Cycles, Mountains and Bridges

Sunset in the park - late September 2013

"Sixty-nine times have these eyes beheld the 

changing scenes of Autumn.

I have said enough about moonlight,

Ask me no more.

Only listen to the voices of pines and ceders,

when no wind stirs."

- Ryo-nen (her last composition)

 Hello. It's October already! I've been on the telephone this morning with someone who had dropped off my radar during this "year of busy".

While I was talking with her I was shocked to realise that it was way back in March that a close family member had died, and at the same time another close family member had injured herself in a fall. It seems like only a month or two ago, whereas in reality it is six! The months have flown by.

This weekend is the first time for months, that I have spent any significant time alone.

It was also March when my course finished, and so April and May brought some serious challenges on the financial front whilst I looked for, and found work. Then there was the funeral, and old family hurts that I allowed to resurface and that needed to be put into some perspective.

That old familiar feeling of not belonging to either of my families resurfaced as I watched my "sister" helping with the funeral. I sat at the edges afraid to presume and afraid to ask. Tension exists between my wanting to be part of it all, and my wanting to stay at a distance. That all spilled over recently on a family holiday. Sometimes it hurts too much to be so close!

Montallegro (Italy) - Late September 2011

 "Sometimes you wonder how you got on this mountain. But sometimes you wonder, 'How will I get off?" 

- Joan Manley

Then there was the pressure I was putting myself under to climb mountains! Lots of mountains in all sorts of different shapes and sizes. Pressure to meet my own, too high, expectations and to put all things right for all people. Pressure to fill up the empty space inside. Pressure that I am not where I "should be". Pressure of not having or being enough.

Old, old patterns repeating themselves. As always there have been choices to make, though some don't feel like choices. That's another old pattern of mine. If I'm busy climbing mountains, and helping everyone else, that keeps me at a distance.

"We build too many walls and not enough bridges."

- Issac Newton

The Bridge at Ludlow - February 2013

Here I am today, thinking about building bridges.....again.

I seem to be able to build bridges for others. I build the bridge and then step back. I turn around and walk away. I enjoy watching the joy as people cross and meet up. Then I build myself another little wall to hide behind.

None of these bridges have been my responsibility to maintain. I can't climb mountains if there are bridges to maintain, now can I? I help others think about maintainence, and give advice and encouragement from a distance.

It's time for me to do some work on my own bridges once again. I've burned too many bridges or left them to become ruins. I wonder if I know how to actually build and maintain bridges, or whether I just know this in theory. I'm out of practice.

If no-one else maintains the bridge, then that doesn't mean I don't need to do the work now does it?

My friend understood that this has been a really busy time, but she missed me and is glad I am back in touch. I'm glad too.

I'm glad for this quiet weekend. All this bridge building and mountain climbing, has been exhausting! I'm glad to have time to reflect and to recognise these cycles of mine.

Father and Daughter

It's Father's Day

We watched this movie yesterday, I'm sorry to say I had never heard of either the book nor the film before. We accidentally stumbled upon it last night, and I was drawn in by the title, and then by the theme.

Though the subject matter is a very difficult, and possibly controversial one, the film does give us some important messages about how to help children who are grieving; and about parenting itself in a world that is increasingly difficult to come to terms with.

It also gives us some important clues about our own "understanding" of life and loss, and how we navigate through and make sense of, our own particular stories.

I have written about my father before here on the blog. Lately I have been feeling that I post too much about lack, loss or victims. In grappling with this, I've been trying to change the perspective through which I see my parents lives. In fact, how I see my own life too.

As a child and young adult, I remember reading about Fathers in books, or seeing them in drama's on the television. Many of my favourite stories had children who were separated from their parents in some way, however there were one or two Dads that appeared and to whom I was particularly drawn. Atticus Finch was one, as was John Walton Senior, and Pa (Charles Ingalls). There were probably others, but these stick in my memory most of all.

