by the McConnell hedge trimmers when the autumn hedge cutting is done. There were hardly any wild flowers left either, and last but not least was the sight of trickles of dead leaves beginning to line the edges of the lane. It all told me that summer, which always seems to pass so quickly, and which has seemed especially short this year due to the low temperatures in June and most of July, was coming to an end for another year.

And it took my thoughts to all those people who used to keep me company on this blog and by email. They came from all over the world – from Australia, South Asia, South America, North America, Africa, and Europe. They’ve all gone now for one reason or another. I could mention some of the special ones by name, but that wouldn’t be fair to the others so I won’t.

The question of my health issues fits neatly with a train of thought which must be readily apparent by now. I have four identified ones at the moment, which seems a little excessive. I’ve had occasional issues ever since the age of twelve when I had my appendix removed, but they’ve always come one at a time and been widely spaced. And judging by certain symptoms which have been niggling away for a few months now, I suspect that there may be more just waiting in the wings to make their entrance onto the stage.

I hardly need to add – though I’m going to anyway – that the current state of the world and the state of the human condition seems to be getting worse.

So where is all this moaning from the pit leading? Simply to a sense that my perception of life might now be summed up succinctly by the phrase that is the title of this post. And maybe I might be permitted to quote again my favourite line from Tennyson describing the end of days in Camelot: The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness.

I should also mention that I first wanted to make this post a few days ago after my walk along Meadow Lane, but didn’t because I didn’t want to present a gloomy face. That changed last night when I had a dream. It was the usual stuff full of disturbing situations, none of which I can remember in detail, but it ended with me standing before a shadowy male figure who said ‘You will die soon.’ It scared me, even though I’m happy to accept that it was no more than a reflection of my current state of mind. My dreams are rarely prophetic and I have no reason to think that this one was any exception. But it still scared me because I have an image of death as the process of being suddenly stripped of everything that once defined you, and then being pushed off a parapet in complete darkness with no knowledge of what you’re going to be faced with when you hit bottom.

But I might finish by relating the fact that I encountered a tiny mouse today sitting on the road close to my house. I’m sure it must have been a baby because, at no more than an inch in length, it was small even by the standards of wood mice. It neither struggled nor squealed complaint when I picked it up and placed it on the grass verge to save its young life being extinguished by a passing car. I wondered whether that was my good deed done for the day, but couldn’t decide. It seems to me that in matters of life and death, it’s sometimes impossible to know what’s good and what isn’t.