Tag: love

Grief is a Wild Companion

Grief is a wild companion: it visits me every day, sometimes many times a day.

When I speak Colin’s name, see his picture, or remember how it was to be with him…His warmth, companionship, humour, intelligence; his passion and his silliness, his love and appreciation…our conversations, dances, love-making, enjoying our growing family together; co-creating and deepening our work, building our home and work place… Remembering of all these, and now this powerful absence – and here it is.

Tears pour down my face, and sometimes, especially in the night, I find myself sobbing, calling for him, with a mix of shock, disbelief, and a deep yearning.  Strangely, the more time goes by, the more I miss him, the more it sinks in that this really is a permanent situation.

This picture is like a portal to his heart, and brings a smile to my face even amidst the tears.

It is physical. A powerful ache. A sense of loss and bewilderment.

We know this, don’t we?  That we will die and those we love will die.  And yet in the face of it, it is utterly bewildering. Incomprehensible. Impossible. Unthinkable.  Prior knowledge seems to be meaningless.

I have lived with this ‘knowledge’ and (fear of it) for most of my days, amplified by the deaths I experienced in my early life; mostly sudden, shocking and unexpected. And I have had the most effective survival mechanism which has supported me to always see the silver linings; to appreciate what I have, not to complain of the loss, but count my innumerable blessings. I bow to that which has allowed me to live through difficulties with a sense of appreciation of what sustains me.  And my mother for showing me the value of this and the fact that my problems invariably paled compared to those of vast swathes of our human family.  Appreciation of what is supportive and good and beautiful is an endless resource and brings such richness.

And yet the comparison with who was worse off, and the seeing the good, were also ways to survive what was indigestible for me in my growing years.  Covering a grief which has been with me as long as I remember.  Attempting to lighten the load but also serving to bypass the non-negotiable pain of existing in this world: knowing this – that all that we love is going to die, (if not dying already), before our very eyes.

Colin’s death is bringing it all to the surface, and as I grieve him and our life together, I meet a deeper aloneness and a pool of sadness which can feel fathomless at times.

On a wider level, to feel the devastation of our lands and seas and all the wild, animal and plant life here on Earth – to witness it dwindling year after year; to be aware of the violence and despair of what humans do to one another in a state of separation running rife; and personally, to feel my body ageing, inching closer to my own death; to find more and more of my friends, neighbours and relatives, getting sick and dying: this is a powerful and bitter medicine to swallow.  Calling me to see the layers of defence around my heart which are habitually wrapping around it, seeking relief.

But it seems that, in allowing the pain, relief and ease just arrive unbidden, in the countless ways that life keeps calling, with its beauty and unexpected, peculiar magic.  Ever so often.

Here is a sweet story:

I came back to my empty house a few days ago, after two weeks in Italy. On my way, I stopped to visit my daughter Amy, her partner Mich and my grandson, Mani.  We were chatting about their weekend in London, problems with their roof, and, of course, dinosaurs.

I touched on how it felt to come home with no Colin, and the tears began rolling down my face. Mani looked at me, concerned, so I told him why I was sad. He thought for a moment and then said, “In the song with 3 little birds, it says that Every Little Thing is Going to Be Alright.” And then he said, “If you had magic powers, you could turn Sam (my bonus-daughter* Tamar’s, husband)  into Colin and then you would have him back“. He thought for a moment and then added, “And then when he went back to Tamar, he could be turned back into Sam.”

This really made me laugh. Somehow it didn’t feel it was a wholly appropriate thing to wish for!  Perhaps he sensed this with his extraordinary 5 year old emotional intelligence.  He reflected and then said, “Or… perhaps, with your magic powers you could just make Colin alive again!”

He looked quietly triumphant at the thought of that.  And in his inimitable style, he brought levity and sweetness into the room.

And I do find, even-handedly with this searing sense of loss, that when I tune into another dimension of love, and presume that the connection is unsevered, Colin is alive in me. Not as he was, with his enthusiastic body/heart/mind. But perhaps closer. Perhaps closer than I can usually feel.

I remember sometimes feeling that I couldn’t get my body close enough to his, I wanted to climb right inside of him. Now my magic powers are being called upon, to feel him inside of me, in my very cells..