As I read blogs these days, I am drawn to how some bloggers have a solid sense of who their parents or grandparents were, and of what they passed on to their children. I am also drawn to others who manage to write about their special elder people, in a warm way and with a sense of pride, despite the inevitable disappointments or failings that every human life contains. As I try to refocus on my parent's lives, I am trying to see beyond the loss and the hurt that they suffered, to see them as something more than victims of their class, time, society, or circumstances.

This film is the story of one boy, Oscar, who loses his Dad in the 9/11 terrorist attack. It is a story of how he gathers together his father's memory, though a search of the city for a mysterious lock that fits a key he believes his father left him. It is a story about how he learns to live with the unacceptable. It is a story about how he learns about other human beings, their sufferings, fears and their joys.

Part of what I loved about "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" was the shadowy figure of the mute grandfather, and the contrast made between his experience of being a father, and that of his son's (Tom Hanks). The film suggests the grandfather left his wife and child early in the child's life, and shows how he tries to make amends and return to the family he once hurt and abandoned.

This comparison reminds us that the father-child relationship is a very complicated one, and that being a father is in itself very difficult work. This is without the added pressures from one's own past experience, current life events,culture, class, health and so on. Many fathers don't make it through, or are less than "good enough"; generational patterns can leave some families damaged beyond repair; or the demands of work and our modern way of life can mean that priorities have become all confused and we miss the point of living. Sometimes Fathers can feel so powerless at the place where they find themselves in society, this is transferred into the family situation with terrible consequences.

To show how hard a father has to work, the film gives us glimpses of how Thomas(Tom Hanks) navigates his role as father; how he looks at Oscar his son, and sometimes sees somebody he doesn't understand, someone different, not simply an extension of himself; someone he wants to be happy. The film shows a little of how Thomas deals with the disappointments and frustrations of being a parent, and how he is able to put himself into his son's shoes despite the difficulties in recognising "who his son is".

A father we would all want to have as our own. One we would wish for all children.

Perhaps the character of Thomas, symbolises where each and every father is in his heart, as he starts his journey into fatherhood, when he holds his baby for the very first time. Here is the potential for a loving and conscious relationship, the potential for all of that power and responsibility to be put to positive use to empower another human being as they grow.

Today I remember my Father who was simply someone doing the best he could, with what he had; a human being sometimes overwhelmed by his own emotion, by his own fear, guilt and inadequacy. I remember that I could see his patient, noble and wise heart, and I felt his love and acceptance. I remember that after he went away, he came back. I remember that after that, he stayed close by, gave me guidance, encouragement, and love. I remember sad but smiling eyes; concern that sometimes spilled over into worry; someone frightened and lonely; someone trying to make amends.

Today I give some thought to those children who are denied a loving relationship with their father, those who never know their father, those children who are grieving for their father or who lose contact with their father. Also to those Fathers out there who are working very hard to provide this for their children; to those who fall short of this ideal but who do their best in their own way; to those who are grieving for children lost through death or separation; to those who feel they have failed and who are angry and alone. Also for those who are father-figures, step-fathers, adopted or foster fathers, in fact anyone in the role of father and who is simply doing their best.

An Easter Ramble or "excuse me while I think out loud."

 

This post started with a picture of the Hot Cross Buns I made for the first time ever. I made them on Thursday and it's taken the whole of Easter for me to get some thoughts together.

I admit to having a bit of a tendency to over complicate things.

So today's post is a bit of an Easter Ramble.

Belated Happy Easter wishes to those of you that celebrate.

So I made Hot Cross Buns and it all got a bit sticky.

Mr Stayingawake asked me why. Wasn't it easier just to buy a packet? No. I wanted to make them. So I made the buns, gave some away, and read about how the Ancient Greeks used to make small cakes around this time of year, which were also decorated with crosses. I must have looked this up before in a search to make meaning of Easter traditions for someone who does not have a Christian faith. I read somewhere that this also occurred in Saxon times as part of the worship of Eostre goddess of light at Springtime and that the cross might have symbolised the four quarters of the moon. I love this idea. Reading about how this tradition, and that of the egg as a symbol of renewal or rebirth, pre-date Christianity and were associated with Springtime rituals, gives me some comfort. A sense of belonging in the world, to the beauty and mystery of the universe and all that is in it, including human life with all of it's messiness.

