I wrote the following piece in 2003, possibly the first piece I had written for 25 years
Who am I?
All my life I have been who you say I am;
Or rather, who I believe you say I am.
Like the weeds at the bottom of the river
Pulled to and fro by changing currents,
Thrown against the rocks
And choked by silt and pollution.
As I grew older, the “me” that I was bent this way and that
But never stood firm and confident.
The “who I am” started as a blank canvas
That in time was filled with soft oils that set hard.
But now restored to my former potential,
Who am I in my midlife years?
I am who and what ever I say I am,
Whatever I commit to being, I am
And suddenly I am unbounded;
No longer anchored to the river bed
But flowing free in whatever direction I choose.
The canvas is now a mass of vivid colours
And yet there is space for still more of me
As one area fills, another becomes blank
And who I am now is glorious,
A celebration of life and freedom;
An inspiration to the weeds that still cling fiercely to the rocks;
A powerful presence that provides firm guidance
And offers hope for peace and harmony where before there was conflict.
And that is who I am.
* This piece is not featuredin my book, Love in Abundance
Saturday 19 February 2011
Vocal Hands
In the aftermath of a Christmas party, my mother and her fellow residents sit, some happy, some sad, some chatty, some silent, some unsettled, some snug, some active, some sleeping. All the varied faces, the many personalities, the long life of infinite stories that brought each one to this place.
I have no idea what each one has seen, the sorrows, the joys, the challenges overcome and the pent up emotions, long-since locked inside minds that are now, to varying degrees, too confused to give voice to them, at least by conventional means.
Yet, sitting with my mother and a lady from a different floor, I sense some basic things they want to say, not from words but from demeanour, body language and eyes. Above all, I feel the need to give and receive love, through gentle hands clinging firmly to mine or to my shoulder or leg, these lovely, frightened souls giving voice through their hands, a voice to love and their essential humanity, a communication I receive loud and clear.
I have no idea what each one has seen, the sorrows, the joys, the challenges overcome and the pent up emotions, long-since locked inside minds that are now, to varying degrees, too confused to give voice to them, at least by conventional means.
Yet, sitting with my mother and a lady from a different floor, I sense some basic things they want to say, not from words but from demeanour, body language and eyes. Above all, I feel the need to give and receive love, through gentle hands clinging firmly to mine or to my shoulder or leg, these lovely, frightened souls giving voice through their hands, a voice to love and their essential humanity, a communication I receive loud and clear.
Till We Meet Again
What have you been doing in the month since we said our goodbyes? Have you been busy? Do you miss us? Do you think of us often?
Me? I’ve been up and down. You know. I think you’ve been there…with me… as I’ve gone through all this. Now I’m feeling much stronger and actually things are going well. It’s your doing isn’t it? God I miss you, your ever present love that shone through your most frustrating moments, your mischievous eyes.
I know you chose to go, to free yourself and us from the burdens of disease and I thank you for that, but how hard it is to think we’ll never hug, hold hands, kiss, laugh and cry together again in this mortal form.
For you time no longer has any meaning and in a blink I’ll be with you. For me I want many more years and though I love life enough to do that, I will long for you always.
Me? I’ve been up and down. You know. I think you’ve been there…with me… as I’ve gone through all this. Now I’m feeling much stronger and actually things are going well. It’s your doing isn’t it? God I miss you, your ever present love that shone through your most frustrating moments, your mischievous eyes.
I know you chose to go, to free yourself and us from the burdens of disease and I thank you for that, but how hard it is to think we’ll never hug, hold hands, kiss, laugh and cry together again in this mortal form.
For you time no longer has any meaning and in a blink I’ll be with you. For me I want many more years and though I love life enough to do that, I will long for you always.
Through the Eyes of Another
I look at my mother and see she is scared and alone: having little memory makes her feel dependent and frustrated. I notice these and many other thoughts and emotions as they demonstrate themselves in anger, bitterness, moaning and other symptoms of her illness.
But it was only yesterday that I asked myself, what would it be like, looking out at the world from inside her head, with her eyes, with her limited understanding yet occasional clarity? And what I see is another world; not the world I see but an unreal one in which there is little personal control, one in which people speak an alien language:
But it was only yesterday that I asked myself, what would it be like, looking out at the world from inside her head, with her eyes, with her limited understanding yet occasional clarity? And what I see is another world; not the world I see but an unreal one in which there is little personal control, one in which people speak an alien language:
I know what I want to say but no-one seems to understand me and I feel sad and alone.
For me much is unfamiliar and yet there are bits I remember and yet I hesitate to say it for fear of looking stupid.
A man is talking to me: he seems to expect me to know him but I don’t think I do: oh, I’d better admit I don’t.
What’s up - they are so stupid – don’t they know what I’m saying?
“I’m not stupid you know; there’s nothing wrong with my head.”
