Welcome to my blog – with extras! Extras like courses and events, cup of tea sessions, meditation recordings and podcasts, poetry and stories.
I am an elder woman: I’ve seen a lot of life and a lot of death, navigated many transitions and passed through numerous thresholds. I have worked in many different capacities but all of them are simply vehicles for my particular shape of love. This website is one way of offering my love and my gifts to you.
Please do feel invited to write to me, send poems, images and so on – I would love to hear from you.
I hope you will leave my site feeling warmer, comforted, smiling on the inside and in some way accompanied.
With love,
Nickie
“[Nickie is] like a magic porridge pot overflowing with love to give”. S.E.
- It’s that time of year again.
From the end of April to the end of May is, for me, an intense few weeks of anniversaries. Often in the midst of intensity I write: I write to find out what I feel, to bring myself present to myself, to give an outlet for emotions and to notice my tenderness.Today’s offering isn’t so much a blog as a little clutch of poems, all written over the last weeks. None of them are ‘good’ poems. To tell you the truth, I’m not especially interested in writing good poems; what I care about is the true expression of this particular feeling in this specific moment. This is how I have used creative writing to befriend me through my grief and I share the poems here, in the hope that they inspire you to do the same.
What I didn't say..
...was,
“Please don't leave me”.
Years before, nestled in his arms,
I'd said those very words,
and he said, annoyed,
“I will. One way or another.”
I lay alone then,
knowing the truth of what he said
and its brutality.
When the time came,
I said,
“You're free to go, my love.”
As he turned grey
I said,
“My sweet darling,
my sweet, sweet darling,”
and sat alone.
Over the threshold into widowhood
Despite the sunlight
breakfasting in the garden three hours after,
there is, this side of the threshold,
only greyness,
only fog, amorphous,
diffusing, hiding the sky,
hiding the unwanted path that lies ahead.
Colour, I see,
is all behind me.
Despite the birdsong,
family and friends' voices,
words meant to comfort,
there is now
only a low moan, anguished
and enduring silence.
He left.
No goodbye, squeeze of the hand
or forwarding address.
Widowhood
is tasteless suppers and silent rooms,
widow's weeds a hand-me-down cloak
too heavy to bear,
bleak days too cold for tears
and slow, restless nights too empty for sleep.
It is counting the days behind me since his death
and counting the days before me till my own.
It is legs walking with nowhere to go,
voice talking with nothing to say,
and eyes searching fruitlessly for a known silhouette
now gone beyond shadow
to the land of wraiths.
And yet,
despite the patchwork misery on my bed,
despite my aching limbs and stinging eyes
and despite the hopeless nature of each task,
it is, in time,
a whiff of sunlight incoming on the breeze.
For my grandson
Little one,
you jumped
feet first into my aching heart,
insistent.
I sang you lullabies
holding you close.
Sweet and stable we lay together.
Little one,
you brought forth, from ages past,
Grandmother:
steady as the hill, perspective of mountain.
Innocent -
as only age and youth can ever be -
we dance:
yellow and turquoise
spiralling.
On the anniversary of our handfasting
I remember
the way he walked across the grass, his poise, his dignity;
the way the Nehru collar of his jacket sat at his throat
and the shine on his stiff, black shoes.
I remember the white rose I held – why not red?
Four years later, the roses were pink.
I remember how he held the flame aloft, anointing me with fire,
how our hands were fasted with ribbons I’d braided the night before
the vow we’d written gold on while to God, threaded through our colours.
Were we fools to vow surrender?
I remember the surprise of white doves, two,
as the wicker basket opened and they flew.
Now a wicker swallow emerges from a river of memories on my wall:
I thought it was me, learning to fly;
I think it is him, flying free.
I remember the sweetness in my mouth and in my heart
sharing tea and cake after with friends,
and he and I not sitting side by side,
a shadow even then passing.
We scratched for work, money, shelter, kept hope alive
and finally when home was our’s, a dog as well,
the shadow revealed itself.
A diagnosis
and one
last
year.
Questions I'd rather live than answer
Why is a blackbird's song always in tune
and the crimson red of a rose endless?
Why does the slanting light through chestnut leaves bring ease
and the sky fade towards the horizon?
Why was the policeman who said my son was dead
too impossibly young to tell a mother?
Why do dippers dip
and why is it harder to cook for one than two?
Why does a felled tree make me weep and a fallen tree not
and why do we fall in love?
Why do baby birds know to sleep at night and baby people don’t?
And why did my beloveds die so young?
If you are interested in writing with me – prose, poems, letters, gobbledeegook – in small groups, then please get in touch with me by following this link. I work online and in person. I am open to gathering a group together on request. I’m planning an online writing retreat October/November time, so please let me know if you’re interested in that. It is for everyone, not only those of you dealing with loss, but it will be timed to coincide with the time of year when the trees lose their leaves and prepare for wintering and our writing will draw from Nature. Much more much later – it’s hard to think of wintering when it’s so very, very hot here!
Until next time, take good and tender care of yourselves.
With my love
Nickie
NEWS
Creative Pathways for Life and Loss
Please join us for a nourishing and resourcing day in Somerset.
The wood belongs to Deb Millar who hosts many different groups in the wood and knows how healing it can be to be outside with the trees, the earth and the sky.
We will weave together creative expression, sharing and reflection and provide you with a simple lunch and refreshments.
Cost: £30 – there are one or two donation and concessionary places available if finances are an issue for you. Equally we are open to receiving more if you are feeling abundant and this will allow us to offer further concessions. Thank you.
This will be a small group and booking is essential. For more information or to book, please write to: deb@wilderwoods.org
Buy Me a Coffee
I have been writing this blog for 3 years now and for the last couple of years many of you have gifted me through Buy Me a Coffee. I felt shy to ask you initially, but I cannot tell you how much it warms my heart to have £5 drop in here and another £5 or £10 there. You don’t pay me for my writing, you gift me for what I offer and to me it feels as if our shared currency is love. Thank you so much. I am open to receive your love any time you feel like sharing it! www.buymeacoffee.com/nickieaven