Grief

Coping mechanisms

I have aged sixty years.

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I have aged sixty years.

And become the notebook lady.

The orange moleskin is the Core notebook that goes everywhere with me. Its orange strings mark the current pages. Our most recent meetings were numbered 112/146 (Wed/Sat). In all, we’ve met 258 times. Can you believe it?

The bright yellow A4 Ryman ruled book is for Morning pages. Recently I found a receipt in German for 2 coffees and croissants from Frankfurt airport from mid-July this year.

The pliable green Matthew Williamson one with peacock feathers printed on it houses my poetry collection. It has no strings, but a dried maple leaf lives in there, being Autumn, absorbing poems.

The hard-bound thick one with zig-zag pastel shapes on it contains my Solution-focussed Brief therapy notes. I bought it from a Tibetan monk at Namdroling Tibetan monastery near us. A postcard with the picture of a smiling Dalai Lama reminds me to smile and stay warm-hearted. His Holiness addressed the youth recently and said that being warm-hearted is as important as education, if not more.

The green and blue one notes the developments on our farm. It begins with tree-planting plans and recently I have started jotting down some ideas for the interiors of our house at the back of the book. A thin plastic ruler marks the page presently relevant.

The old brown one assembles notes on writing in the first half and old song lyrics at the back. This morning I found a white, brown and blue feather tucked into it. It comes from a previous life in which I once went for a walk in Dulwich park with my son. A feather sparkled at us both, lying on the edge of the lake. One of the ducks must’ve dropped it. I must’ve picked it up and brought it home.

That was a good life. He was there.

This is a good life. He is here.

I have aged sixty years.

My notebooks are my joy and my treasure. Even though they make my suitcase very heavy, they go travelling with me.. I am learning to enjoy what I enjoy and share what I learn.

Enjoy what you enjoy and share what you learn.

Thank you, Window.

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The quest for simplicity has led me by the hand to a lesson in appreciation. After struggling for years with the torture of the moment my mind wakens from sleep and recognises my world, I am learning to receive the morning as a blessing. The fridge whirring, the pigeons cooing, the shouted instructions from the coxes, a train rumbling past, the same dog barking on the beach, the sea breathing. The sun barging into our sea-side cabin nice and early and the sky, the sheer abundance of the big blue sky! Mostly smooth and bright but every now and then, ruffled moody grey. Ever-changing.

The simple joy of watching the infinite sky and the vast sea mirror each other and the thin line where they meet. Eyes that can see unaided. The comfortable air meeting the skin. A steaming hot cup of tea with a handle that’s easy to hold. Hands that are strong enough to hold it. Pain-free fingers that curl around it. The warmth of the steam. The welcome sharpness of tannin. A mind that can discern every detail. A smile that comes easy.

Thank you Morning.

The patience of ordinary things

It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?

By Pat Schneider.

Times six.

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Two summers ago, on a dry Saturday morning in London, Si and I set out for a walk. We headed to our local park, Streatham Common. As we took a turn into the Rookery, we noticed a young man sitting on the third step of the wide, well-trodden staircase descending towards the South-East. He held his bent head in both his hands.

An invitation.

I took a deep breath, softly stepped up to him with a ‘Hi. Good morning.’ He slowly raised his head and mirrored back my faint smile. None of our smiles reached our eyes. They were not real yet, only polite.

We got talking and forgot about the walking. Miles was in his late thirties, a father of two. He had been unable to work for a few months because of disabling symptoms that suggested something like Chronic Fatigue/ ME/ Long Covid. Of late his stress levels had rocketed as his employer had started suggesting ‘malingering’ in his letters. Even though his GP understood and validated his medical condition, his employer showed no understanding.

We gathered for coffee in the park on two more occasions that year. We enjoyed our chats, kept in touch and met up regularly even though not frequently. This year, he tells us he has been dismissed from his job after a “fair process” for “gross misconduct” for being physically and mentally unable to work. Gross misconduct includes physical violence, theft and fraud, intoxicated while at work and similar serious offences.

A study at King’s College London looked at the causes of death in 2000 patients with CFS/ME conducted over the years, 2007-2013. A total of 17 patients died in that period – eight died from cancer, five from suicide, and four from other causes. When compared to the general population, less than one suicide would be expected in a study population of this size. Yet five deaths by suicide were recorded. This means that, after controlling for age and other factors, the rate of deaths by suicide in this study was approximately six times higher in people with CFS than in the general population.

The reasons for this vulnerability are – poor quality of life with no hope for relief, loss of employment, finances, and/or relationships, chronic pain, secondary depression, and other associated mental and/or physical illnesses.