Oh, my son. I love him so much: I want him to be with me always. Why can’t he stay? Huh, he doesn’t really want me; am I a burden to him? “Oh, go away, you don’t love me!” “God, I wish I were dead.”
The Nature of Love
It is interesting to note that love is often seen as a romantic concept, an extension of sexual relations that fulfils expectations driven by social imperatives such as protection and nest building.
In reality, love is far less sugary than this notion and involves the natural order of things in the universe. It is at the core of everything - literally every thing, animate or inanimate, for it is all of the Source who is love. Love is the light energy that unites us all and ultimately is all that everything is. Nothing has true substance. Everything is energy, light energy named love. Love is truly all around you. Just embrace it and be open to it so that it may invade your body and mind and claim its rightful place in your life and your heart, for love is all you are: you can fight or you can accept it and enter the willing state of peace that is our rightful inheritance. This is the true nature of love.
In reality, love is far less sugary than this notion and involves the natural order of things in the universe. It is at the core of everything - literally every thing, animate or inanimate, for it is all of the Source who is love. Love is the light energy that unites us all and ultimately is all that everything is. Nothing has true substance. Everything is energy, light energy named love. Love is truly all around you. Just embrace it and be open to it so that it may invade your body and mind and claim its rightful place in your life and your heart, for love is all you are: you can fight or you can accept it and enter the willing state of peace that is our rightful inheritance. This is the true nature of love.
The First Real Mother’s Day?
Is it my imagination, or are there many more advertisements for Mother’s Day this year? They seem to be everywhere. Actually, I suppose they’re just more remarkable since my mother died. Suddenly, I am truly conscious of Mother’s Day, this man-made celebration of one of the most important people in our lives and I realise that, even when we took her flowers by the armful, treated her to lunch, tea or dinner here and there, wrote her verse in cards designed to make her feel good, there was still a fundamental failure to appreciate her for who she was and how much she really meant to us. Sad that it takes death to fully awaken the appreciation and yet I know she’s there, watching me dwell on her, aware of my acknowledgement of her contribution to my life.
The Final Waiting Room
I look about me at the many aged faces, some in eager anticipation for the afternoon’s events as the fellow residents slowly come in from their living quarters, some in another world, oblivious to what is happening, others bemoaning the upheaval from their daily routine and the bringing together of people they do not warm to.
One lady lovingly takes my hand and kisses it, another kisses me as she always does and my mother tells me she wants to go home, barely acknowledging my visit. The room sits quietly waiting for the fun to start as things are unexpectedly delayed for more than half an hour.
I sit with my anxious and hyper-critical mother and notice the myriad wrinkled faces about me: some more ready to engage with me than others. But then as the camp-looking singer, herself somewhat mature and reminiscent of a man in drag, starts the afternoon’s entertainment with a selection of “golden oldies”, she croons croakily and draws out the life in those who are still capable of participation.
My mother’s immense sense of fun is now lost in a heady whirl of unreal concerns while others ignore the limitations of their frailty and talent and give it their all, singing along and dancing, no doubt recalling better days when the desire for joyful interaction was matched by an ability to live life and express their love with energetic abandon.
I am moved by the many reactions to the situation and, above all, by the simple things, by the many people present who reach out hungrily for physical touch and reassurance, to experience still the lifeblood of love, friendship and approval but also have so much love to give at this last staging post in life, the final waiting room.
One lady lovingly takes my hand and kisses it, another kisses me as she always does and my mother tells me she wants to go home, barely acknowledging my visit. The room sits quietly waiting for the fun to start as things are unexpectedly delayed for more than half an hour.
I sit with my anxious and hyper-critical mother and notice the myriad wrinkled faces about me: some more ready to engage with me than others. But then as the camp-looking singer, herself somewhat mature and reminiscent of a man in drag, starts the afternoon’s entertainment with a selection of “golden oldies”, she croons croakily and draws out the life in those who are still capable of participation.
My mother’s immense sense of fun is now lost in a heady whirl of unreal concerns while others ignore the limitations of their frailty and talent and give it their all, singing along and dancing, no doubt recalling better days when the desire for joyful interaction was matched by an ability to live life and express their love with energetic abandon.
I am moved by the many reactions to the situation and, above all, by the simple things, by the many people present who reach out hungrily for physical touch and reassurance, to experience still the lifeblood of love, friendship and approval but also have so much love to give at this last staging post in life, the final waiting room.
The Beginning of the End
Looking back, I sat by your side virtually from the beginning of your end, unknowing, my heart reaching out to you in pain.
As the day progressed, people come in and out, nurses, doctors and family alike, and through all of this there’s you and me, connected in silent understanding that I am there for you no matter what.
