Holidays

I am famously last-minute.

If you know Myers-Briggs, you could guess the last letter of my type.

Despite this propensity, I almost always get things done on time.

The argument to myself and those around me who wonder why I am not doing anything when I should be preparing is that I am thinking (worrying) about it.

This might seem like an excuse – it is a genuinely held belief

Although there is nothing to see, I am confident my unconscious mind is working away in the background.

It might not.

It could be that whatever I do, this blog, for example, is generate in the nanosecond before I type.

What comes first? Thought or action? Thought about thought then action?

This might seem unrelated to holidays, yet, that is where I am.

Easter is coming-up.

I overcame every form of conceivable inertia to book my leave.

I’ve still not decided where to go.

It will be my daughter and I as partner will be working and minding the dogs and son is down-south learning to scuba.

The original thought was Israel, to see family, perhaps witness the Easter and Passover preparations.

The flight operators have considered this too and pushed up the cost of ticket.

Well, that, and there is the pollution.

The damage international flights causes.

You know that argument.

And now, Ukraine.

What does that have to do with my holiday?

Well, it isn’t fear of venturing into Europe, if there is a nuclear war, it won’t matter where we are.

It is the guilt of coming-across refugees.

‘Hello, I am Rod, checking out the sights. So, your entire belongings are in that suitcase? You are fleeing the bombs? Your dad is back home, being starved-out? Your granny is back home too, lapsing in and out of a diabetic coma as insulin supplies have disappeared. My hotel is very nice. I am on holiday. Life is tough.’

Whether I go on holiday or stay at home and feel guilty, this will make no difference to those suffering.

I read a Guardian article yesterday indicating the proposed plans (why not actions?) for accommodating refugees in the UK.

I could open-up my house.

The thought is easier than the action and nothing is happening yet.

I could send some money to DEC.

I’ve done that already.

I could send more.

I could send all of the money I have in the bank and it is likely it would make little difference to the bombs that are falling.

The situation of helplessness is numbing.

I could wear a little yellow and blue solidarity badge.

I can’t imagine that will make much difference.

I have written before about the Latin root of compassion –

Suffering-with.

I want to show compassion.

Compassion doesn’t help the lack of Salbutamol or Amoxicillin.

Covid led to major interruptions to family time over the past two years.

We managed away to the Hebrides in the summer but not much else besides.

I owe it to my family (we are all off in the second week of my leave).

Staying at home and brooding won’t do anyone any good.

Watching Channel 4 news neither.

Oh, the challenges of a privileged Western Existence.

The problems of having too much.

I appreciate some, perhaps most will consider this self-pity.

‘Get on with it!’ They might say.

I kind-of want to shout this to myself.

And after the worries about Covid and the environment and Russian Oligarchs has passed, what remains?

I could head-off to the Highlands. Find somewhere remote, leave phone and computer behind and disconnect for a fortnight. (Family, books and dogs are all I’d take) (& food).

Is that the answer?

Active disconnection.

It might do me some good.

It might help me recharge for whatever future faces us.

I might become a doctor more able to provide compassionate, timely care to those in need.

I could get-over myself.