We sat together at the table for yesterday’s two minute silence. We held hands. I closed my eyes, he kept his open, watching me some of the time, he told me afterwards. I asked him what he had thought about and it turned out we’d both thought of the First World War soldiers in the trenches. We can only re-image those scratchy newsreels and faded photographs, we weren’t there. They are borrowed memories. But they are nonetheless potent. What must it have been like, a form of hell, surely? The mud, the chaos, the gore and the fear. Bless them. And some so so young. Have we learnt anything?
I’m nearing the end of Joan Halifax’s book about being with the dying. It’s been a challenging read, particularly as it is as much about one’s own dying as another’s. I hold fast to it, that image of my own demise, though I am conscious that I have a rather aesthetically neat idea of it. When Halifax described lying amongst the rotting bodies on a Tibetan Charnel Ground I got a glimpse of my deep fear of viscera, of the disintegration of the body, of order, of the self. Is that why I am both fascinated by and horrified by the dotage of others? I will never forget how we found her, lying in all that faecal filth. My love, my blessed mother. I think of her dying alone. Did she know me when I came? Was her spirit still present as I held her? Did she want me there? Did she feel my love and forgiveness and compassion? Oh, I hope so. I do.
Another morning of pouring rain. I struggle to both get out of bed and to go out into that wet. And it is cold. Winter is coming hard and fast. I try to take comfort. There is some. (After all, most of us are not living in Gaza. Oh, bless them. What a hell they are experiencing). For me I find grace and comfort in the small things. Big jumpers are one such. I have two now – huge oversize lambswool ones from M&S. They enfold and encompass me. I am lost in them. It is good. And then there is the prospect of Advent and the lighting of those candles. And then there are the carols and all that sublime choral music to anticipate. Meanwhile, I continue to read about death. The Tibetans meditate on death daily. It is a good practice. We are nothing. I am nothing. I should remember this when I stir myself up so over those ten thousand things.
I walk out into the dark, wind and rain, not wanting to. When I am out there, and in it, I try to find some joy in the experience. Well, perhaps joy is too strong a word, let’s say benefit or beauty. The air is good. I like the feeling of its coolness against my face. I’ve used an umbrella these last few mornings, inconvenient though it is and I do enjoy hearing the sound of the rain on its taut surface (though when it blows inside out as it did several times today, I forget the pleasure of the pitter-pat). It is just weather, after all, and so many countries are, by comparions, parched dry. So I must celebrate the rain. It is a life-giver and the bringer of green.
I am becoming fascinated by empty spaces, in particular those who have been recently vacated by people. It’s the traces of presence and how they play out in these rooms, chambers and interiors that most interest me. What is it that is left behind? Are there smells, marks, even auras of the beings who have dwelt there? Do we make a room what it is, or does it have its own character separate from the one we impose?
There is so much I don’t know. And what I don’t know increases incrementally as I age. This I do know. And how uncomfortable I am with the not-knowing. Is it the same for everyone? It takes me back to my early school days and the hot sweaty panic I’d feel when asked a question by the teacher in class and not having the answer. Life was unfathomable then, as it is now. Can I sit with that? Can I accept my innocence, my naiveity and ignorance with grace? This new venture asks so much of me. It is a behemoth, a dragon, a monster and I must invite it in. Will I come through the other side? Possibly. Possibly not. My supporters aren’t scared. They know that I will do it. I must trust that. Meanwhile, the real world rages. And I ache for all concerned. So much grief, anger and death. Must it be so?
It’s a long time, or at least that is how it seems, since I had a long morning walk. It was pitch when I went out. All kitted out, I expected rain but it didn’t come. The wind, however, was strong, particularly on the Prom. I pushed through it – a metaphor for all the internal wrangling that is filling my head at present. It was good to be out. The air smelt good, churned up, but good. And I was alone. I walked along South Marine, comforted by the sight of now familiar windows with all their bits on the windowsills. I like these brief encounters with other peoples’ lives. One ground floor flat shone with a purple light. That was new. The B&B is still going but no on-and-off Christmas decorations yet. They will come soon, no doubt now that Bonfire Night is done. I look forward to the Christmas trees, some comfort in this dark adventtide.
I’m trying to learn acceptance. It’s a lifelong challenge but I think I am better at it than I was. Perhaps it is an increasing awareness of my mortality and my smallness. I don’t matter a jot so why should my hopes, my ambitions, my longings and wantings matter either. They do and they don’t. Having a plan feels nice. As does having a path to follow. It’s there, that thing that I want but it maybe it isn’t meant for me. If so, should I have something else in place just in case? Or, does that take some of that energy away from the wanting? It’s a magic thing, that I seem to believe is more likely to make it happen. It doesn’t. I am learning that the most I can do in these circumstances is my best. And then? To just let it be, whatever it needs to be. Some say that there is no real difference between failure and success, that they are just different journeys. Possibly. The latter tends to feel better than the first, but that’s our training, our rearing. Dreams are good, they light a flame inside. All those possibilities for adventure, that will probably never be taken. Like that little house that I hold inside, in readiness for when he goes. It is my solace, my consolation. The rest. Oh, yes, I still long to do good work. Make good work and to touch others, however lightly. And to make peace with her (though how I shall do this I have no idea). And just to love and forgive and make this little corner of the world a little better…
I’ve just caught sight of it. After yesterday’s utter greyness it is such a glory. The sky is still murky and threatens rain but there is the yellow, nevertheless. It licks across the yew tree and the clump of firs the lie towards the sea and then catches the back of South Marine. Oh, how I need it. The winter is a challenge. It makes me hungry for light. And now the rain comes and still the sun shines. Will there be a rainbow?
I’ve never liked taking them. They are bullish, unsubtle and they go through my system blasting all the good probiotics that I have planted in my gut. They make me feel unwell but it seems like I had little choice. My finger had grown very infected and my body, bless her, was struggling to heal it. I suspect the capsules that he has prescribed for me are not vegan and that makes swallowing them even worse. I have such an antipathy towards traditional medicine. I am not sure why. My finger is improving though it smells. Yesterday it smelt like blue cheese, today it is distinctly fish-like.
