Toes, there, present and accounted for.
Fingers, all ten, alert and working.
I checked around and I'm all here, I'm all OK. I went to work yesterday. Took Cousin Christine for a tour of Toronto and gossiped for 8 straight hours. Ate, talked, laughed, the whole thing. Nothing extraordinary.
Got home and found that my lecture tour to the interior of British Columbia has grown, by one, to just over a full week. Plans are underway and I'm looking forward to the trip. Nothing extraordinary. Things proceed apace.
So why am I telling you this?
Joe got an email two days ago telling him that the writer had heard that my health was failing and that they wanted to offer him support and me care. They then went on to describe how my work and affected them personally and their agency collectively. As emails go, it was a nice one. Except for the idea that I'm about to fall off my perch.
Since I've been in the wheelchair, these rumours come and go at increasing frequency. In fact, though I have had a couple of very severe illnesses, those are in the 'long past' now and my health is indeed quite good. A week before Joe got the email, we ran into someone in Toronto who said, "Oh, my God, I thought you were dead! They went on and on about how good it was to see me and how much my work had blah blah blah."
Joe noted, wryly, as we walked away, "Then why didn't they come to the funeral?"
I am alive and well and living in Baxter, Ontario.
I only emphasize this because those rumours always make people wary of hiring me to do lectures, travel and consult. Not only do I love this kind of work, it allows me to fulfill my need as a closet preacher - rabblerouse, get people fired up again. So, I assure you (which keeping a daily blog should have anyways) that I am quite well thank you.
Oscar Wilde said, "The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about."
For the most part I think that true, rumours of death and decline, though - that I could do without.