As someone without a faith, who grew up in this particular place and time; I sometimes struggle to locate myself, to place myself, to find myself. I always feel lost. I know that it is not just the lack of a foundation built on religious faith that leaves me in this wilderness. It's part of the human condition isn't it? To seek some solid ground on which to place our feet. To seek community and sameness and belonging.

Excuse me while I think out loud on this page.

I also know that it is also a particular leftover of my childhood - this sense of aloneness, this loss of self. Thankfully I also know that it is one that I can choose to continue to feel....or not. It is a feeling. Just that. Left over from losing my whole family, life and home and from suddenly being plopped down in a whole other one. As I sit with this feeling, in a more peaceful way this year, I think of all those children who have also experienced this to a greater or a similar degree, and my mouth hangs open at the sheer horror of that feeling for those children(and for myself)....the unknown, the loss, the uncertainty, the fear, the grief.....the complete loss of identity.

Even for those who have not suffered any such childhood trauma, there has clearly been a breakdown of something we badly need in Western Society. How else do we explain the "depression epidemic" that is predicted by the World Health Organisation to be the second most harmful illness by 2020. Something about the way we live in the West always seems to spring to mind when I start to think on this. We seem to have gained so much in post-industrial Society, but in the process lost something vital to our well-being. Is it an ability to place our trust in something too vast for us to understand? Or is it what can go along with a religious faith? The community, friendship, love, tradition. ritual, something solid and deep?

I do think that we may be waking up to what we have lost however. The Internet seems to be a place where creativity, well-being, community and spirituality are thriving. I suppose the big question is how we now take this energy, and bring it to different parts of society who may not have the safety and security to get on board this amazing and loving wagon.

Anyway, back to my Easter ramble.....

One of the criticisms levelled at Western Society these days, is that people treat religion and spirituality as a commodity, that they pick and mix from religious and spiritual traditions/beliefs to suit themselves. A lack of commitment and need for a quick fix is highlighted as one of the ills of the new "selling of religion or spirituality" as a means to an end, self-fulfillness and happiness. Alongside this is a fear within the established church that religion is being marginalised in modern society, this is seen in the weekend's call from Cardinal Keith O'Brien for Christian's to wear a cross everyday of their lives and to give a cross as an Easter gift instead of chocolate eggs.

All of us are seeking this true sense of belonging. I have struggled with this, often bemoaning the destruction of community in consumer society. I hold up my hands as I write this, in acknowledging I am only just now beginning to understand the role we all have to play in creating community. On some occasions I have grappled with the thought of joining a Church, and have always been interested in learning about world religions, their beliefs and traditions. Every Easter I struggle with the Easter story, my own lack of faith, and find a place for the traditions that link me to my birth family. Dyeing eggs red, rolling them on Easter Monday, and eating hot cross buns on Good Friday, are all traditions that I associate with my Paternal Grandmother Lillian.

As a child, I did not attend a faith school. My only experience of Church was for Christenings or Marriages but Lillian did send me to Sunday School for a time, my memories are mainly about the bus journey I had to take to get there however. My Grandmother did not go with me to church, as she was by this time, becoming more and more disabled. She told people she was housebound, and walked with the aid of a frame, or was pushed about in her wheelchair by her grandchildren. In reality I think she had given up on life and was crippled by fear. She was always a lonely woman, isolated, except for family, perhaps due to issues with her parents when she was growing up and the fact that she had been a single parent at a time when this was something to be ashamed of. Whatever the case, like all of us, she was seeking truth, meaning and belonging, I remember her converting from one religion to another several times during my childhood and teenage years. Priests and Vicars visited her often and prayed with her in the house. I remember her taking communion. Maybe she was looking for forgiveness for her perceived wrongdoings. Maybe she was looking for a faith that would allow her to carry out her wishes at that time, which were to donate her organs, to medical science. I am unsure of the history of religious views on donating organs, but this link describes the position most religions take these days.