Patiently we wait for test after test yet in my inner mind I already know this is your dénouement, the closing act of the drama that was your life. Eventually I learnt that the prognosis is not good and after a few tears I prepare myself for the worst and set about orchestrating this final scene as you would have wished; the visitors, the newsfeed to family and friends and, above all, the gentle, loving words, the reassuring touches and hand-holding; the unerring devotion.
As the day progressed, people come in and out, nurses, doctors and family alike, and through all of this there’s you and me, connected in silent understanding that I am there for you no matter what.
Patiently we wait for test after test yet in my inner mind I already know this is your dénouement, the closing act of the drama that was your life. Eventually I learnt that the prognosis is not good and after a few tears I prepare myself for the worst and set about orchestrating this final scene as you would have wished; the visitors, the newsfeed to family and friends and, above all, the gentle, loving words, the reassuring touches and hand-holding; the unerring devotion.
Rock of Love*
Trust me as I am your redeemer always. You need only me. I will always protect and love you like no other. On my love you can always depend. There is no other whose love is so unquestioning. This is true for everyone. So seek not the rock of love from others; seek only the solace of their joy in being with you. True safety and comfort comes only from me. When you lean on me for this loving comfort, your need, your dependence on others, ceases and you are free to love without attachment or condition, to let people do and be what is right for them. Herein lies the source of true happiness on Earth; herein lies the secret of true love amongst beings.
* This piece does not feature in my book , Love in Abundance
* This piece does not feature in my book , Love in Abundance
Reaching Out
A proud but lonely woman reaches out from her mental and physical prison that is life for her these days. Whereas before she would sooner have died than ask a favour and admit she is lonely, she is now driven to cry for help at all hours, all sense of time lost in a haze of utter misery.
Call after call after call she makes, often only a minute apart: 10, 20, 30, 40 even 50 in but a few hours, all to fall on the deaf ears of an answering machine. Each plaintiff message tearing at the heart when finally the messages are replayed, our love alone is not sufficient to nurture that aching heart and its simple needs.
So intense is her anguish, so extreme her behaviour that this is almost how her life now is. The simple existence of sleeping intermittently, feeding when the body demands and smoking herself silly are the background and the only respite are the trips to buy still more cigarettes, wine, simple foods, toilet rolls, kitchen towels and dog food.
No wonder the monotony drives her to lose all sense of perspective as she dials that same number for the umpteenth time in ten minutes only to ask the most banal questions as an excuse for calling or to bare her soul and plead for company in an unashamed, despairing outcry. How deep the pain must be to force her to surrender that pride and reach out so desperately. How deeply sad is our almost total impotence in the face of such glaring agony.
Call after call after call she makes, often only a minute apart: 10, 20, 30, 40 even 50 in but a few hours, all to fall on the deaf ears of an answering machine. Each plaintiff message tearing at the heart when finally the messages are replayed, our love alone is not sufficient to nurture that aching heart and its simple needs.
So intense is her anguish, so extreme her behaviour that this is almost how her life now is. The simple existence of sleeping intermittently, feeding when the body demands and smoking herself silly are the background and the only respite are the trips to buy still more cigarettes, wine, simple foods, toilet rolls, kitchen towels and dog food.
No wonder the monotony drives her to lose all sense of perspective as she dials that same number for the umpteenth time in ten minutes only to ask the most banal questions as an excuse for calling or to bare her soul and plead for company in an unashamed, despairing outcry. How deep the pain must be to force her to surrender that pride and reach out so desperately. How deeply sad is our almost total impotence in the face of such glaring agony.
Napes*
Ever noticed the napes of people’s necks? There’s every shape, size, texture and colour imaginable: the long thin, elegantly pallid nape; the pale, short, fat, hairy nape that narrows to a stocky head; the oily, spotty, skinny nape that last saw soap and water many days ago; the soft, supple, smooth nape, so very well cared for; the sallow, sweaty nape, part-covered in blond, curly swags of hair that drop short of the hastily-tied ponytail; the immaculate, closely-shaved, long nape that rigidly towers over it slovenly neighbours; the flaccid, slightly podgy nape that surrendered rigour for comfort long ago; the myriad covered napes, hiding unimaginably wide if also tiny variations.
As I obediently follow the hoard of seething napes, calmly retreating to the nearest exit in flight from an unknown emergency, I sense me melting into the crowd, just another nape, yet a nape that is uniquely mine. My growing awareness of my fellow napes and my part in the whole, I lose all sense of me and feel the joy of common experience, like the single snowflake forming a blanket in a storm that swathes and mollycoddles the exposed earth.
For the privilege of melting into a sea of bobbing napes and seeing my own as but a piece in life’s jigsaw, I am blessed with elation and the recognition of what would be possible if every nape felt the same for just one second. And the thought moves me to tears and I sigh…hopefully.
