What would the radiant sound of a Red-winged Blackbird be, without the extraordinary power of your ears?
What would the pale, sailing moon look like without your astonishing eyes?
What would your love even know what to do with itself, without the ache you intuit in inevitable loss?
And who is it comes to life in you again and again, and every time as a new miracle, on the other side of grief?
And then there is this: if you had not come into this world just as you are, and just in the way you came, could anyone anywhere ever have lived your life in your stead?
And then the question toward the end that might be no end at all,
is there anything or anyone you meet after death you will recognize?
No easy answer to the really, really beautiful questions of life,
they are just the everyday hidden invitations that have always been made to you, something beckoning you to understand through every day of your living and your dying,
no possible resolution you could ever make sense of, except to begin every question in wonder.
As Meister Eckhart was at some pains to tell us.
What you seek, is nowhere to be found by answering questions.
God’s full presence felt only in the absolute essence of absence. - David Whyte
PS: Happy to me! Birthday. David Whyte’s words are a gift.
Ten is a strange one. Who knew an innocent, round, even number like this could inflict such pain on one. The last note I had from you was ten years ago. It turned each moment of each day into an unwanted debt, heavily owed to God-knows-who. Potential decades stretched out before me like a horizon-less dark desert. I wished they would disappear. Time became the enemy, unfolding in fits and starts in wiggly circular patterns, etching lines of blood and tears on the surface of mighty oceans.
Now, this gone decade demands recognition. It wants to be acknowledged in some way, however small. It deserves a pat on the back for braving through such turmoil and finally becoming a friend.
Hugo, Azin, Phoebe and some other friends, yours and ours came over for a Sunday lunch in early August and brought their friends along. Many of them, musicians. Remember Corinne Bailey Rae? You bought me her CD, Girl put your records onone Christmas? Remember how I sang along to it in the kitchen while cooking? On Sunday, we sang that song together. The Dock of the Bay and Ain’t no sunshine and Stand by me too.
We cut a chocolate cake for everyone who turned thirty this year. We were together for five glorious hours. Tens of sun-flowers smiled in vases dotted around the room and the sun shone on us as we talked and laughed and sang, just like the old times.
You won’t believe this but I resigned from my job recently. I know. I was so proud of it. I got so much from it. It meant so much to me but I feel liberated. Now someone else can do that lovely job while I work with my unique gift. In a world increasingly obsessed with labels, I am happy to lighten myself and shed a few.
Last weekend, Si and I hosted a retreat for eleven bereaved parents. It was The Wednesday Group of the Circle of Remembrance that had started meeting online in May 2022. For more than two years we met for an hour and a half online every fortnight, sharing the most personal of things. This was the first occasion for us to meet in person as a group. It was divine.
One brown butterfly alighted on the left side of Si’s chest and rested on his white shirt peacefully for quite a while as we all talked and laughed and sipped our teas and coffees.
After returning home, one mum wrote to say,
“…this weekend has reminded me of who I am and what I am capable of as I continue to navigate this life I never expected or wanted to have.”
What could be better?
I am blessed. Thank you for being my son.
Your essence remains here, with us.
Love you my darling.
Mamma. xxx
(Please visit http://www.core-community.com and contact us to join our loving and understanding community or recommend it to anyone who might find peer support after child loss helpful.)
(A handmade patchwork wall-piece for the home of CORe)
Last weekend I was part of a team of volunteers. The Compassionate Friends hosted a summer retreat for parents who have lost a child to suicide or substance use. We expected seventy parents to arrive, some as couples, some by themselves. Many of us drove for many miles through road works and traffic jams. Some changed trains more than once and persevered through serious delays due to fatalities on the tracks on two successive days. Even though their own hearts ached, they traveled from all over the UK to Leeds.
The venue was a new one, Hinsley Hall. It was true to the pictures on its website – majestic. Having never worked there before, many of us arrived a day prior, to familiarise ourselves with the space and allocate rooms to activities depending on their size and suitability, getting to know the staff and setting out folders, notice boards and programes.
The job at hand was to belong to those who attended and have them belong to us. I went up to my room and drew the curtain. I gasped at the view. My window looked over a deep-green lawn with dark old trees and two parallel hedges with patches of yellow.
As the participants arrived through the gates, we welcomed and escorted them despite their visible anxiety and fatigue, a reluctance to acknowledge their eligibility to be here, attending this retreat. Slowly, cups of tea, coffee and glasses of water loosened the atmosphere.
At the Writing workshop, words like ‘disassembled’ and ‘brown silt’ were shared and felt. A bronze sculpture of a young woman in the courtyard, standing with her arms wide open was a constant encouragement to open our hearts.
Over the next couple of days, each of us felt seen, listened to, acknowledged and our grief felt witnessed. Friendships were born. There was much laughter and many tears flowing through truck-loads of memories. Grace was at work. It was allowing something within us to soften and relax.
At the end, one mum said she met some lovely people and found much comfort and connection. Another said, she met herself, this time with gentleness.
Being there, volunteering, was a good way to honour Saagar’s life and mine. What better way to spend our days than to hold our kids, ourselves and each other in a warm embrace?
Publishing is a dying industry they say and I love books. I know hundreds of people who do.
Presently I am in the world of trying to get a book published. I am witnessing an interesting phenomenon of humane, helpless and kind rejections such as this: “We think you are an emotive writer and your story is very moving. It would undoubtedly provide comfort to those who have lost children, whether by suicide or otherwise. But there is so much work that goes into publishing a book and we have to believe that it can work commercially to a certain degree. I worry that it would be very difficult to get media attention/reviews and therefore retailer traction in this case.”
These letters leave me strangely encouraged to persist and keep refining the manuscript, keep working on the craft of writing and keep remembering what this is about. I write in singular first person but denote the third person plural. I am They, Them, We.
It’s about kissing the ground that supports my weight. It is where my son, all my ancestors and circumstances stand in me through all the seasons and storms. In every moment, it is and has been my home whether I like it or not. It tells me who I am and how, from my very foundations I can hold a conversation with life even when it seems terribly treacherous. Strangely, it is also a place of grace that surprises me by its ability to humble and elevate me, even after being dragged through the mud. It enables me to step off onto a softer ground of gentle understanding where grief finds expression as what it truly is, pure love, often known by safer names such as compassion and connection. I kiss this wise ground that has taught me what it means to be free, be love and be human.
One way or another, I am sure my words will find their way to those with whom they will resonate. If you have any helpful ideas around publishing, please do write a comment. Thank you for reading. This blog is the birthplace of the book.
kidsaregifts 