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?
This is a coffee-growing village situated within an area of outstanding natural beauty and huge bio-diversity. At an altitude of 1000 meters, it has a unique eco-ystem. Despite the fact that it rains a lot, it is charming as hell. Everyone drinks coffee all the time. The coffee-cups hold about three mouthfuls, possibly to make up for the frequency with which it is consumed, or else we would be seriously buzzing round the clock.
After a couple of months here, we have learnt to say ‘one less and one pless’ when Si and I order coffee at a roadside café. It means, may we have one cup without sugar and one with. The literacy rate here is officially more than 80% but all in Kannada. English, if spoken is often incorrect and extremely functional.
A few weeks ago, I volunteered to teach ‘Spoken English’ to the primary school kids at the local Government school for one hour every week. I have never done anything like this before. I have no idea if it will make any difference in the long run but if nothing else, we have fun together. Last week we blew bubbles, talked about their shapes, sizes and named the colours they capture. We tried to describe how they move through the air and how they make us feel. We agreed they made us all feel happy. That’s a good start.
On the way home, sitting at the back of the tuk-tuk my heart was overflowing with joy and then I remembered that I never blew bubbles with Saagar. My eyes welled up but I was still smiling.
kidsaregifts 