* This piece does not feature in my book, Love in Abundance
As I obediently follow the hoard of seething napes, calmly retreating to the nearest exit in flight from an unknown emergency, I sense me melting into the crowd, just another nape, yet a nape that is uniquely mine. My growing awareness of my fellow napes and my part in the whole, I lose all sense of me and feel the joy of common experience, like the single snowflake forming a blanket in a storm that swathes and mollycoddles the exposed earth.
For the privilege of melting into a sea of bobbing napes and seeing my own as but a piece in life’s jigsaw, I am blessed with elation and the recognition of what would be possible if every nape felt the same for just one second. And the thought moves me to tears and I sigh…hopefully.
* This piece does not feature in my book, Love in Abundance
Naked Beauty
“Get dressed Mummy”. Get in the bath…please!”
“But I had one last night: I have one every night”.
Her fantasy she may or may not believe, but I doubt it.
That night after much cajoling, she steps into a warm bath,
And surrenders to me, upset only that others may be laughing at her.
Left alone together, the warm soapy water soaks into her now sagging skin
Made leathery by so many years of sun bathing.
As I help free her skin of hardened oils and accumulated soil,
I persuade her to manage her most intimate areas and recesses.
But as I shampoo her lank and nicotine-stained hair,
Her head cupped in my hands, I experience a singular loving connection,
A deep intimacy akin to that between mother and child, but in reverse.
What a daunting challenge and yet profound privilege to be there for her in that way.
What an expression of deep, unconditional love and trust.
“But I had one last night: I have one every night”.
Her fantasy she may or may not believe, but I doubt it.
That night after much cajoling, she steps into a warm bath,
And surrenders to me, upset only that others may be laughing at her.
Left alone together, the warm soapy water soaks into her now sagging skin
Made leathery by so many years of sun bathing.
As I help free her skin of hardened oils and accumulated soil,
I persuade her to manage her most intimate areas and recesses.
But as I shampoo her lank and nicotine-stained hair,
Her head cupped in my hands, I experience a singular loving connection,
A deep intimacy akin to that between mother and child, but in reverse.
What a daunting challenge and yet profound privilege to be there for her in that way.
What an expression of deep, unconditional love and trust.
My Light*
As a baby, a wonderful light radiated from me and I was bathed in its reflection;
As a young child, I turned down the light and that reflection dimmed;
In my teens, I hid still more light as I began to enjoy the shade;
So by my adult years I stood in total darkness, but a black hole in a lonely universe;
Till one day I was shown I was that very light I had so long suppressed;
And once again I bathed in its glorious reflection and my light shone upon everyone.
* This piece is not featured in my book, Love in Abundance
As a young child, I turned down the light and that reflection dimmed;
In my teens, I hid still more light as I began to enjoy the shade;
So by my adult years I stood in total darkness, but a black hole in a lonely universe;
Till one day I was shown I was that very light I had so long suppressed;
And once again I bathed in its glorious reflection and my light shone upon everyone.
* This piece is not featured in my book, Love in Abundance
Material Expressions of Love
For years I have enjoyed indulging my mother in fine things: earrings, necklaces, scarves, rings, brooches and all sorts of clothes and shoes. She was nearly always delighted by my little finds from trips around the world and I wallowed in her delight. It also allowed me the freedom to buy beautiful things that a man cannot normally use himself.
But now my mother is not interested in virtually anything, with the possible exception of my poetry, and I feel sad; a sense of loss, of something that will never be again. And I see at once my gifts have been such a silent but strong expression of my undying love for the woman who bore me.
So, goodbye to that veiled expression of love I have known for so long but all is not lost and my poems are the bridge into my mother’s world; into that lonely, waning spirit as she too slowly says goodbye.
But now my mother is not interested in virtually anything, with the possible exception of my poetry, and I feel sad; a sense of loss, of something that will never be again. And I see at once my gifts have been such a silent but strong expression of my undying love for the woman who bore me.
So, goodbye to that veiled expression of love I have known for so long but all is not lost and my poems are the bridge into my mother’s world; into that lonely, waning spirit as she too slowly says goodbye.
Love and Neglect
Mummy, you look long and hard into my eyes, searching I suppose for reassurance of my love for you. You cry when you see me, get angry when I’m with you for those many days we have been apart, making it mean I don’t want you or love you. You can do that if you want but it must be so painful – searching for proof that you’re right and finding it, of course. We always do.
But you could as easily choose another way of looking at it: that I love you with all my heart, that I ache for my mother’s love and friendship, knowing that I cannot spend the time with you that I would like. I do not deceive myself or you: I choose to pursue my career and other commitments but I also choose to put time aside for you each week, aware at least that you are safe and have companionship that was missing in that painful period when you lived alone.
It seems such a waste of our limited time together to have you vent your frustrations and be miserable, only to be cheerful when I am not around – I ask you to forget your self-torturing perspective and enjoy my visits as concentrated moments of love and connection.