Every Easter I sit again with the struggle to find meaning, purpose and belonging. I see people in worship and wonder what it must be like to have such a faith.

This year I struggle with self-forgiveness; for wanting it to be easy; for finding commitment difficult; for being a child of our consumer culture; for making mistakes; for not being able to make it better; for being me in this place, here and now; for knowing I have choices.

This year I was helped along the way by the making of buns; by finding more questions than answers; by finding that peace and struggle lie together. I was also helped greatly, by reading this beautiful blogpost which reminds me to sit with the questions, even as I struggle; that "there is beauty in the rubble"; that we don't have to "make everyone OK"; that we are all broken; and that "somehow we all belong."

Salt in the wound or mining for treasure?

There are ten of us around the table. Four of us, all, once upon a time, spent some months within the same warm place of safety, our mother's womb. Two of us have that special connection of a parent and child. One of us is growing inside her mother, her father and grandfather sitting on either side. Three of us are here because we have made vows and bonds of another kind of love. It is a birthday celebration and also the anniversary of the day the Father of the four siblings died, some years ago.

It is a fragile mix. Nine separate egos. Ten connected and beautiful souls. Oh yes we are, each and every one of us; beautiful souls, having innate goodness and all seeking the same of life.

The fragility of this occasion, is due to the two empty chairs that by chance, happen to be at our table. They seem to symbolise that which we are always afraid to speak about. If we speak about our father today, somebody might say something offensive to someone else about him; and speaking about our mother, well, that always brings up so much of the pain and grief that fills the void left when she was taken from our lives, so long ago.

Who would think, that a discussion of how much one of us likes to put salt on her food, and how much another of us dislikes salt and will not have it on the table, becomes a source of pain between the two of them. Others at the table, watch and listen, as the dispute grows, about our Mother, and how she never had salt on the table.

The two sisters are sitting side by side with only one other dear one between them. The salty statements are almost spat out of their mouths and they do not make eye contact. They are hardly able to speak to each other any more, and occasions like this are a real test. For so many years the wounds have been so easily opened again by each other's presence. Our wounds are at these times, always crying out for the love of each other's beautiful souls; but so often our egos, doing what has worked to protected us in the past, deny us this salve and only now serve to divide us further. Our wounds are always there, largely un-examined or rather examined in a sterile separate cubicle, where messes can be throughly wiped up, before we pull the curtain back and step back out again. Only one of us has had a habit of shouting and behaving inappropriately outside of the cubicle, because some days she just couldn't bear the silence.

But today we do so well considering it is the 11th February, the day our Father died. We are celebrating a birthday afrer all.

The disagreement about whether our Mother had salt and pepper pots on the table continues. One of the two, demands that in no way could our Mother have possibly banned salt from the house as we were from a working class family, and all working class families had salt and pepper on the table in those days. How could it possibly be true that our Mother banned salt from the house. The other claims that salt was banned from the house because of our Mother's high blood pressure.We all watch, open mouthed at their anger, distain and disregard for each other, and all because of how much one of them loves salt and how much the other hates it.

Each of our store of memories, our beliefs, are precious to us, clutched close since the day our family were split apart. If we are to examine our beliefs further, all kinds of intricate creations, built up over years, would come crashing down. So fragile are these.

Another one of the four sisters, starved as she is of memories of family life, drinks in the possibility that our Mother banned salt from the house. Perhaps it was salt that killed our Mother.

The fourth sister, does not involve herself in recalling the memories of our parents, she watches quietly as always, keeping her distance, as that is how she has protected herself.

Later, the one of us who is perhaps the most hurt, the most angry, who loves salt so much that she always thickly covers her food with it, remembers our Mother giving her some coupons to go out and buy a dress. The memory is triggered by a lighthearted discussion elsewhere on the table about an old-time comedian and whether he really said something about his tickling stick. The dress was to be for a special outing to the theatre to see this comedian in a family show. She is comforted by the memory that her Mother bought her a new dress and recalled the shop where she bought it, The American Dress Shop. She does not go on to describe the dress as her story is interupted by the one whose memories are few, asking if she also went with her sister, to the show. She thinks she can remember going to the show, and maybe being invited up onto the stage. There are memories of talking about this event afterwards. Did it really happen? She wants to be able to share the memories. Each time that there is an opportunity to do so, she grabs the deep bucket with both hands and drinks, and drinks.

