“Nice holiday?”
I am recently returned from Germany. It is a journey I make often as my daughter has lived there for 14 years. Now with a partner and a little boy, she lives in the rural East, an hour North of Berlin. And there, for the 2nd year running, she has just run a children’s festival with live music, an invitation to grafitti a wall (who knew what good fun that is?!) and a mountain of vegan chilli to feed the hoards, (made by me).
The women of the village made cakes -last year a preponderance of banana cakes, this year not a banana in sight but four big trays of plum cake. Families from nearby villages arrived in droves and several from Berlin made a weekend of it and camped over.
We worked our socks off for days, to prepare, deliver and clear up, ensuring that 300 people, especially the small people, had a good time, and that my 2 year old grandson stayed happy and safe.
Holy Days
“Did you have a nice holiday”, my friends asked when I arrived back. Actually, though I returned home so tired I could barely function, yes, I did. “Holiday” means “holy day” and, in the sense that these days were filled with good will, community, creativity and love they were holy. To me, in my memory, they will always feel sacred.
To hold my grandson on my knee as he bubbles with joy – priceless; to scoop him up in his sadness and comfort him – precious; to walk with him through the village in the dark, he pushing his dolly in a pram and wearing nothing but a nappy and a hat – it’s a memory I will treasure forever.
To be included in family, in shared endeavour, in friendships, in a community that’s not my own – these are invaluable to me. To laugh until I’m doubled up, to see where somebody is struggling and be able to fill the gap – thank you. Vibrancy, life, vigour- these are holy. 5 years ago it seemed to me that all possibilities for joy had died, colour drained from my life, song and laughter were distant memories.
Adventures
The day after my husband’s funeral, my daughter persuaded me out for a walk I wasn’t familiar with. She took photos: “Your first adventure”, she said. I remember it as an uphill struggle, which seemed to take hours, though in truth it was only a couple of miles. She drew me out to Germany for her birthday a few weeks later, camping beside a canal; next for a short break away together on the Czech border; and then included me in dreams for her new life outside Berlin with a project to foster children – only to unexpectedly produce a child of her own. She leant me her passion, her colour and her zest for life, until I could find my own. And all the while grieving her brother, my son. I could weep with gratitude for her.
When I was over in Germany a couple of months ago for her little boy’s birthday – camping by a lake this time – we all took a kayak out onto the water, watching wildlife and cloud shapes, rocked by the rippling water. We loved it. But,
“I have a guilty pleasure”, I told her, “I love speedboats!” She was shocked – fast, noisy, un-eco, ‘un-mother’, surely?
On my birthday,
“I’ve booked us a speedboat trip, “she told me, “for when you’re back over. Oh and you’re driving it”. Oops.
I did – in fact we did. We emerged sedately from the canal to make vast, fast loops on the glassy lake, saw a sea eagle take off and soar overhead, anchored our vintage speedboat in the shallows to eat raspberries and chocolate and arrived back breathless and beaming 2 hours (and 10 late minutes) later. Woohoo!! Another adventure.
Impermanence
I don’t know how many more adventures there will be. I take nothing for granted – no toddler cuddles, no laughter, no inclusion, no joy, none of it. Every experience is impermanent. I cannot keep hold of it any more than I can hold onto the lake water I cup in my hand, any more than I could hold onto my son, or my husband. Gifts arrive it seems, to be appreciated. My life itself is a gift to be appreciated, as impermanent as anything else. When joy appears, the sorrow and grief I have experienced make its colours more vibrant, more achingly poignant. Happiness has a piquancy and sweetness to it, and I want to squeeze every last drop of juice from each experience.
One adventure will be my last adventure. One day will be my last day. Will I be able to look back at my life through the eyes of love and say,
“Thank you for these holy days”? I hope it will be so.
With love
Nickie
NEWS
Thank you to the several of you who kindly offered to read a draft of my first book: Not Another Day – getting through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd…. year of grief. I very much hope to have it with you some time in October.
Walking with Loss, Together Last call for Emma Capper’s and my group in the woods by the River Erme, honouring and creatively exploring whatever losses and griefs we are holding. These may be personal or global, recent or of long standing. Grief remains so long as it is unaddressed. We have just one place available so please join us if you live close enough and feel called, or if you know somebody in South Devon who you think might like to join us, do please pass on these details.
Beginning 11th September 2-5pm and every Wednesday for 6 weeks until 16th October.
Let the trees, allowing their leaves to fall and the river flowing towards the sea, be our guides for life and loss.
Contact me here for more details or to book please follow this link.
Moving Forward with Loss and Grief This retreat, in luxurious accommodation on the edge of Dartmoor and nourishing you with the tastiest and most colourful food ever, is now half full. If you are interested in finding ways to resource yourself as you journey with grief and loss, do consider joining us from November 21st to25th.
If you’d like to talk to us about it before booking, you can join Sally Potter and I on a Zoom call to be arranged (contact me here) or for more information or to book, contact Sally Potter here.
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