I’m reading Guy De La Bedoyere’s “Gods With Thunderbolts: Religion In Roman Britain” (2002). It’s a clear-eyed, rigorously unspeculative text but it’s hard not to “humanise” some of the items from the archaeological record it examines.
Ulpia, whose ashes were buried at York 1800 or so years ago, was clearly loved by her parents. “8 years and 11 months” – each one of those years counted. Her other name “Felicissima”, means “Most Happy”. I wonder how many hopes and dreams were wrapped around this child.
We do our ancestors quite a mis-justice when we assume that they cared for their children less than we do. And, looking at the levels of abuse and mistreatment of children in the “modern” world, we flatter ourselves if we think we’re any better.
We’re getting married tomorrow, we’re selling and buying a house and I’m trying to finish up draft 3.5 of this damn novel. That’s why I haven’t blogged much or been reading blogs lately (but I miss you all).
Anyway, this is something I might ask a friend to read on Saturday. It’s slightly adapted from Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections. I do hope the Registrar won’t have any issues with it.
In my medical experience as well as in my own life, I have again and again been faced with the mystery of love and have never been able to explain what it is…Here is the greatest and the smallest, the remotest and the nearest, the highest and the lowest and we cannot discuss one side of it without discussing the other. No language is adequate to this paradox. Whatever one can say, no words express the whole. To speak of partial aspects is always too much or too little for only the whole is meaningful. Love “bears all things” and “endures all things”. These words say all there is to be said. Nothing can be added to them.
And that’s it, right there.