My prayer: that I can feel more in touch with that in him which lives on in me. Through love. And an unbreakable bond. That in us all which never dies.

***

*I’ve been told that in German, there is a colloquial, affectionate way of referring to step children, siblings or parents as bonus family members.  I prefer to think of Colin’s grown children as my bonus sons and daughters.  In French, a son in law would be a beau fils, or a beautiful son.  So Sam would be my beautiful bonus son if we mix it all up. I think it is right and proper that he never becomes Colin though.

Love and Loss

I want to try and write about this time with my husband Colin, as we come to terms with the sense that this really is the last chapter of his life.  We are no longer riding on hopes for a miraculous healing, but letting in the sense that he won’t last more than weeks or perhaps months.  To embrace this not with resignation but in a loving and willing submission to reality and an appreciation that this is truly a blessing for us both on a deeper level, even whilst it is heartbreaking and devastating on another level.

I have days in which I feel this devastation wash over me, wave after wave; a deep anguish, as if all that I love is being ripped away from me and I feel like a young child about to lose her parents.  And with that comes this sense of danger around my own emotions; I must be brave or I will not be loved, cherished, cared for.. and I must be brave because if I break down it will be unbearable and overwhelming for him.  And when the attempts to be brave don’t really work and the tears come flooding uncontrollably, there is shame which comes creeping in, as if I failed and all my years of work on myself were useless…This young part thinks,  “here I am again, feeling about 4 years old and without resources.  Here I am creating a difficult atmosphere when what is needed most is calm acceptance, being there for him as a rock, a cushion, an unconditionally loving saint!”

But it is not actually like that, because there is such a deep sense of just being here, as these weather fronts move through, knowing that it is all passing and that come what may I have what it takes to live it, even though those young parts of me haven’t quite caught up!

And then, much of the time, I find that I am simply basking in how it is to be with Colin, made all the more precious because of the absolute obviousness that nothing can be held onto.  That it always was so and always will be.  That we truly do, only have this moment to live, and so much of the time, the sense of being with him, close to me, as we go through the days together, is simply beautiful.  To be with him over these many years has made me feel so safe, so right, quietly joyous; we are so known to one another and feel, most of the time, so understood by each other.  And I keep noticing this: the love opens between us in a moment of tenderness, in a touch, a smile, gazing in each others’ eyes, an embrace or a shared moment of humour.  My heart seems to spread wide.  And almost instantly a contraction, a recognition that all this will be gone soon and he will no longer be with me… grief wells up.  And then I recognise how much I want to hold on to him, to what I love, to this moment, and how in that holding on, the love is lost and there is just fear of what is to come.  And then, more often than not, there is a kind of grace, as I notice what is happening, drop deeper than the fear and let myself fully have this moment of love, of openness, of communion.  And I realise that this proximity of death brings me closer to another octave of love than I have ever known because it is not based on clinging, or a romantic notion of us as a couple – it is simply love arising in us, through us, AS us.  And in that there is freedom and a kind of humility in the face of this great mystery which is to be alive and know that death awaits us all.  That we are not in control.  And are given each and every experience as an opportunity to love.  And then I get to feel what an absolute honour it is to be with this man, and to have found our way over decades together, meeting layer upon layer of old hurts, conditioning, habits of protection, rejection, punishment, withholding.  And as it all became more conscious, finding layer upon layer of tenderness, compassion, humour, delight, passion, peace, gravity, silliness, practicality… and simple enjoyment of life and all that is given to us.  It is an extraordinary privilege to know this and to be taking this journey together.  And now, to be moving towards the end of his life in this body – together, hand in hand, step by step, meeting all that we meet along the way, brings me to my knees: To witness the shutting down of his body; the falling away of his energy, the pain and breathlessness; the grief for what is lost:  In love.  In gratitude.  In heartbreak.  And to be able to truly say, I am here, I am up for this, this too is what I am here for.  To be here for THIS. Come What May.

And then there is this extraordinary sense of community around us – of deep care from the many people we love; including the many who we have supported who are now stepping in to offer support to us. I am learning how it is to really receive help and am humbled by the grace of being part of such a generous and open community of friends, family, and those who have worked with us both over the years. And part of what is emerging is a kind of grief tending; holding space for us all to feel what it is to love and face loss without getting lost in it all, opening the door for more love to be revealed.