The salt lover confirms that this memory must indeed be true if the memory seeker can remember it.

Then comes another question about whether they also went together to the fair at Belle Vue, in Manchester because she has a vague recollection about this too. It is confirmed again, that they did indeed go to the fair, after our Mother won some money at the Bingo. The salt lover tells the story of how the two of them, and our Mother, went to the bus station in a taxi, then took the bus to the fair at Belle Vue. What she recalls the most, is the taxi ride that took them past the garage where our Father was working at that time. He was working that day, and she tells with glee of how our Mother had spent the money she won on a day out for the three of them, without our Father. The glee is evident, our Father was not wanted on the day trip and how pleased she was that the taxi allowed her to look out at the garage where he was working and know they were doing this wonderful thing without him.

Though the salt lover has a right to this memory and her glee, the memory seeker is mining for treasure now and feels it is time to go home. It is late, and they have all done so well to manoever the fragile terrain of memories, pain, love and loss once again and on such a day. There has been enough salt to last a lifetime. Whatever the mistakes that our Father made, whatever the struggle for survival they each had as children, however great our pain at our Mother's loss, there is treasure buried there.

For the memory seeker it is time to rewrite the story, to fill in the blanks to find treasure there; and in other places she has not explored before.

Bon Voyage

Bon Voyage to me as I set off tomorrow, driven by Mr Greenfingers, down to Heathrow; then on Saturday I fly to China to start the trek!

For the past three weeks things have been a real mess. I've been a mess. We had a very sad death in the family, work was the most stressful it has been since I started my new job, and physically I was not doing so well either.

Last week, Monday, the day before the funeral, I drove home from work feeling just pants. All I wanted to do was to curl up in a ball and forget about everything, forever. I came in the door and Mr Greenfingers was greeted by me with my very sorry for myself voice saying, "I don't want to go to China anymore!"

I didn't want to do anything anymore. You know how it is!

As the week went on, I found the strength to keep going at work but nothing much else got done. Mr Greenfingers and I are like ships that pass in the night.The house is not a very dust free place! My family and friends are forgetting who I am!

The fear grew. This morning I ordered my yuan and felt like I was going to cry and be violently ill all over the post office counter. I spilled out my fear in words instead, to the helpful post office guy!

Silly me, it's only a few days! I'll be back before we know it and all will be back to normality(or what is normal for me!)

I wonder if that is the problem. Coming home to what? Lots to think about just now. The spending review. Job. Relationship. Adult offspring. Who on earth am I? What does the future hold?

Tonight two special people telephoned/texted and said lovely things. One of them said they were sorry for things that happened, or didn't happen, after my Mum died. I sit here wanting to cry and get it all out before I go. I don't want to leave them all. I don't want to be doing this at all. I want to stay here inside my house, where it's warm and safe.

That's not of course what I really want. I want to make the most of every moment.

I am going to China and walking to mark the eightieth birthday of my Mum, this year. I am going to mark the forty years I have been without her. I am going to put the sorrow and fear behind me and to mark the start of truly living again. Enough fear and enough sadness. Part of this is the raising money for the Cascade Project which provides counselling and group support for children and teenagers who have had a loved one die. The adults around me did not know how to talk to me about my Mum or about her death. Many adults who are looking after children when a death occurs are already finding it so difficult to come to terms with things themselves, that they don't know how to help the children. The children, in my experience, don't want to upset the adults by asking questions. Such a lot of feelings are burried and for some children this can have far reaching effects. Of course most children are resilient and life goes on, but services like those at Cascade can help those children who really need a place to say goodbye and to remember their loved one. It helps the adults too, who don't know what to say or do for the best.

