The Twelve White Ducks


I wrote my latest post in response to something that I observed last week whilst I was working with my friend laying a floor in a large outdoor hut. It had promised to be a straightforward job, but they very rarely tend to come along. It didn’t help that a very large black dog had come along and parked its stinking self right in the middle of my own self. My mood was black and getting blacker.

I had spent the last year and a half trying to pul myself from slavering jaws of defeat and, had, believed that I was free. But, eh? Wasn’t it me who said that it is when you think that you have made it out that that is the time when you are the most vulnerable. It was that horror-movie cliche coming back to haunt me. The black dog was eating me from within, snapping through meat and muscle, hope and faith.

My friend is in a recovery all of his own and he is working the steps of it, hour by hour. He is in the process of rebuilding a two-hundred year old cottage, and a fifty year old life.  I work alongside him every now and again because I want to gain some skills and also because he is a friend. He is putting himself through a purgation of his being in order to conquer, once and for all, his demons. The life that he lives is as severe as any that I could imagine and when I share a number of days in his world, I am grateful for the return to mine.

Whilst working at this retreat, I felt that I was as low as I could possibly be. My spirit and physical wellbeing had deserted me. Physically, I was done for. I fell over trying to carry an ordinary weight and damaged myself (only bruising to my back and ego).

Then I saw Harry Potter with his twelve white ducks. He watched them constantly and I was entranced by this little act of devotion. In the midst of all that had happened to him, the ducks were of most importance.



To everyone who struggles with whatever problems.

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