A New Year...turning a new leaf, or watching a leaf turn

I took up running when we acquired our first puppy, Rosie, a border collie who loves to run. She and I run most mornings, and have done now for over a year. In that time I have learned much...about myself, about Rosie, and about the world. For some reason, running allows me to reflect (indeed, to ponder!) upon things, to focus on something, and yet also to just be in the moment and observe my surroundings; this state of mindfulness somehow allows me to see things more clearly, to think more deeply. And so inevitably I am often inspired to write.

Today as we ran, I observed two particular things. I first noticed how Rosie is thoroughly excited by her environment; the smells, the sounds, the movements. There are some streets where she stops at almost every tree or shrub along the footpath, takes in each smell, thinks about them, enjoys them, perhaps wondering about their familiarity or lack thereof. At times so engrossed in her smells, she appears oblivious to everything else.

I also noticed how Rosie is seemingly unaffected by a less than positive reaction in other dogs. Like cars, as soon as she shes another dog she drops to the ground and waits. She smiles in anticipation of making a new friend. She can barely contain herself as the other dog comes closer, so eager to say "hello" and play. Of course not all dogs are friendly. Today the only other dogs we came across did not want to play. They did not smile back at Rosie, or wag their tails in anticipation. They growled. Bared their teeth and stood to attention. But this did not perturb Rosie. She did not growl back. She did not slink away, disappointed and hurt. Instead she continued to smile.

My observation of these things about Rosie triggered a reflection about how we humans are often so different. We do not tend to stop and smell what is around us, notice our surroundings, allow ourselves to be drawn in to the moment, to the simple things right in front of our nose. We do not tend to stop and notice how green the grass is today, or how gently the breeze is as it floats across our skin, or even just how pleasant it is to just "be" for a moment. Why else would that well known saying exist about stopping and smelling the roses?

I also reflected on how Rosie seems to simply accept others for who they are, where they are at, with no expectations or grudges held. I wondered just how different the world would be if we did a little more of this with each other? What would it be like if we didn't growl back (or slink away) when someone growled at us? What would it be like to simply accept that they didn't want to play that day, or that growling was the only language they had learned to speak? What would it be like if we smiled more at one another, no matter how big or small, sad or happy, similar or different, they appeared to be?

So, my new year's resolution for 2013 (not that I really believe in these things) is not to turn over a new leaf, but to notice how the leaves turn. To be more observant of my world, and with that, more accepting of my world too. Happy New Year :-)

Smells and other memories...

This morning I was running with my dog on our usual route through the neighbourhood. As we turned one corner, the wonderful smells of someone cooking bacon and eggs wafted up the street. I could not help but inhale and immediately I was back visiting my maternal grandparents as a little girl.

The images that filled my mind where those of Nana standing in the stove alcove of their Queenslander home, egg flip in hand, calling out to one and all that "breakfast is ready!". Pop was sitting in his usual place at the head of the table, a cheeky grin from ear to ear, waiting for his grandchildren to join him at the table so he could play tricks, tease us, and create squeals of both horror and delight. Inevitably Nana would scold him, "Oh, Keith!".

When I was about six years old, Dad had what we fondly call his mid-life crisis. This meant selling his rural property of grain production, pigs and cattle, and turning his hand to bee-keeping amongst other things, such as building a house, learning vegetarian cooking, permaculture and so on. You could say that Mum and Dad were late hippies or early slow-food-movement converts. This meant that we didn't fry up bacon in the morning, and ate very little meat (something which I continue to do). Hence, my childhood experiences of bacon and eggs are synonymous with our visits to Nana and Pop's place; as are so many other things like playing hide and seek in the mountain of hay bales stacked at least six levels high in the shed, looking for mice and taking turns sitting on the ancient tractor, putting it's rusty gearstick through the pretense of driving.

So as I continued to run down that street, flooded by all these memories, the familiar scent of bacon and eggs still hovering around my nose and deep within my mind, I thought about the importance of smell in our lives. 

One of the strongest memories I have of my baby daughter, who died 11 days after birth, is of the smell of the anti-bacterial hand wash we had to use each time we entered her room in the Special Care Nursery. It is a very distinct smell, belonging to only one particular brand, hospital strength. I remember a few years ago when anti-bacterial hand wash became the 'in thing' and was available to buy at the grocery store or pharmacy. One afternoon I came across these products in our local store. There were several different brands on the shelf. I was drawn to them; little bottles of clear liquid. I felt a flutter of excitement. I began to smell each one, taking in a deep breath as I prised open the lid. But with each sniff came sadness and disappointment. None of them took me back to Lillienne. I remember standing there in the aisle, tears rolling down my cheeks and thinking to myself how silly this scene would appear to anyone else. A woman crying over anti-bacterial hand wash. But it felt like I had lost her again. I so desperately wanted to smell that smell, to be transported back to her, to holding her in my arms, and all the other memories that sometimes felt locked out, inaccessible in my mind.