Miles felt he was losing his sense of self as a capable human being with integrity. People didn’t always believe or understand him. Maybe he is what they called him, a malingerer. This is hard on his family, but they support him all they can. The kids are delightful. He still has good days and bad, still has serious brain fog he cannot work through sometimes, still can’t do much but he tries his best. He carries a lot of shame for this thing that happened to him. He feels trapped.

No tests can prove his diagnosis. No definitive treatment is available yet.

Resource: Action for ME: https://www.actionforme.org.uk/

Room With a View in Santiago

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The old city shutters stood open.

Not to admit the world, for the world was already here; only to let it drift through old granite, through warm air, through the afternoon.

Below, children called, trolleys rattled over stone, shopkeepers laughed, voices crossed and uncrossed like birds above a square.

Nothing argued. Nothing needed to win. The street was not divided.

Beside me, a small dog claimed a borrowed mat with complete confidence that love had already prepared it.

I thought of my son.

I thought of all that seems absent, and of all that love refuses to call lost.

The heart did not deny its longing. The afternoon did not deny its peace.

Neither excluded the other.

Then, without announcement, a smile from a waiter, a bowl of water that had not been requested, churros that had not been ordered, a kindness that carried no invoice.

And I understood, if only for this hour,
that there are moments which cannot be bought because they were never for sale;

moments which cannot be earned because they were never wages;

moments which ask nothing except that they be allowed.

Nothing was missing.

Nothing was excluded.

Nothing was demanded.

Nothing had to justify itself.

The 5pm cathedral bells found their place among the voices, and nothing was disturbed.

Time found its place without disturbing the timeless.

The voices still rose from the street below.

The light still rested upon the granite.
The dog still slept.

Love still loved.

And for this afternoon,
everything already was.

  • By a dad at CORe at the end of his pilgrimage, Camino de Santiago.

The garden

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No home to return to this time. A few months ago, we were feeling un-anchored while planning our upcoming summer-break in the UK. No home to return to this time.

I sat down, thinking, this was a chance to make a home in another part of the UK for a few weeks, wondering where that might be. By the sea. Somewhere quiet and quirky, not-too-long a train-ride from London. Devon! We’d spent a delightful few days with friends there  last year. I looked up houses for short lets and a cabin appeared. It was available for the duration. It was solely solar powered with a good fridge-freezer and all amenities. Most of all it boasted of an array of outdoor spaces. The photographs were a feast. We booked it before it was taken. In our minds our holiday had begun.

On the day, our hosts were at the car park to receive us and help us with our luggage. They asked us if we knew the story of the garden on the clifftop, where our cabin was located. We didn’t.

Jason was an accomplished young geologist, working at a Diamond mine in Angola.

“On 8th November 1998, the Yetwene mine was attacked by rebels. Several of his colleagues were killed and Jason along with 3 expatriates and 5 Angolans were last seen being herded into the bush.  For many years the families were led to believe their men folk were alive.  What followed the disappearance of the men is a story still waiting to be told. When someone ‘disappears’ in such circumstances, it means there is no defined moment when ALL family members can accept the missing person IS dead.  Each person comes to accept that inevitability at different times, in different ways – and even then, there can be an extended period of time when you believe he’s dead but hope he’s alive.  Oscillating between those two states.  He must be dead, but he may be alive!

When the hammer fell signalling this plot was now the Pope family’s – it was an emotional moment for Nev and Alan.  Did it mean they both accepted their son was dead? (Sadly, the answer was “No”.)”

Of all the places we could’ve landed up in, we are here, in a memorial garden by the sea, with the family of a young man who did not come home, a family that actively sought answers, remembered and talked about things and lives that matter.

Can anyone claim to know which is worse?

Knowing your son is dead or not knowing if he is?

This question is invalid as no one can judge any loss as ‘good’, ‘better’ or ‘worse’. I cannot know how Nev felt then and how she feels now. She cannot know how I feel. Sometimes I can hardly identify my own feelings. How can I claim to know anything of others? No one can. It may be a good guess but only in the head. Not in the bones, the middle of the chest. Not in the experience of the drag of gravity.

This is a joyful garden of fragrant pink roses and hand-made big-eyed metallic spiders, massive and tiny, dotted around. It has a playful feel to it. It is clearly, all about love.

If the path of grief is a loving humbling pilgrimage, this is a perfect shelter along the way.

(Resource: Circle of Remembrance – peer-led support groups for bereaved parents)