Your Presence is Your Absence

You are not here

But I do not forget you
You pervade my every day

You are in the morning sun

But I do not make you toast

I cannot kiss your waking face

You are in the fold of my arms

But I do not feel your warmth

I cannot hold you close

You are in the playground 

But I do not push your swing

I cannot hear you laugh

You are in the little girl's smile

But I do not feel your joy

I cannot share your glee

You are in my old wedding dress

But I do not see you twirl

I cannot make it fit

You never shed any tears
And I do not wipe them away
I cannot make you better

You are in my mother's soul

As she ages and changes

But you cannot share her life

You are in my past, present and future

In my pain, and in my joy

You are everywhere, and yet nowhere.

Big words, small words...the most important words

I've said before, I love words. There's something wonderful, for me, about words that are different, delicate, unusual, not oft heard or spoken. It's like opening a hidden treasure, when I see a word that requires me to open the dictionary. Words can be like music, almost ephemeral, like they can float from your grasp if you don't catch them in time;  notes of a tune that disappear into the past before you've had a chance to really experience them. You know they are something that you want to pursue, to understand, to acquire or conquer, to know.

I love reading books in which words are used so carefully, creatively, poetically; where it is like I am floating on a wave of learning and gentle inspiration. Words that enter
my mind and my soul.  Words like insouciant, flipendulous, liminal, charientism...

Sometimes people who use big words, words that appear important, intelligent, out of the ordinary person's reach, words that can be intimidating or seductive, seem like people we should admire and respect. Sometimes when we hear a person use words that are unfamiliar, coated with the wealth of a secret knowledge that is held by those out of our league, we feel that this person deserves our admiration, our attention, our reverence to their opinion. But ultimately, words are just letters, lines on a page or spoken sounds in the air. And it's not the words that are important, it's what the person means to communicate which holds the most value.

I recently read the book, a first novel by the author Wendy Jones, "The Thoughts and Happenings of Wilfred Price, Purveyor of Superior Funerals". It is a story about a young man who learns that it's not big, or academic sounding words that are important, but the small words which are most often the most difficult, yet important, ones to say. After being seduced by the love and intrigue of unusual words, and the belief that how one speaks reflects the character and value of the person, Wilfred comes to realise something else:

     "Words went on forever. And it was strange how the most important moments in life required one to speak, to say what one felt. What I need, he thought, is another kind of dictionary, one that tells me what to say when I don't know what to say. Wilfred wondered what words such a dictionary would have. Phrases such as 'I'm sorry', 'forgive me', even that most difficult of phrases, 'I was wrong'... the words he really needed were the ones his heart spoke... Big words, clever words - were rather grand, too grand really, and unnecessary...It was sufficient, more than enough, to speak plainly, to say what was in his heart. And that wasn't about long words with lots of syllables. It was about simple words. And courage."

I'm often surprised by own sense of inadequacy when it comes to finding the right thing to say. Goodness me, I've been writing and speaking in some way for a living for most of my adult life! Moreover, I know what it is to suffer. I know what it is to feel like the whole world is silent, with no words to offer me. I know what it's like to desperately wish the person near me would just say some simple words, even the words 'I don't know what to say'. But I, too, am sometimes crippled with a lack of courage or clarity, and the moment so often passes when a few words would have meant so much. Sometimes a stranger, sometimes a friend, or family member. I am ashamed of myself in those times. And I vow to make it up to the world, my fellow human beings, in some way next time the opportunity presents itself.

But what propels me most these days, to not hold back, to find those simple words, is my mother. Mum has been living with ovarian cancer for nearly two years. Her body is at war with itself now more than ever before. She is changing before my very eyes. I have never more desperately hoped that I will see her age, to be an old woman. She turns 70 this year. I want to see her at 90. I want to be able to say all those simple words for many more years. I want to learn not to hold back. I want her to hear me say things, not just to know, intuitively, what I am thinking. I love you Mum. I admire you. I am in awe of you.

Simple words. Spoken out loud. More poetic, meaningful, and important, than any long and unusual words could ever be.

From: http://www.speareducation.com

Acceptance, and why it may not be such a bad word

I love words. I love writing, reading, and using words. I think about their meaning, how they came to be, and what they mean for me. But perhaps that’s why I sometimes also struggle with words. Acceptance is a word that has haunted me for quite some time. I’ve hated it, avoided it, longed for it, and been utterly confused by it. Such a seemingly simple word, but one that can create such a variety of experience depending on the subject of that acceptance.