Mum only lived until she was forty. Before that she was a Mother, a sister and a daughter. She did not have the luxury as I do, of finding herself, of treking in a far away place, of blogging or texting, of reading great books. of meeting other fantastic women, and of celebrating her fiftieth birthday. I do have all this and I am a mother, a sister, daughter, colleague and friend. I guess that's what my normality is. When I come home I'll have lots to do. It's all right here.

Walking through Treacle

Not a full twenty-four hours has past since you left us.

I am up on the moors above Chipping Village.

I am walking through treacle and thinking of you and your Sabden "Treacle" Mines.

The blackness of the peat up here both facinates me and repels me. My newish boots are getting dirty! I am afraid that if I step onto a really boggy bit I will sink down and disappear into the blackness.

I think you would have liked to be up here with me today. As a child you may have walked these Moors or somewhere very similar and not too far away. I doubt you would have much liked the blackness of the peat up here, as you were always so well turned out. Once you got to adulthood you kept to the path.

There are few others out walking today. It is lonely up here and the wind is becoming fierce. I put up my hood against the wind and think about the path behind and the one ahead. 

The moors are deserted it seems, and dark clouds are gathering. Except for the wind there is silence, strange and quite beautiful. I stumble across the boggy peat and it crosses my mind that I really have no idea of the path now as it is nolonger clear at all. What if the mist comes down and I cannot find my way? It's so cold. I could fall off the edge or tumble down and sprain my ankle. No-one would know!

Except for this chap circling overhead in this glider. I feel sure that he/she is keeping an eye on the lone walker in the purple coat far down below.

My legs and feet are suffering a little after the long climb up and now as I start to descend from the summit, my toes hit the front of my boots and my knees ache even more. The wind cuts through my waterproof and my fleece. My fingers are cold, I should have worn gloves. It's all part of the fun I tell myself.

In three weeks I'll be on my way to China. The new sights and sounds that I will see, will keep my feet and legs moving when they feel like giving up, won't they?

After all the view from the top, or over the next hill is what keeps us going. Each moment there is something breathtaking to look at, a rabbit just about to bob down his hole, a bird hovering and about to swoop, the sunlight and the shadows.

That's what you taught me and I feel privileged to have been able to learn from you and yours.

Even though life can sometimes be like walking through treacle, there are miracles all around us if you are looking. You don't even have to look very hard at all.....

                                                               

There may be fairies at the bottom of your garden, or a child might be laughing, or learning to talk or to read.....  

A calf may be being born just over the hedge in that field where we stopped the car.....


Or there is a flock of sheep in the road right in front of us....


Or you may be walking through treacle but it's made your legs stronger and you didn't get stuck!

Thoughts of death. Thoughts of life.

VII Sonnet: Our Dead

They have not gone from us. O no! They are

The inmost essence of each thing that is

Perfect for us; they flame in every star;

The trees are emerald with their presences.

They are not gone from us: they do not roam

The flow and turmoil of the lower deep,

But now have made the whole wide world their home,

And in it's loveliness themselves they steep.

They fail not ever; theirs is the diurn

Splendour of sunny hill und forest grave;

In every rainbow's glittering drop they burn;

They dazzle in the massed clouds architrave;

They chant on every wind, and they return

In the long roll of any deep blue wave.

Robert Nichols 1893 - 1944

The Aftermath

I read this poem at my Dad's funeral. It seems such a long time ago now, and just lately I have wished he was close by so I could go and visit for a while. My sister said that my words and the poem made everything seem alright. It was a distressing time for us all, the family had been so close to death and illness for so many years and there were some dark shadows in our memories. The loss of our only parent, now threatened the peace of each one of us children who were left behind. We felt it all again. Somehow I was able to stand up and speak at his funeral. I wanted them all to understand him, and to have compassion for him. I wanted them to know that though we had lived with loss and hurt for so long, it was all ok and our parents were still here in our children and ourselves, in the universe around us. Though I truly believed the words of the poem and wanted to find and give comfort, I still wanted my Dad back and was still angry with the world he and my mother had experienced. The world my sisters had experienced. The life that we, each one, had experienced. The questions that were always unanswered.