And as I hug you hard and your resistance melts, I feel the love flow freely between us like a warm, regenerative life-blood filling my heart with joy and leaving me satisfied with my diversion on the way to work. I love you, dear, and always will.
But you could as easily choose another way of looking at it: that I love you with all my heart, that I ache for my mother’s love and friendship, knowing that I cannot spend the time with you that I would like. I do not deceive myself or you: I choose to pursue my career and other commitments but I also choose to put time aside for you each week, aware at least that you are safe and have companionship that was missing in that painful period when you lived alone.
It seems such a waste of our limited time together to have you vent your frustrations and be miserable, only to be cheerful when I am not around – I ask you to forget your self-torturing perspective and enjoy my visits as concentrated moments of love and connection.
And as I hug you hard and your resistance melts, I feel the love flow freely between us like a warm, regenerative life-blood filling my heart with joy and leaving me satisfied with my diversion on the way to work. I love you, dear, and always will.
Inertia*
A lump of metal, well machined but lifeless sits on the car seat, staring hard at me while its owner is absent and I feel sick to my core. As I sit there I feel fear and disgust as well as sadness: so how can an impassive, inert object instil such deep feelings in me? This lump of machined metal is a machine gun belonging to the guard of our convoy.
The fear and disgust emanate not from that innocent lump of metal but rather the intentions behind the very human act of creation of a weapon. That someone can use it to take the life of another saddens me deeply, yet the irony is that I feel somewhat safer that our guard is armed and, indeed, if he were not he would serve no purpose on our journey.
In applying the same perspective to the myriad weapons designed to kill our fellow man, the sadness deepens still, tears welling up from within as I become aware of how, by my inertia, I too am as guilty as the next for the deaths in the name of this or that, that in reality have no justification, sat here in my safe, comfortable surroundings.
* This piece is not featured in my book, Love in Abundance
The fear and disgust emanate not from that innocent lump of metal but rather the intentions behind the very human act of creation of a weapon. That someone can use it to take the life of another saddens me deeply, yet the irony is that I feel somewhat safer that our guard is armed and, indeed, if he were not he would serve no purpose on our journey.
In applying the same perspective to the myriad weapons designed to kill our fellow man, the sadness deepens still, tears welling up from within as I become aware of how, by my inertia, I too am as guilty as the next for the deaths in the name of this or that, that in reality have no justification, sat here in my safe, comfortable surroundings.
* This piece is not featured in my book, Love in Abundance
If … If Only
If she were with me now, she’d be chatting to the girl that served me, to all the passersby, squinting those warm, smiling eyes, radiating her love to anyone she encountered, annoying those not open to her charms.
If she were with me now, she’d talk of this and that, of who was in favour and who was out, of her frustrations and joys with family, friends and colleagues, of an impossible dream that filled her heart with hope.
If she were with me now, swirls of thick, grey smoke would fill the air ripe with profanities in an endless chain of pent up feelings given vent to by tobacco and companionship and the freedom to be herself.
If she were with me now, laughter, hope and love would fill my heart, if only….
If she were with me now, she’d talk of this and that, of who was in favour and who was out, of her frustrations and joys with family, friends and colleagues, of an impossible dream that filled her heart with hope.
If she were with me now, swirls of thick, grey smoke would fill the air ripe with profanities in an endless chain of pent up feelings given vent to by tobacco and companionship and the freedom to be herself.
If she were with me now, laughter, hope and love would fill my heart, if only….
Hidden Jewels
Just listen to my mother and maybe all you can hear is nonsense;
Perhaps all you can see is illness and a woman lost and confused.
But listen with you heart and your eyes as well as your ears
And you will get the essence of what she says and who she still is.
The words may not connect with the thought that generates them;
The eyes betray her frustration, confusion and fear;
But watch her intently, hold her hand and look deeply into her eyes
And she being speaks of her joy, her fears and her love.
She utters a desire for early death but her heart still hangs on ever hopeful,
For she is not ready to give up on the driving force in her life: people.
Now unable to support herself and seemingly angry at her demise,
She cannot hide the glimpses we get of her occasional peace and joy.
As she flirts with this one and that; she teases and plays; she goes about her day;
Her old body still has a youthful, mischievous mind and stubborn demeanour.
So listen for what she cannot say: give vent to her trapped emotions;
Be patient, loving and calm and she will reward you with her love.
Perhaps all you can see is illness and a woman lost and confused.
But listen with you heart and your eyes as well as your ears
And you will get the essence of what she says and who she still is.
The words may not connect with the thought that generates them;
The eyes betray her frustration, confusion and fear;
But watch her intently, hold her hand and look deeply into her eyes
And she being speaks of her joy, her fears and her love.