I am also constantly reminded of the importance of smell by my five year old son. One day we were talking about organising someone to babysit him over night while his father and I attended an event. One option was for him to visit my sister's place. But for my son, this was not something he was happy to do. When I asked him what was on his mind, what troubled him about this prospect, he responded that his Aunty didn't 'smell right...doesn't smell like you Mummy'. And when he thought about the possibility of being upset and needing comfort, he couldn't imagine that a hug from his Aunty, without the right smells, would be enough. Now, when I go away, he will take one of my scarves or shirts to bed with him; one that is unwashed and still has my smell within it.

Smells, and the associations that are triggered by them, are a powerful force in our psyche. They can elicit a whole range of emotions; fear, sadness, joy, comfort and everything in between. From the triggering of one memory can come a long string of memories, linked by smell, time, place, or person. We can be transported back in time in a split second without notice. All we have to do is notice the smells around us.

Parenting the Dead

Eight years and eleven days ago, my first child was born. A beautiful girl, Lillienne Grace, weighing 5 lbs 12 ounces, arrived in this world at 7 o'clock on a Friday evening.

Eight years ago, my first child died.

How do you squeeze a lifetime of parenting into eleven days? A lifetime of love, care, fear and joy.

The simple answer is: you don't. Instead, you begin a journey of learning how to parent the dead.

In the past eight years, I have parented Lillienne by:

Loving her (does she know my love?)
Singing to her (can she hear me?)
Celebrating her - with birthday cakes and picnics, flowers on her grave for special occasions, acquiring meaningful things to signify her place in our family and in my heart (like a painting of lily flowers) (does she bear witness to these events?)
Missing her (does she miss me too?)
Dreaming of her (does she dream of me too?)
Feeling her in my empty arms (does she feel my arms around her?)
Telling her story and publicly acknowledging her (does she know how proud I am of her?)
Imagining her future, wondering how my little girl would (will) grow into a woman (is she still a baby, or a little girl of eight years now?)
Protecting her from a harsh world, protecting her memory, and never allowing my anger to tarnish my love for her (does she feel safe? is she cold, wet, hot or parched lying in her earthly bed?)

And I continue to long for any opportunity to do these things, and to grow as her mother, to find more and better ways of letting her know that she is forever a part of me, always loved, never regretted.

My soul sense

People are always coming in to and going out of our lives. From the moment we are born, our paths cross with others. It is difficult to imagine just how many people we have met in our lifetime, how many people for whom we have a memory. It is likely an undefinable number and probably a very surprising one if we ever attempted to calculate it (just start by multiplying the average school class, twenty-five, by twelve!).

For some people, our paths cross only fleetingly; we may never know their name, or hear their voice, only experiencing a transient moment in time when we are briefly aware of their existence on this earth.

For others, from the very the moment we meet, we are impacted; our paths don't just cross, our souls collide. We feel at once "in simpatico"; we understand each other, our hearts and minds speaking the same language. It is as if we were once branches on the same tree; a tree that gave us a way of being, of seeing, of sensing the world.

It is these people, no matter how long they physically remain in our lives, who leave a lasting trace that interweaves itself throughout our personal history, gently sailing alongside us, carried by the winds of coincidence and circumstance. We are transformed in some way through meeting such people; we are no longer what we were, but somehow we are extended beyond ourselves. Extended from who we were into the person we have the potential to be.

When we meet such people, we often experience a sense of 'coincidence', and we are tempted to dismiss what we experience as merely happenstance, having little or no significance or meaning. I was once given an alternative interpretation; that we 'wish certain people into our lives'. I like this alternative. It means that there is a part of me that knows just what I need, and seeks this out. My sixth sense. My soul sense. And it's my soul that carries these special memories of paths crossed in my life.

*Dedicated to a particularly memorable soul*

A bit of mothering...

Rosie, our one year old border collie, is now fully grown and no longer has her cute rounded puppy nose, her delicate soft fluffy ears, and she does not fit nicely into my lap. She is still beautiful, but has the features of an adult dog.