Like many people, death and I have had too long a relationship. Thankfully, this relationship has become more peaceful these days.

It's strange to look back and realise that, for a while I feared death and longed for it at the same time. A funny sort of tension.

A kind of surrender to the fact of death, coupled with a strong fear of living, that gradually crept up on me when I wasn't looking. All this slowly contributed to draining the passion from me and leaving me sleepwalking through life.

Somehow, and I'm not quite sure it matters how, life seems to have grabbed me once again, and has shaken me awake. I nolonger really fear death, nor thankfully, do I long for it either.

I want it to stay away as long as is possible, as life feels good, and full of energy and passion these days. I accept that death and loss are part of life, but this is a more peaceful acceptance, not a giving up or a despair.

I am at last learning to live, mindfully, to be joyful and celebrate life. To live with strength alongside the bad things in life, with the shadows and the tragedies in my own and in other people's lives. Those of family, friends and "strangers". With the horrors we see unfolding on the news. I grieve. I accept. Feeling helpless still comes of course, but the despair is less consuming. It no longer diminishes me. I take part(almost)fully these days. I laugh and I cry and I am learning to take action, mindfully. I nolonger feel powerless. Or not for long. I have a part to play in the world, in the continuing turning and changing universe with it's light and it's shadows.

This energy and power is most vivid when I am out in nature. I am filled up again when I am feeling depleted and just seeing the beauty and miracle all around is a constant source of joy. I am so privileged to have come to this realisation and to have the time and the space to fill myself up like this.

My thoughts today, are with those not so privileged, with the children forced to take part in war and who see terrible sights and suffer loss that is unimaginable to most of us. Also for those who have lost others suddenly and violently, and who are struggling to make sense of it all and to continue on their way.

Beautiful!

Driving back I wanted him to linger a while longer so I suggested we drove to the beach to see the sunset.

Dear Mum,

25th August.
Today is a special celebration day as a very beautiful person was born on this date, just a few years ago ;). When you look at him, you may not see that beauty, it may not be so obvious to you, but it is there shining out. He has a little light that somehow, despite all the odds, grew to be so determined to shine! So many people can see his light and I am grateful for that! It says so much that so many people love him.

I so wish he had known his Grandma. I know that you would have been just the best Grandma for him, helping me in making sure he was safe and whole.

Sending blessings to him now and always. Wishing only the best and that these wishes may make up for what is missing or is passed.

No more for now but will write again soon. Jan x

One story about grief

Yesterday I came across this blog-post, about the writer's relationship with her mother and about her mother's death when she was in her late teens. As usual I had been reading a series of blogs, exploring the words and thoughts of others. As usual I was on a journey of discovery, and then I finally arrived at the lines the blog-writer had quoted from a poem by Sharon Doubiago. This is where I stopped reading and started to write here on my own blog, about my own mother or rather about the loss of her.

When I started this blog a few weeks ago, I knew that I wanted to give some space here to the issues that are close to my heart. Naturally one of these, is to share information about how adults can help children who are grieving for someone. I also intend to write about children who have suffered trauma and the work that goes on to help them recover. Both of these as much for my own learning as for anyone who may come here to read what I write.

Today I am not writing about these things though. Today I am writing about me. And that's ok.

Notice that I have had to justify writing about my own grief. I still have to justify this, even though I recognise that it may be an important milestone in my "growing up" process. I also realise that I am dancing close to danger here too, the danger of staying stuck in a particular story about how my mother's death has defined me.

I hope that I am breaking out of that story by writing some words about it, I don't think it is making the story stronger. If anything it is softening the story, reshaping it and offering it as a gift to be shared.

There is some guilt and fear still here however, as I try to make a space here in this blog for my authentic voice. Clearing away that clutter is not easy is it? In the confusion of looking outwards and looking inwards, what do I trust now? What is real?

