Jumping off cliffs
I pressed ‘Send’. Away went my email to a literary agent, pitching my book, Not Another Day, and attached to the email numerous required documents – summaries, text examples, market comparisons, promotional ideas, credentials. I had jumped off the cliff.
Now, I know finding an agent and an agent finding a publisher for a book by a debut author, is needle in the haystack territory. And it had taken a supervision session to get me to the point of pressing that button. Why? Because if I was rejected again and again, what would that say about me? What I realised was that it wouldn’t say anything about me. It would say that no-one believed they could make any money out of my writing. But I could believe in myself, not to make money, but to have something valid to say.
Landslide
Until the age of 9, I was a little songbird – singing solos at 5, standing on a chair in front of 400 pupils; shows and concerts, there’s me, centre stage. But when I was 9 my music teacher gave me the creeps. In front of him my voice cracked and faltered. What happened then was far more fundamental than one creepy teacher should have had the power to set in motion: a landslide in my confidence to allow my voice to be heard. With the shame of it, something inside me shrivelled, went into the corner where a little one was already curled up, and climbed inside her. Wherever I went and whatever I did, from school playgrounds to arts college, from prizes giving to theatrical performances, “that’s me in the corner”, frightened. I had no voice of my own and no confidence in my worth.
At 49, my big birthday approaching and a member of a community choir, I’d had enough.
“Can you help me sing?” I asked the choir mistress and my friend, “Help me allow my voice to be heard?” They did and at 50 I sang at my own birthday party. At the same time, I wrote my first stories, books for children about dying and grieving. (You can find two of them recorded here on my Stories page – Just the Same and Always and Grandma’s Apple Tree). I had something to say, something that mattered and I could let my voice be heard. The return journey had begun.
Alchemy
But 40 years! 40 years to find my voice and just begin to allow it out to play. Yep. I often think of the process of grief as alchemical. What a heavy lumpen feeling it is to carry profound grief around, especially at first. How grey the world looks, how brittle it feels, how beyond my perception is beauty. It is cold, desolate and lonely, like a long, dreary winter of the soul.
And yet, the spirit of Life is not static. Nothing ever stays the same, imperceptible as the changes may be. A tiny yellow celandine delights. A man and his dog who look like they have walked into the same wall, make me laugh. Strong chocolate tickles my taste buds. Kindness melts my tears. Roses, sunlight on the water, a halo round the waxing moon, community ventures and friendly support, new life, sweet fragrance, reasons to get up, to smile, soften, risk it….Risk it. Risk shining. Risk being gold.
40 years was not wasted – what compassion and humility I learnt in the fire and turmoil, ashes and sorrow of that time. Neither is grief a waste of time. It is, I should say it has been for me, an initiation into a more mature version of myself. It’s been a tough apprenticeship, but given what it is I have to say, how else could I have learnt to say it? It’s hard to write that line.
Flying home
As those of you who read my blog regularly know, I run a Threshold Choir: a small group of women who practise together and in twos or threes sing at the bedside of the dying. Every now and again, instead of practising, we do something different.
A couple of weeks ago, one of our members offered a voice improvisation session. Since the age of 9, only the river has heard the meandering melodies I make up (and the Dog). But here I am, my voice making music, following my imagination even beyond its ability; and here are two women joining me, accompanying, harmonising, singing alongside me. I jumped off the cliff that night– we all did. We jumped, and we flew. My 9 year old self is weeping with happiness and my heart is soaring. The songbird is coming home.
Every time I press ‘publish’ on this blog – and I mean every time – it takes courage. But what I am learning is this: my responsibility is to speak my truth, it is not my responsibility whether others agree/like me/or otherwise respond. So I sent off my book and I may be rejected multiple times but I would rather that than not to have had the courage to try at all.
With my love
Nickie
NEWS
DATE FOR YOUR DIARY: SATURDAY NOVEMBER 8TH
In person in South Brent. (Lots of nearby places to stay, if you’d like to come for the weekend and enjoy the stunning autumn beauty of Dartmoor while you’re here)
Clay Stories – a collaboration between myself and Roger Womack, using clay and words, nature and one another, to handle and language our grief.
More details to follow but do please consider joining us for what will be a wonderful and moving day. I’ll publish the booking form soon but if you’re interested in coming you can let me know here.
(Cost, likely to be a suggested donation in the region of £40 – £50 including materials and cake!)
Buy Me a Coffee
A very big thank you to those of you who generously support this blog with your donations to Buy Me a Coffee. I gift this blog as well as my work at a local hospice and my work leading the Threshold Choir singing for those on the threshold of life, and so I am extremely grateful for any support you offer me. If you would like to donate at any time, you can do so here. Thank you.
IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO SUBSCRIBE TO THIS BLOG, DO PLEASE CLICK ON THE SUBSCRIBE BUTTON. IF IT DOES NOT ARRIVE FROM SUBSTACK WHO PUBLISH IT EVERY TWO WEEKS, CHECK YOUR SPAM FOLDER.
I APOLOGISE FOR THE CONTACT PAGE ON THIS SITE NOT WORKING. YOU CAN GO TO MY INSTAGRAM AND PRIVATE MESSAGE ME OR MESSAGE ME HERE