Perspective

I don't believe in god. i don't believe in angels, guardians, demons, ghosts, spirits, devils, saviors, or anything supernatual. (The closest i come to accepting the possiblity of anything paranormal is avague inkling that there might be something in telepathy, but i don't believe that's supernatural. i think it's natural, we just havn't figured out how it works yet.) So no god et al.

Every now and again, though, i do wonder. I wonder because of the uncanny timing of things, messages. It's probably just coicidence, or me infusing things with a meaning or significance that isn't there, but i do wonder. Like today.

Today is Rememberance Sunday. I only know this because my flatmate mentioned it last night. I'm glad she did, or i would have been extremely perplexed by the legion of bagpipers and rows and rows of troops marching under my window this morning.

I was sitting at the ol' puter, blogging about undersized furniture, when I heard bagpipes. I love bagpipes. i don't know why. Most people think i'm nuts. I love sirens too. Sirens don't mean "somthing's wrong." There's always somthing wrong. Sirens mean "somethings wrong, but help is on the way." Maybe I love bagpipes purely because of the way they sound, wailing and haunting, but maybe it's because of their associations. Bagpipes don't mean "somewhere, there's a war on." There's always a war on, somewhere. Bagpipes mean "somewhere there's a war on, but someone with really big guns has my back."

I went downstairs and followed the sound of the pipes across the street to the cathedral green, where there were ranks and ranks of military personell standing at attention. Most of the ceremony was over; i only got to see them file out and march past, behind the score of kilt-clad pipers. I didn't recognize many of the uniforms I saw, this not being my native country. Some were obvious; navy, army, raf. Other's had me totally baffled, like the blokes in the black uniforms with the red pinstripe and the giant, white pith helmets. And there were ranks of children in uniforms too, the same army and raf uniforms the soldiers were wearing. That was a tad disturbing.

But even though i didn't know the particular associations of all the uniforms, it didn't matter; their significance was unmistakable. I looked at the faces of the men and women walking past me, and i knew that these were the men and women who would go to bat for me. If someone dropped a bomb on bristol tomorrow, these were the men and women who would put themselves in harm's way for me, who would run into the flames to save me, who would risk death to save me, some foreigner they'd never met. I looked at a young soldier and thought, "you would die to save my life. You've never even met me. You don't know my name. I don't know yours. But thank you." If you saw a mugger with a gun robbing a woman on the street, would you throw yourself in front of the bullet? To save a complete stranger? These people would, and that stranger is me, and you, and all of us.

(I just heard a howitzer fired somewhere in the town center. Even from up here, it was almost deafening. What must it have been like for people living in london, manchester, liverpool, during world war II? To sit in their homes at night with the lights off, heavy curtains drawn, maybe one candle lit, and listen to the bombs going off all around, not knowing if the next one would land on them. There goes another one. It's 2 blocks away, i am on the 7th floor, and i can feel the reverberations in my stomach. Like the reassuring clap of thunder that signifies the lightening didn't kill you, i know i am alive because i heard canon. If it had got me, i would have been dead before the sound.)

After the ranks of military personell came the veterans, blocks of men and women in an array of uniforms, silver hair slipping out from under hat and berets, heads held high. They know what they lived through, what they did, and who they are. I lost it and began crying when I saw and old woman marching with a cane. She could barely walk, but she managed to keep in step, her cane tapping the pavement in rhythm with the snare. I thought about how few of them there were, wondered if they remembered the first time they marched in rank, way back when, in their training days. How many friends marched with them then, who aren't here now? I think they should have left holes in the formation, empty places to remind us of the ones who weren't there, empty spaces for the ghosts to march in step.

I don't believe in god, but on days like today i'm forced to wonder. Here I was, sitting in the warmth, comfort, and safety of my room, whinging away about my warm, soft, safe bed being too small for ludicrously long legs and arms. And then I heard the bagpipes. Just at the moment I needed a reminder of how good I've got it, I was shown the men and women who make my safe, cushy life possible. They do what they do so that I can lead the priveledged, sheltered life that I do. It really throws insignificant discomforts like a small bed into a shameful and glaring perspective. Was someone watching? Was there some divine net-potato reading my blog and thinking, "this spoiled little twit needs some fucking perspective. This outghta do it"... and bagpipes! Honestly, I doubt it. (I freely acknowledge the remote possiblity that when I die I'll eat those words.) But if there was, thanks for the lesson. Well played and well timed. I needed it.