Softer and softer still

Here we are at Samhain, the Day of the Dead, All Hallows (and it’s Eve); a time they say when the veil is thin and communication between the realms is more possible. I have no idea what that means. I know the theory but my truth…?

I long to dream of my loved ones, to see signs and reminders of them when I walk, to hear their voices whispering (or bellowing) within me. It’s not my experience. (Although, I should tell you, the other day my emails stopped working overnight and, having tried everything I could think of without success, when I turned off my computer I asked my late husband in desperation, if he could sort it out. The next day it worked perfectly. Maybe coincidence. Except this is not the first time such a thing has occurred.) I digress.

I care

Last weekend I was participating in an ‘at home’ writing retreat – Writing Across the Veil with Mirabai Starr and Wild Heart. Before I began, I had a Qigong class. The lovely woman who was teaching me gave me the image of a little red bird residing within my heart who easily takes fright and flight. It is for me to take care of her so that she feels settled and comfortable there and then, when I speak with others, the little red bird can rise up and look out through my eyes. Isn’t that a beautiful image? I carried it with me into the retreat.

I made an altar on the table where I was writing: a candle and the last begonias from the garden, photographs of loved ones including four generation of women, a china drip feeder my great grandmother had used when my grandmother contracted scarlet fever, a sheet of lasagne (uncooked!) because it was the first meal my husband ever made me…

I offered

I listened, I shared with others and I wrote in response to prompts.

“I offer you the crimson leaf and the broken, blue, blackbird’s shell, my salty tears and even my bad temper…I offer you the space in our bed which I never occupy, waiting against all logic and hope for you to come one night, quietly and without fuss, to hold me there…I offer you every painful step I have taken since your death, steps that I haven’t wanted to take, amidst fallen leaves and muddy quagmires, brave snowdrops and noble foxgloves..”

I offered it all, not only to my beloved but to the transformational potential of grief, because what else do I have to dedicate but the truth of my experience moment by moment?

I thought

I thought about “the presence of absence” (James Crews) and how for me absence feels ‘thick’, which is very different to no presence. I wrote about how it might be to see my loved ones again, imagined how they would feel against my finger tips and how, if I close my eyes, I can feel the shiny hardness of a bald head, the thin ribbing of a loose T shirt, how I can hear, as clearly as if I heard it yesterday, the pitch and inflection of my son saying, “Mum”, the way that only he could say it.

I soften

Last time on this blog, I wrote of my longing to weep. Now I acknowledge my longing to soften: a softness which can only happen because I trust my inner strength and clear boundaries, a softness which allows me to be vulnerable and receptive, a softness which warms my heart and melts my frozen tears.

I wrote about my own death and as I did so I imagined the unutterable peace my husband had endeavoured to describe after he had ‘died’ the first time many years ago and been brought back. I ended like this:

“And so perhaps it is time to soften my gaze as I look on my own innocence, to let the little bird who resides within my heart feel safe and encourage her to fly up and look out of my eyes with gentleness upon this world.

Maybe it’s time to practise dying.”

With my love,

Nickie

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NEWS

Not Another Day

Writing is very much a solo activity and I find it nigh on impossible to know how something will land with another person. Some things I write resonate with others deeply, other things not so much.

And so, as my book embarks on the next stage of its journey, I would like to build more of a ‘community’ around it: people who care about what I care about, people who understand that whilst our grief is our own, we need the support and understanding of others to grieve well. In other words, I would like the journey of the book to be congruent with the journey of grief – supported, cared about and ultimately transformational.

If you would like to accompany me and the book on its journey towards publication, whether by reading it and giving feedback, putting me in touch with an illustrator, talking to people, connecting me to potential agents, publishers or hybrid publishers, or anything else you can think of, please do get in touch with me here.

Thank you very much.

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Moving Forward with Loss and Grief

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