She utters a desire for early death but her heart still hangs on ever hopeful,
For she is not ready to give up on the driving force in her life: people.
Now unable to support herself and seemingly angry at her demise,
She cannot hide the glimpses we get of her occasional peace and joy.
As she flirts with this one and that; she teases and plays; she goes about her day;
Her old body still has a youthful, mischievous mind and stubborn demeanour.
So listen for what she cannot say: give vent to her trapped emotions;
Be patient, loving and calm and she will reward you with her love.
Goodbye
Waxen, jaundiced flesh still warm yet fast setting firm; dejected pod devoid of your essential self, the quintessential you. My lips gently kiss your now cold brow one last time, more from love and respect than belief that I am kissing “you”. Silence fills the air, no life energy present except my own. The stillness is almost shocking, contrasting violently with the rapid, short, shallow gasps for air but a few hours earlier as I kissed you goodbye.
You are here no more, busy instead visiting those you’ve known and loved, to bid them farewell, free at last from this mortal prison that confined your true spirit for so long.
Goodbye.
You are here no more, busy instead visiting those you’ve known and loved, to bid them farewell, free at last from this mortal prison that confined your true spirit for so long.
Goodbye.
Forlorn Hope?
Sat by what may well be my mother’s death bed, day after day, hopes dashed, raised then dashed again, I am utterly drained, not knowing how long I can bear it. I notice how I cope with life by creating little certainties everywhere I can in a forlorn attempt to control my world. This way I can adjust to almost anything, with profound loss, financial or human, but without it I am afraid, lost at sea in my tumultuous world.
So these last four days have been horrendous, first peacefully accepting her pending death after the initial shock of her fall and pneumonia, orchestrating loving visits by family and friends, then the unexpected prospect of recovery coupled with guilt for seemingly giving up all hope, a pattern only to be repeated all over again, leaving me uncertain as to what to say or do and emotionally crushed, as I sob openly.
An unlikely messenger tells me to take care of myself, raising awareness of my own vulnerability, not only in the face of death but in my life in general. Certain in my mother’s love, I know now to nurture myself as I know she would were she still able. Maybe she still is as I recall, tired, laying my head on her bed, holding her hand to comfort her and transmit love and light to heal her when suddenly she gently pulls away her hand and took my upper arm to comfort me! It seems there truly is no love more selfless and unconditional than a mother’s love for her child.
So these last four days have been horrendous, first peacefully accepting her pending death after the initial shock of her fall and pneumonia, orchestrating loving visits by family and friends, then the unexpected prospect of recovery coupled with guilt for seemingly giving up all hope, a pattern only to be repeated all over again, leaving me uncertain as to what to say or do and emotionally crushed, as I sob openly.
An unlikely messenger tells me to take care of myself, raising awareness of my own vulnerability, not only in the face of death but in my life in general. Certain in my mother’s love, I know now to nurture myself as I know she would were she still able. Maybe she still is as I recall, tired, laying my head on her bed, holding her hand to comfort her and transmit love and light to heal her when suddenly she gently pulls away her hand and took my upper arm to comfort me! It seems there truly is no love more selfless and unconditional than a mother’s love for her child.
Facets of Disease
I wrote the following piece after my cousin, Sally, was diagnosed with cancer for the third time in ten years and in fact this time, though cured of the cancer itself, the told it all took on her body had her decide that at 42 she had had enough and an opportunistic infection took her life only a month before my mother died.
My cousin has cancer again and beyond the tedium of the routine of treatment and the expected recovery lie the many aspects of the disease in her life and the lives of every member of her family.
In Sally, I see courage and determination liberally interspersed with a mixture of fear and bewilderment. Her assurances of prospects of recovery betray a loving concern for the impact of her illness on those around her and retaining their confidence in her ability to survive and a deep-rooted fear for the future, beyond the current bout of this vile disease that strikes a cord of fear at its very mention, “the C word” so scary that we sometimes cannot bring ourselves to utter its name.
In my uncle, I see a frightened, lonely boy desperately struggling to provide the manly support for his family as it faces another barrage of challenges, as if there have not been enough in recent times. “How much longer can I bear this before I burst?” are words he dare not utter out loud but his eyes reveal the deep love and fear for his first-born child and frustration at his own inability to make it all go away.
In my aunt, I see a gentle pillar of strength and source of infinite calm, pouring oil on troubled waters as family feelings inevitably boil over, her new-found faith giving her inner strength and an ability to contribute in ways she never knew she could. She faces her own doubts and fears honestly and peacefully but not without pain. She sees everything and listens carefully, providing comfort for each and every member of her beloved family.
And me? I am filled with love, compassion and a degree of melancholy yet I trust that whatever happens is meant to be and that Sally will live her life fully, no matter when it is destined to end and quietly I fear being less supportive than I would like for my dear cousin so desperately seeking peace of mind and spirit.
