“So this is Christmas..”

Empty Places

The last three years – and this year may yet be no different – Covid has kiboshed plans to be with my family, only highlighting my awareness that some of those I love are not with me. Many of you reading this will have your own ’empty places at dinner’, your own sorrow that as the year completes, another year begins without someone dear to you in it. There is no getting around, over or under it – it hurts.

Options

Kind friends may ask us to join them for Christmas- but we know we wouldn’t have been invited if…

We may carry on ‘as normal’ for the sake of children or other family members– but the ‘normal’ exposes painful absence(s).

We may choose to hide under a duvet for the day or binge on films or read a book we’ve been saving or fly off to Morocco or help at a homeless shelter or…. whatever else might get us (safely I hope) through the day, so that when we wake up the day after, Christmas (or New Year’s Eve) is behind us and not in front of us.

Sanctuary

I have no magic formulae, no dependable advice, no guaranteed ‘fix its’. I don’t believe they exist. But here is what I have learnt. When my heart is sore and sorrowing, I need sanctuary. For me, sanctuary is a place of understanding and compassion, of gentleness, softness and kindness, a place of rest and respite. Where can I find such a thing? Variously, at home, with a good friend, writing, in poetry, meditating, connected to the earth, in simple ritual. I imagine many of you will have your own sense of what holds you and brings you comfort but, in case it’s hard to find your resources in the moments when you need them, I expand on a few of mine here.

Earth

The earth, I have come to feel, holds, supports, nourishes, nurtures, guides and inspires me. The earth is home and ‘mother’.  I like to sit comfortably, breathe naturally and allow myself to be aware how the earth supports me wholly. If I’m leaning against a tree or sitting beside the river, so much the better, but my sofa, with cushions and furry blankets, will do just fine. As the earth supports me, I let myself feel the air enveloping me, as if its touch is the softest of caresses. I might make myself a cocoon out of my breath, where I am safe and warm. If I’m outside, I might ask nature to befriend me and open my eyes to bear witness to the bare bones of winter and the steadfastness of the tree. I might (if I’ve brought a flask of tea and some chocolate and a note pad) settle in for a bit and write, letting it all flood out of me without censoring it. I might realise that I am deeply connected to the cycle of things, that I belong, that I am known and that my grief is understood.  There is a deep solace in that.

Get clear on your intention.

Prepare the space/table top/hearth, with a candle/photograph/meaningful object/things you may need over the course of the ritual – and tissues.

To open, you may want to light a candle, read a poem relevant to your intention, or sing a song, or talk to/pray to the ‘What Is’ of your understanding, or in some other way acknowledge what you are doing and that you do so with a heightened sense of awareness.

To acknowledge your current state and/or to move you across the threshold, you may choose to meditate, speak to your beloved(s), listen, write them a card, open your presents, sing, plant a seed into a pot, put photos into a ‘new life’ book, make a memory collage, put your love or a message into a feather, a stone, special object, make a mandala from leaves or petals,  throw sticks into a fire as you bless your loved ones for all they gave you. The possibilities are endless.

Take as long as you need.

When you are done and you’ve wept, raged or otherwise expressed everything you need to – for the moment – you may take some time to reflect on how you feel now.

Then, close the time with gratitude, blowing out the candle(s).

Have a cup of tea, something to eat perhaps. Go gently.

Grief that connects

What we do when we use ritual especially, but also other forms of sanctuary, is to turn towards our loss and not away from it. We acknowledge the preciousness of our grief- which is in fact our love- which connects us to who we have lost, and we recognise that the relationship is continuing in a new form. It is not an indulgence to be with our grief and our beloved ones in this way, it is wisdom.  In time the quality of grief will evolve but there is no hurry, no race to win, no map to fulfil. In my experience, avoiding pain does not hasten its departure, rather it saps us of the possibility of joy.

I don’t know how it is for you. Perhaps you’re fine and good to be in the midst of family, friends and social hubbub. But perhaps too, you’d like to take some quiet space to settle in with the ones you love who are no longer with you. Please do, please honour the needs of your loving heart. However you spend this time of Christmas, and the New Year, I wish you a sense of peace and wellbeing.

With my love

Nickie

NEWS

We have a provisional date of Saturday 24^th February, a provisional booking for a venue where I live on the edge of Dartmoor, and a provisional fee of around £30/£35 (concessions will be available) for the day. February is often a difficult month: spring still seems a long way off and the news never gets any better. Sending our love and kindness into the world matters and we can do it with song. We will hold the day ‘heartfully’, with a little meditation and perhaps some poetry. Bring your own lunch – tea and cake provided. B&B information can also be provided for those of you who would like to join us from further afield.  Confirmation to follow SOON!