Etymologically speaking, acceptance essentially means “taking or receiving what is offered”. For example, the Oxford dictionary provides the following definitions:

1.    the action of consenting to receive or undertake something offered

2.    the process or fact of being received as adequate, valid, or suitable, and

3.    agreement with or belief in an idea or explanation:

So why has the word ‘acceptance’ haunted me, and probably many others? Well, when it comes to grief, acceptance is a key term, but it is not so simple. Kubler-Ross’s famous theory includes acceptance as one of the stages of grief (Kübler-Ross, 1969), as does William Worden in his four grief tasks (Worden, 2008). For example, Worden describes the first grief task, acceptance, as ‘accepting the reality of the loss’. He or she is really gone. They are dead.

Now that doesn’t necessarily mean that one has to be “OK” with the fact that the person is dead (Indeed! I did NOT consent to receive this death!). But they do need to accept it as true (Well, maybe I can agree with the idea or explanation that this death has happened). Sounds simple and logical. But from there, one is also assumed to be able to move on in their life, with the knowledge and acceptance that the deceased is no longer alive and that the relationship that did exist at best needs to be transformed or reintegrated into the bereaved person’s life. This is the difficult bit. Most of us don’t really know what this means. Moreover, a therapist, a friend or relative, a stranger, or a work colleague will no doubt conceive of reintegration very differently. For many, reintegration does not mean openly talking about the deceased, having photos displayed, organising birthday parties and so on. Instead, for many it means ‘letting go’ and integrating the reality of loss into one’s life.

From a psychological perspective, the term acceptance has been described as “a person's assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it, protest, or exit...” (from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acceptance ). Some have also related it to the term acquiescence, which derives from the Latin word 'acquiēscere', meaning ‘to find rest in’.

When my daughter and then my son died as babies I was devastated. Grief was like a deluge. But as horribly painful as it was, true to my independent and occasionally stubborn self, I did not want to ‘heal’. I did not want to ‘move on’. I did not want to ‘accept’. I wanted to immerse myself in my sorrow and never let go. I wanted to protest all this grief work! My poor grief counsellor, a wonderfully wise and amazing woman, must not have known what to do with me at times!

And yet, I did want to live my life. I also wanted to know what this journey of grief was going to be like, in 5 years, 10 years, and 40 years. But there was no manual, and most support guides for grief centred on the first year, maybe two, as if somehow after that it just runs its course and life continues on.

I continued to resist the idea of acceptance. I would close my ears and eyes, my mind and heart, whenever I came across this word in relation to grief. However, I also continued to see my grief counsellor over several years. I wondered whether I would ever not feel such deep pain and sadness. I tended to accept that I would. Because I could see no other way. No other way to satisfy my need to mother my children. This is one of the most difficult things with the death of a baby, when their little lives were so short. Love and pain are so tightly connected that it is difficult to only experience love. And to let go of pain seems as if you don’t feel love.

My children died 10 and 9 years ago, respectively. I’ve often wondered in more recent years how I coped, particularly early on. It wasn’t until I attended an Acceptance and Commitment Therapy (ACT) workshop (as a practitioner, not in relation to grief or myself) that I realised acceptance has played more of a role than I ever imagined. According to the ACT guru Steven Hayes, acceptance in this therapeutic context is:

…an alternative to experiential avoidance. Acceptance involves the active and aware embrace of those private events occasioned by one’s history without unnecessary attempts to change their frequency or form…For example, anxiety patients are taught to feel anxiety, as a feeling, fully and without defense…Acceptance in ACT is not an end in itself. Rather acceptance is fostered as a method of increasing values-based action.” (http://contextualscience.org/the_six_core_processes_of_act )

And this is just how I have grieved, although I never realised it at the time. I did not stop my pain. I did not resist it. I allowed it to be whatever it was within me. I did not avoid experiencing my babies, even though that meant also experiencing all the heartache. And it literally was, and still is, heart-ache.

With the support of my grief counsellor (Yes, that’s how wonderful she is), I remember specifically exploring how I might parent my dead children. How could I still be their parent, even in their death? In line with the ACT notion of acceptance fostering values-based action, it was my acceptance of the pain and experience of grief that enabled me to identify what was truly of value to me. Being a mother, and not giving up.

A woman who lives with Rheumatoid Arthritis writes in her blog (http://idanceintherain.com):

Do not see acceptance as a weakness.
Accepting a situation does not mean you are giving up.

When I read this, it was like it had been written just for me, and Lillienne and Finn. I did not want to give up on parenting them, even though I had accepted that they were dead.

I’ve learned a lot about parenting a dead child over the past 10 years. I’ve written briefly about this before (see my post “Parenting the dead” from October 2012). But I’ve been thinking a lot about it lately as we get closer to Lillienne’s 10^th birthday this year. And I’ve reflected on how I’m changing as a parent to her in subtle ways, just as I would if she really was a little girl of ten. I give her a little more independence now. I don’t worry about her so obsessively like I did when she would have been much younger, and in the earlier years of my grief. I still think of her every day, and I miss her like crazy at times. But I can even smile sometimes when I think of her, and wonder if maybe she is off having fun with another little soul. Sometimes I feel her beside me, but when I don’t for a while, that’s OK too. She always returns, because we are connected, she is a part of me, totally (re)integrated, and always will be.