My cousin has cancer again and beyond the tedium of the routine of treatment and the expected recovery lie the many aspects of the disease in her life and the lives of every member of her family.
In Sally, I see courage and determination liberally interspersed with a mixture of fear and bewilderment. Her assurances of prospects of recovery betray a loving concern for the impact of her illness on those around her and retaining their confidence in her ability to survive and a deep-rooted fear for the future, beyond the current bout of this vile disease that strikes a cord of fear at its very mention, “the C word” so scary that we sometimes cannot bring ourselves to utter its name.
In my uncle, I see a frightened, lonely boy desperately struggling to provide the manly support for his family as it faces another barrage of challenges, as if there have not been enough in recent times. “How much longer can I bear this before I burst?” are words he dare not utter out loud but his eyes reveal the deep love and fear for his first-born child and frustration at his own inability to make it all go away.
In my aunt, I see a gentle pillar of strength and source of infinite calm, pouring oil on troubled waters as family feelings inevitably boil over, her new-found faith giving her inner strength and an ability to contribute in ways she never knew she could. She faces her own doubts and fears honestly and peacefully but not without pain. She sees everything and listens carefully, providing comfort for each and every member of her beloved family.
And me? I am filled with love, compassion and a degree of melancholy yet I trust that whatever happens is meant to be and that Sally will live her life fully, no matter when it is destined to end and quietly I fear being less supportive than I would like for my dear cousin so desperately seeking peace of mind and spirit.
Bitter Sweet Pill of Love
It is a strange irony that the visits I make to my mother are a bitter sweet pill for her. She craves my company, my attention, my love and my support and yet my being there is also a sharp reminder that the all too brief visits will soon end and the fear and loneliness that eat away at her mind along with her illness will invade her once again.
She has few glimpses of the joy of the moment, being ever conscious instead of the fear and loneliness that my presence highlight by sheer contrast. I can see in her eyes the thought that I will soon leave and she struggles to find cause to keep me there longer, ever more desperate, resorting to meaningless questions or requests for help – anything in a hopeless effort to hold onto me for a moment longer.
I feel I almost do more harm than good by my many relatively brief visits and our weekly breakfast together, for it upsets her more than when I don't see her for the day. Yet I rise above that concern, feeling, rightly or wrongly, that if I bestow myself and my love upon her openly, freely and unabashed, somehow she is better off with my visits than without.
She has few glimpses of the joy of the moment, being ever conscious instead of the fear and loneliness that my presence highlight by sheer contrast. I can see in her eyes the thought that I will soon leave and she struggles to find cause to keep me there longer, ever more desperate, resorting to meaningless questions or requests for help – anything in a hopeless effort to hold onto me for a moment longer.
I feel I almost do more harm than good by my many relatively brief visits and our weekly breakfast together, for it upsets her more than when I don't see her for the day. Yet I rise above that concern, feeling, rightly or wrongly, that if I bestow myself and my love upon her openly, freely and unabashed, somehow she is better off with my visits than without.
Another Dreaded Milestone
Today was a day I have secretly dreaded for a long time, the day when for the first time my mother didn’t recognise me. That I knew it would come does not really help. I try to be philosophical about it, looking for positive I seek in every challenge in life: the seemingly rapid progression of her illness may ironically be a blessing for her, if difficult for those who love her, because perhaps it means she will soon sink into oblivion, that she may no longer suffer as we have seen her do for so long now, that she may sooner be released and die, at last at peace.
I don’t believe in reincarnation or an afterlife* but if there is either, I am clear I want to be with my mother again one day; if not, then I am contented because I know I have said everything to her I need to for me to be at peace, even if either one of us should die tomorrow. I have told her endlessly how much I love her; thanked her for her unconditional love, support and trust; acknowledged her for her courage, her love of people and her accomplishments; cherished every lesson she taught, the gift of warmth in communication and those special moments both before and since her illness began. It is a strange irony that in sickness we come to truly value life and love and my dear mother has given me that too and I am privileged.
* so confirmed am I in a belief in both since a few weeks before my mother’s unexpected death, I feel compelled to mark it as my past
I don’t believe in reincarnation or an afterlife* but if there is either, I am clear I want to be with my mother again one day; if not, then I am contented because I know I have said everything to her I need to for me to be at peace, even if either one of us should die tomorrow. I have told her endlessly how much I love her; thanked her for her unconditional love, support and trust; acknowledged her for her courage, her love of people and her accomplishments; cherished every lesson she taught, the gift of warmth in communication and those special moments both before and since her illness began. It is a strange irony that in sickness we come to truly value life and love and my dear mother has given me that too and I am privileged.
