Season of composting
Usually when I sit to write it tumbles out of me and arrives, pretty much complete, onto the page. Not today. It’s a month since the last blog – the first time I have missed the rhythm I set myself 33 months ago.
I have been out and about, senior rail card in hand. I’ve been to London and to Paris, I have had my family – including my 3 year old grandson who doesn’t have a volume button – staying with me and now suddenly I am home alone: me, the dog and quiet – oh so quiet – on a wet Sunday. Time to write. Except what? The truth is, my focus has been predominantly outwards.
In Paris, alongside my friend, I have been gazing on centuries’ old Medieval tapestries and exquisite sculptures, seeing my first Van Gogh in the flesh (startling), shopping and dropping (my hips, her knees), marvelling and travelling. Back here, I’ve been taking care of my daughter and her little family over from Germany, entrusted with sole care of the little one while she and her partner walked the moor. My exterior world has been rich, colourful (and loud) and now I need to let my interior world sift through all those experiences, bring the light and sunshine of those busy days into the quietness of my inner life. Time, in other words, to compost.
Wet, wet, wet
And it’s a good time to do so. Autumn is in full swing in the Northern Hemisphere. In the woods, fallen trees are sprouting fungal blooms seemingly overnight and the earth is a crackling carpet of gold and scarlet and copper. Inside my house, I live with the fragrant aroma of wet dog and by the back door there is a jumble of wellies and waterproofs. Wet matter. Decomposition and decay.
Someone kindly sent me a beautiful article this week by Brigit Anna McNeill (you can find her on Substack and I recommend her writing – it is beautiful). She says:
“Decay is the beginning of nourishment.”
I think we move very fast in our culture. Few employers take their cue from Nature and allow us shorter and slower working days as the darkness creeps into them. Even more so, the benighted days of grieving, require us to go slow, to quieten down, to compost the experiences and relationships we have had with those who have died. Brigit goes on to say that,
“Grief, like decomposition, is a slow collaboration with life.”
Grief is the process of allowing all the love, the celebrations and the challenges, the big and the little material of our relationships, to be broken down and integrated inside us. That ‘material’ doesn’t leave, doesn’t disappear into nothing, it remains in a different form. My relationships are reconfigured but not gone. Brigit again:
“Those we have loved…linger like roots beneath the surface, still feeding us, still tending to what they once cared for.”
Those we have loved
I still hear my husband’s kind voice and see his loving eyes and they remind me that I am loveable and can be gentle with myself. Sometimes I find myself laughing out loud at something ridiculous and realise I am looking through the eyes of my son. This last week I noticed that I grandmother my wee boy with the same patience my mother had for my children. Now and again I hear my clarity and integrity and know it was a gift my father seeded in me.
Who I am, how I am, how I move through the world and interact with it, is determined not only by my innate being, but also by the influence of every relationship I have had, especially with those I loved and who loved me. It seems more than a learning or a memory, it feels like they have left a trace, some molecules of themselves deposited inside me as building blocks for the rest of my life. There have been shedfuls of pain along the way, difficult relationships, challenges, and influences I might wish not to have had. I am choosing to compost it all.
It is a slow process, but step by step I am understanding that Love has neither gone nor is it static. As I compost, break down my experiences into understanding and building blocks for life, so too I offer that loving understanding back out into the world. Perhaps it will seed new life, nourish seedlings, enable a flowering or a fruiting, that isn’t for me to know. What I know is this:
Live… Love… Grieve… Love… Live.
With my love
Nickie
NEWS
CLAYSTORIES
LAST CALL! Saturday November 8th
There are still a few places left on this workshop/heartshop. We’d love it to be full and reach more people who we know could benefit from gently looking at their grief, recent or from many years ago, using clay to hold its imprint and words to articulate it.
All the details are on the flyer here. More on the events page where you can also book.
Any questions or difficulty booking please write to me at the email on the flyer.
WRITING THROUGH LOSS
PLEASE JOIN ME
I know online workshops can feel a little remote, but I promise you, we will create a warmth and safety when we gather together to write our way through loss of all kinds. Here’s what previous participants said:
“I often feel anxious in online groups but this one was held gently and yet clearly with good guidance…..Brilliant facilitation.…Nickie shared her gifts and knowledge to enable and nurture everyone..”
Writing, especially free writing, where we don’t bother about spelling, crafting or anything else except expressing what is inside us, is a wonderful tool and resource for those of us dealing with loss.
More information on the events page, where you can also book.
Do write to me at the email on the flyer if you’re not sure or would like to know more.
BUY ME A COFFEE
Thank you for your continued interest in my writing and my work. I am grateful for all your feedback and engagement in whatever form. As you know, much of my work in the area of dying and grieving is gifted, including this blog. If you would like to gift me, I should be both heart warmed and affirmed. You can do so here.
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