Good Salt is Worthless if it Loses its Saltiness

Columbus was called mad because he decided to sail the uncharted ocean....Martin Luther was called mad because he presumed to defy the entrenched religious hierarchy of his time.  Patrick Henry was considered mad when he cried, "Give me liberty or give me death!"  George Washington was thought to be mad when he decided to continue the war after the winter at Valley Forge, when thousands of his men died and other thousands had deserted, leaving him only a handful of men.  


We have become too sophisticated and respectable to be called mad in our generation.


In the midst of materialism and secularism, thank God there are those who sacrifice time, talents, social positions , and lucrative posts, and who fling aside every advantage in order to serve God.


"Salt that loses its saltiness can't season anything.  So don't lose your flavour!............"

A Time of Peace

Increasing numbers of people, of all ages and types, get away from it all by 'going into retreat' in monasteries, convents and other religious houses.


This is not a religious revival; not all are of the religion of the place to which they go, and a number have no religious belief at all,.  But all discover the therapeutic value of complete isolation from the tensions of ordinary life, the welcome silence from chatter, reasonable comfort, good food and the freedom to join in(or not, as they like) an ordered, peaceful, pattern of life, with access to a good library and, usually a pleasant garden.


Many people emerge from these retreats refreshed, sorted out and relaxed, and appreciate the silence that is kept, especially during organised retreats.  For those who are entirely new to the experience, there may be apprehension as to what they will find on arrival.  But the feeling of strangeness is soon dispelled.

Whatever Happened to my Youthful Zing?

'What you need,' says my ex-Naval husband, 'is a course of leg-chest-supple-bend-twist-arm.  Never fails. 


 Might even try it myself', he adds, looking at himself sideways in the mirror, and secretly holding himself  in.


 'Leg-chest-supple-bend-twist-arm', for the benefit of the uninitiated, is a series of exercises designed to keep sailors fit while serving in confined ships' quarters. 


 'Just the thing for our bedroom,' I pant, as we stand eyeball to eyeball between the bed and the chest of drawers, flinging our arms backwards as far as they will go.  'But are you absolutely sure they are suitable for girls, too? 


 This one is giving me shoulders like an ox.  Come to think of it, I can't help wondering what our neighbours are making of all this running on the spot!'

Whatever Happened to my Youthful Zing?

Unperturbed, I start reading keeping fit articles in magazines. 


 "While you are reading this, " I read, 'rotate both feet from the ankles.'  So I sit there waggling and ignoring the funny looks I am getting from the family. 


 However, I'm not so happy about the instructions that follow;  'When sitting on the bus or train, roll your eyes from side to side, clench and unclench the buttocks, stretch and purse the lips.' 


 I just know this wouldn't go down well around our way, however, furtively one did it.

Whatever Happened to my Youthful Zing?

Thinking back, I'm amazed at all the activities I went in for in my youth: Not, to be strictly honest, through any great inner desire to hike, cycle, sail, climb or jog, but brought about more by desires for various chaps who went in for these things.  So, perhaps the time has come to recapture at least some of that youthful zing.


Friends do not help much, but I ignore remarks like:  'I get all the exercise I need polishing floors', 'You're bound to do yourself mischief', 'You've to expect a few twinges now and then", 'You look fine to me' and even 'Well, my friend took up water-skiing and before he even got out of the sports shop, he tripped over his new skis and broke a leg!'

Whatever Happened to my Youthful Zing? asks Betty Bendell

Anna asks:  'What's my skipping rope doing out on the terrace, Mum?'
'I've just been seeing if I can still do it,' I reply.
'Why?' she asks.
'Go and tidy your room, ' I say.

The fact is, I've been getting increasing signs that I'm not as agile these days as I thought I was.  I quite accept that by the time I'm 80 or 90, I may have to curb any sudden desire to paint ceilings, take up rugger or toss my husband into the air.  But I'm not nearly old enough yet for twinges and funny turns.  I've been telling myself this quite often lately, as I totter clammily home from shopping, or seize up in an unusual position while cleaning the bath.


  Only yesterday, I swooped on a piece of bindweed in the garden and had to spend the rest of the day in a deckchair, resting.




'Could be just sloth, you know!' says a friend.  Or perhaps you ought to see a doctor,' says another. 


 But doctors tend to smile sceptically when I pluck up the courage to stagger into their surgeries, and imply I'm one of the healthiest sights they've seen the whole day. 


 'Here, try these,' they say, tossing me a prescription for something so nasty and so strong that when I take it, I really am ill for weeks.  So, on the whole, I think I'd rather make do with fresh air and exercise, plus the occasional shot of brandy as a last resort.  Anyway, at the moment, I don't think I am ill exactly.  I just think that, without realising it,  I've gradually been letting myself get out of condition.