* so confirmed am I in a belief in both since a few weeks before my mother’s unexpected death, I feel compelled to mark it as my past
An Attitude of Gratitude
After so much anguish, pain and self doubt, I never imagined such deep, enduring and unconditional joy was possible: joy at who I am; joy at what I am privileged to see and do in this life; joy in knowing I am safe, no matter what, even in the face of major loss including death.
Whilst experiences such as death and sudden poverty can be painful, there is still joy to be had from the experience and the understanding, the connection with others who have faced the same and the opportunities such experiences produce for those willing to look for the elusive silver lining to every apparent misfortune.
My access to this joy? It’s simple: the constant looking for that silver lining coupled with profound gratitude for everything.
Whilst experiences such as death and sudden poverty can be painful, there is still joy to be had from the experience and the understanding, the connection with others who have faced the same and the opportunities such experiences produce for those willing to look for the elusive silver lining to every apparent misfortune.
My access to this joy? It’s simple: the constant looking for that silver lining coupled with profound gratitude for everything.
All Dignity Lost
As my mother fell deeper into the clutches of the dreaded Alzheimer's all I could do was be there for her, observing, loving, helping...
Picture this: a bright, vivacious, elegant and immaculate woman who makes friends of everyone she encounters; she charms the world and makes them feel important; she is special and she doesn’t see it for herself.
Then picture this: that once lively soul, sat staring into space, all clothing removed except a T-shirt; the blinds half open, all this for the world to see; she look up and asks who I am; I help her find underwear and put it on; I reach for her trousers wrapped in tights that have her sandals stuck inside them, clearly taken off in haste and hanging on the back of a chair, sodden.
It is painful to behold, all sense of dignity lost; bewildered, she doesn’t even know where she is. It seems so cruel, yet really it is we who now suffer as she slips deeper by the day into her illness. Amidst thoughts of blesséd release, I also recall the better days when, confused, afraid and vulnerable, she hugs me, clinging on to me for dear life and tells me over and over that I’ll never know how much she loves me and I reassure her that I really do and that I feel the same.
God, how I cherish those moments and they remind me how they would not be possible if she were dead and to value every moment of life we are blessed with.
Picture this: a bright, vivacious, elegant and immaculate woman who makes friends of everyone she encounters; she charms the world and makes them feel important; she is special and she doesn’t see it for herself.
Then picture this: that once lively soul, sat staring into space, all clothing removed except a T-shirt; the blinds half open, all this for the world to see; she look up and asks who I am; I help her find underwear and put it on; I reach for her trousers wrapped in tights that have her sandals stuck inside them, clearly taken off in haste and hanging on the back of a chair, sodden.
It is painful to behold, all sense of dignity lost; bewildered, she doesn’t even know where she is. It seems so cruel, yet really it is we who now suffer as she slips deeper by the day into her illness. Amidst thoughts of blesséd release, I also recall the better days when, confused, afraid and vulnerable, she hugs me, clinging on to me for dear life and tells me over and over that I’ll never know how much she loves me and I reassure her that I really do and that I feel the same.
God, how I cherish those moments and they remind me how they would not be possible if she were dead and to value every moment of life we are blessed with.
Friday 18 February 2011
A World of Me
“Imagine for just one day that everyone you see around you is simply you with a different set of life experiences”, says a messenger with a challenge. Suspending disbelief and truly imagining that it is so, I can hardly bear it for a few seconds as I look around and see all the faces, noticing my subtle criticisms and other thoughts that distance each and every one. Undertaking this exercise with integrity is very hard as I look deep into each person and see that their being “me” with different life experiences allows me to love and accept everyone, feeling compassion for their deep suffering that has them be other than the same way. Suddenly there is a world of “me” everywhere, me’s just doing the best we know how, to greater and lesser effect. It is sad this world of me where I don’t know myself, love myself as I would like to be known and loved. I can but pray and dream…… one day at a time.
A Walk Along The Canal
I wrote the following as I made my way to work on foot a short time after my mother passed away:
It’s a bright, frosty morning as I turn onto the canal footpath and I call to her to join me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, I start as we walk along. “Look at all the ducks and geese”. “I’d like to eat them” she says mischievously. We carry on for a while in silence and then I ask, “Is that you dear, or is it my imagination? It sounded like you, but how can I be sure? I know you’re there but I wish you really were here, in the flesh, in person, yet I know you are happier where you are, at peace and limitless in form and potential. It’s been nice talking dear. Now I have to get to work”.
It’s a bright, frosty morning as I turn onto the canal footpath and I call to her to join me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”, I start as we walk along. “Look at all the ducks and geese”. “I’d like to eat them” she says mischievously. We carry on for a while in silence and then I ask, “Is that you dear, or is it my imagination? It sounded like you, but how can I be sure? I know you’re there but I wish you really were here, in the flesh, in person, yet I know you are happier where you are, at peace and limitless in form and potential. It’s been nice talking dear. Now I have to get to work”.
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