First to go, is that old familiar fear and guilt about showing my emotions, and of appearing too needy. On that day 40 years ago I did not know anything about being needy or not being needy. I didn't really understand what had happened and so felt very little, except an urge to look after my Dad who was crying as he told me what had happened to my mother. I must have felt slightly uncomfortable at seeing him cry, I instinctively tried to comfort him and make him quickly stop. Perhaps this discomfort with emotions and vulnerability was already part of our family culture? Much, much later, I always wanted to be seen to be coping ok and I think I actually believed that I was.

I think I have been trying to be "grown-up" since that day my mother died. In the process all I managed to do was to simply grow a massive amount of neediness inside, which eventually had the opposite effect on my external life than intended. Part of becoming "grown-up" I am starting to know now, means being comfortable with emotions, your own and others.

Now I am starting to really look at the process of grieving I went through, maybe I am creating a new story about what happened? However I still have to justify giving space to this process. I still reassure any readers that it's ok, I am really not so needy, I am together and worthy and will post more useful and grown-up stuff later.

The good thing is, that being aware that I am doing this makes me smile, fondly and kindly at my self. I shake my head and say "ooh you rascal there you go again!" The judging, critical voice is not far away but thankfully it is not my first reaction!

Anyway, when I read those four lines of that poem, and recognised that for a long time I only ever knew the first two lines, it was like a light bulb switched on. This was my story. The end. My mother died. She died. I was seven years old. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write". That was it. I gave my story power. It was over. I didn't want it to define me. I was sensible. I was strong. I was ok. I could look after my Dad and myself. No-one talked about what had happened. I wasn't sad. I saw few of the emotions of others. I didn't attend the funeral, I didn't get the choice, someone took me out shopping.

My story was silent but strong, and it did define me. It went through small changes, and gained momentum through the different stages of life. I became a teenager. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and that's ok. I'm ok. It happened and I'm used to it now. It's over and my life is just beginning. When people asked and I told people that my mother was dead, they said they were sorry. I told them not to worry and it was ok, I couldn't remember her anyway. It's ok, I reassured them. I can remember as I said it, that I didn't really want to move on from it so quickly. Now I wonder if I was afraid of the emotion that might bubble up if I stayed in that place or perhaps I didn't feel that my story was one other people would want to hear.

A little later. "My mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and it is all quite terrible. I don't know how to be a mother. I don't know much about anything. I don't know much about myself. But it's ok. Let's just move on. I'm ok. It's nothing to do with my mother's death, it's just me. There are other voices I can listen to.

Then, "My Mother is a poem I'll never be able to write" and I am angry. It's not fair that all this happened to me. This is why my life went so wrong, it's all the fault of that event. I have no control. I have no voice. I have no power. I am ashamed. I'm angry with the people who didn't help me grieve properly. Why me? It's not ok and I'm not ok. I need others to help me. I can't deal with this adult world. What is wrong with me?

Just recently I started to think and talk more about my mother, and look at images of her. I am on the path to being grown up or to wholeness. I felt this momentarily during the Unravelling course. It was fleeting and precious, I want to feel it so much more often. I am perhaps only a few steps away.

This is one of my stories and it has hope, it is not the end. I am both free of it and I claim it.

Now as I write this, I can feel the anger and rage and loss of that seven year old girl and am so grateful that I was brought to this place to write and make a space of safety, where I can take steps. I can take that small girl's hand and show her the next two lines of the poem, "though everything I write is a poem to my mother".

I feel familiar regret that I never read or recognised these lines earlier in my life, but I choose not to stay in this place. I take the small hand in mine and I make sure she knows that it's ok to be sad, it's ok to talk about our mother, look at pictures of our mother, to mourn what was lost to her as she grew and what is still lost to my adult self.

I take her small hand and smile as we recognise together that, yes this event defines us but we can take the power back. Yes these things happened at this point and at this, but what happens next and each everyday action can be defined by something else, something whole and calm. Now we know it is there and we start to know how to reach it!

I shake my head in wonder at how I never knew these two lines and I smile that at last I hear them.