But while she may look like an adult, she is far from behaving like one! Rosie still has the needs of a puppy, particularly to be 'mothered'. Everyday, she will find a moment to tell me that she needs a cuddle, to be nurtured, cared for, mothered. She does this very directly with a little whining "woof", or by climbing into my lap, albeit very awkwardly, and typically ending up spilling out over the side and onto the floor or couch, depending on where I am sitting. Sometimes, she also has a look of sadness that is conveyed by her entire body that communicates to me "I am feeling emotional, and I need to be comforted." She then proceeds to nuzzle into me, wrap her front legs around my neck, and if I'm lucky, ever so delicately kiss my nose.

I don't know why Rosie's behaviour surprises me, but it's something to do with the fact that she isn't a little pupply anymore. Perhaps an assumption is made that she doesn't need the doting mothering of a little puppy; an assumption made from expectations borne of living in a society where growing up often means not needing such direct nurturing, affection and displays of emotion. But she reminds me every day, that we do, no matter what our age.

My son also knows when he needs to be 'mothered', and isn't afraid of asking for a cuddle, kiss, or some comforting. He is also able to express his emotions, and knows just how he feels about something. He is currently struggling to say goodbye each morning as I take him to school. He cries, and clings to me for one last cuddle. In our efforts to work through this difficult time, we have encouraged him to cry if he feels like it, and told him how proud we are of him that he is able to express his sadness; that in fact, he is brave, because not everyone is able to do this.

At times, however, it feels like we are fighting a battle with the rest of the world, who don't want little boys to cry. Crying, it seems, is something to be avoided, something that causes the individual and others around them pain or discomfort. "We" seem to be in a hurry for our children to grow up and be emotionally independent, to not have emotional needs, to not be sad. When my son first started going to school, he was encouraged by his teachers not to cry with the promise of a special treat; a reward for not expressing what he was feeling. Instead of being comfortable with another person's sadness, we hurry to cheer them up, instead of allowing them to feel sad and being willing to feel it too.

In the presence of beauty...

For the past 10 or so years, my favourite author has been Alexander McCall Smith, and I have been an avid reader of several of his collections;  The No.1 Ladies Detective Agency, 44 Scotland Street, Corduroy Mansions, and the Isabel Dalhousie stories. I enjoy his writing for several reasons including his use of a wonderful and enlightening vocabulary, the ethical and philosophical explorations, and of course his (and his character's) tendency to ponder!

The following excerpt is one of my favourites. It is from "The Importance of Being Seven" (p.214):
        
        "That's where we're going", said Domenica. "See? Over there."

Antonia and Angus were silent. The sight of such beauty can make us quiet with fear; fear that it might not be real, fear that it might be taken from us, as is everything that we love, that is only on loan to us.

This struck me immediately as I read it. So absolutely true; at least it is of my experience of the world. I sometimes look at my little boy, and just as in the above excerpt, I am silenced by his beauty, but with the knowledge that I cannot keep him safe, cannot control the world in which he lives. 

I had a similar experience during the 11 days of my baby daughter Lillienne's life. After she was born, and placed into palliative care, I was so afraid of getting close to her, of knowing her, of falling in love with her, being drawn into her beautiful little eyes, face, body, fingers, toes...because I knew she would be taken from me. I felt fear, absolute fear and horror at the thought of what lay ahead...saying good-bye and living a life without her.

Running with the dog who waits..

Rosie, our almost 1 year old border collie,  and I run the same route through our neighbourhood every morning. Today we left a little later, and so there were many more cars backing out of driveways and driving down the streets. Today I learnt the lesson of patience and giving.

When Rosie sees or hears a car she immediately drops to the ground. Unfortunately she hasn't learned to discern where she drops, and so I sometimes have to drag her to the curb! However, she drops and waits, either for the car to pass, or to obviously be going in the other direction. Rosie only has two modes of running, stop and go, nothing in between, so today she did a lot of stopping and waiting, and giving of her time. But she did this with a look of pure delight. Unlike most of us, she enjoys waiting for others.

The looks she gets in return range from bemusement (usually from strangers, not living in the area) to laughter. But most often those in cars smile at her, and those who have got to know her give her a wave. A smile and a wave is like gold to Rosie, and she turns and looks at me with such excitement and pride.

When do we ever wait so patiently for others, and take such pleasure and pride in this action? And, do we show our appreciation to those who do? Maybe today I will :)