One day Samuel strained his back lifting a bale of hay, and it hurt his feelings more than his back, for he could not imagine a life in which Sam Hamilton was not privileged to lift a bale of hay. He felt insulted by his back, almost as he would have been if one of his children had been dishonest.
Yes, I am insulted as well, and feel betrayed. I cannot do the things I used to do, the things I am supposed to be able to do. Just this morning, three of the neighborhood dogs were attacking a little white dog halfway up the street. I started up there in a hurry, but found that running was quite impossible. I did run a few steps but it became clear that I would soon pitch forward onto my face if I were to continue. It was important for me to get to the dogs quickly, and I was insulted and offended by my inability to do so.
There are small things, everyday things. Sweeping or mopping the floor soon send me aching to my bed. Lifting the 5 gallon jug of water into the water dispenser leaves me sweating, and the task oftentimes undone. My back has rebelled and has won, but this is still not something I can just sit back and accept. No, I will do it again, I will do it next time, and next time I will succeed.
Did I get to the little white dog in time? I don't know. I was able to chase off the attackers, and yet the little dog only lay in the grass after I arrived, looking up at me pitifully. He could not get to his feet, or he would not for fear that the dogs would return. I don't know which.
There is no sane or reasonable world in which I cannot run, in which I cannot manage my own house. And yet there is.
"Was she very beautiful, Samuel?"
"To you she was because you built her. I don't think you ever saw her - - only your own creation."
Here again is my own past, peeking into judge me - - or is it to console, to validate? I know this truth, I have thought about it lately, I have discussed it with my girlfriend in answer to her questions, and so how curious it is that the subject keeps showing up in what I happen to be reading. There is a sort of magic in literature. Somehow, it marches along with you, it examines you as you examine it, it puzzles over things that puzzle you. I've seen this happen so very many times. There's a synchronicity to it. Meaningful coincidence. And it is wonderful.
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