I start the ridiculous charity running escapade on Friday. I’m hoping to run 5km every day for a few days to “get ahead” - knowing that we will be flying out to go on holiday, so I’ll lose a couple of days along the way. I’ll take it easily on purpose, and hopefully protect myself in the process. People have already started sponsoring me, which as made it all very real.
I’m not entirely sure why I signed up to do it really. “It seemed like a good idea at the time” isn’t the best reason, is it.
The only downer about the whole thing is the charity I’m raising money for had the cheek to call me this week and do the hard-sell on me setting up a standing-order at the bank to give them even more money. I calmly explained to the marketing person that I would be running throughout the month to raise a considerable amount of money, and would not be setting anything else up. They still asked if they could contact me in the future about other fund-raising projects.
I had to keep reminding myself that the girl on the phone was in a call-centre somewhere, reading from a script, probably on minimum wage. Somehow I remained pleasant in my responses throughout. Somehow.
Moments before leaving the house to go for a drink with a friend last night my other half tipped her head round the study door and asked if I wanted to join them. The next few minutes would probably have been quite comical if filmed in the third person - with me running from room to room in various states of undress - collecting jeans, a clean shirt, socks, and so on.
It was a happy evening - happy news from a wonderful friend. She’s a writer - a script writer. I’ve been lucky enough to read one of her work-in-progress scripts, and became a huge fan. I’ve always struggled to read scripts in the past, but for some reason her words flew off the page. A few minutes glance became an hour.
In Stephen King’s book about writing he maintains that writers are born - not taught.
Anyway.
It’s about bloody time some good happened. In a world where so much seems to go wrong, it feels like we need to grab hold of the good when we find it.
Tolkien wrote about it, didn’t he:
“I have found that it is the small everyday deed of ordinary folks that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.”
My every-day deed yesterday was helping a friend celebrate. Of course I celebrated a little bit too much, and had a headache to show for it this morning - but I also thought of Dicken’s line from A Christmas Carol, and I smiled:
“He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money–three or four, perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?”
“It isn’t that,” said Scrooge; heated by the remark and speaking unconsciously like his former–not his latter–self.
“It isn’t that, Spirit. He has the power to render us happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome: a pleasure or a toil. Say that his power lies in words and looks; in things so slight and insignificant that it is impossible to add and count ‘em up–what then? The happiness he gives, is quite as great, as if it cost a fortune.”