Artwork by Sharon Hendy-Moman (Brisbane) - commissioned in 2013 by me,
to represent Lillienne and Finn as children.
http://www.sharonhendymoman.com/

Living with Wholeness

On the turn of this new year, I came across the quote "Tomorrow, is the first blank page of a 365 page book. Write a good one." It made be think about what a good year of life might be.

I recently listened to a radio interview with Hugh Mackay, a sociologist and author, talking about his new book "The Good Life". He writes about how to live a good life, in which he means living a life of wholeness, including the full range of human emotion not just happiness and fulfillment but "sadness, disappointment, frustration, and failure; all of those things which make us who we are." He argues that the current social pursuit of happiness is actually a dangerous idea, as "happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much." Indeed, in Buddhism, suffering is considered necessary for learning.

I didn't get much sleep last night, as we saw the new year in with friends and family. But I did manage to sleep past my usual waking time, which is early enough in the summer weather for a reasonably comfortable running experience. I looked out the window. The sun was already bright and shining. Not much shade lined the streets. Hmm... did I really need to go this morning? I didn't want to have to run with my dog Rosie. Going back to bed and pretending I could sleep some more seemed like a much more comfortable option. I did not fancy the suffering a run would create today. I would be hot, and after a late night with champagne, my body would probably ache.

But then I remembered how good it can feel, even after a tough run, knowing you had succeeded despite it seeming like a hurdle too big to overcome. And I thought of Rosie, how happy she would be, and how much she needed it. So up I got, pulled on my running shoes and off we went.

Rosie and I have been running most mornings now for nearly 3 years, apart from a few blocks of time when I have been sick and getting back into the routine has taken more than it should. Running has been a wonderful time for mindfulness, and I've done a lot of thinking, and a lot of learning as a result.

Today as I ran, I thought about the idea of living a life of "wholeness" as Hugh Mackay would suggest. My struggle to get going this morning, my initial desire to avoid the suffering I knew would ensue, became a metaphor for his theory. Yes, we do try to avoid the suffering that life sometimes brings us; sadness, anger, frustration, and anxiety are emotions that often fill us with fear and dread. They are far from pleasant, and if we listen to the world around us, we could easily assume they are not good for us at all. Happiness and feeling grateful for the good things in life are what we should be striving for...yes?

If I had avoided the suffering that I did inevitably experience this morning on my run, I would have possibly had a nice time lazing in bed, but would never have experienced the joy in turning that last corner knowing Rosie and I would be home soon, the pride in knowing I had achieved something I didn't want to do, the thrill of jumping into the water of the pool to cool down my hot body and soothe my aching muscles, and the feelings of love and connection between me and my beautiful dog. I reckon she knows that some mornings I find it really hard, so she gleefully tries to pull me up the first hill by grabbing the lead in her mouth and grinning at me to follow her. We don't need to experience suffering on our own.

Allowing others in to our suffering isn't always easy. For many, this just doesn't come naturally. And why should it, when we are constantly getting messages that imply we shouldn't feel bad; "Get over it", "let it go", "chin up" are common responses to another person's feelings of sadness, anger or worry. But if we are open to others, then someone who is not afraid of suffering isn't too far away. And if we are open to our own suffering then what we can experience through such discomfort is sometimes incredible. It is only through the experience of contrast that we can can truly know something. Consider the saying, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone", or "It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all."  If you don't allow yourself to experience something, you don't get to learn how important it may be for you, even if that learning occurs through suffering.

If we allow ourselves to experience the negative things in life, to embrace them as part of our human existence, as a necessary part of living an enriched life, then we are living a life of wholeness. We are living as a whole being. And sometimes, just sometimes, through the suffering comes not just an experience of happiness or gratitude, but a richness of experience that we could not have imagined.

So, may we not be afraid of the unknown paths, including paths of suffering, and may 2014 bring wholeness to our lives.

from: http://wholeartiststudio.com/seeking-perfection-or-seeking-wholeness/

Loving You

Loving you, dear Finn,

Holding you

in the fantasy of my arms,

Missing you

in the ache of my heart,

Wondering

about you.

Loving you, dear Finn,

Visiting you

in the cold, wet earth,

Mourning you

in dawn of each day,

Dreaming

about you.

Loving you, dear Finn,

Seeing you

in the eyes of your brother,

Honouring you

with the words that I speak,

Forever being

with you.

In memory of Finnian Charles Smith
 ~ born and died, 17 July 2005 ~

 

 

On mothers and mothering

Today is Mother's Day. For weeks now, the shops have been full of merchandise and marketing, telling us to be thankful for our mothers, to celebrate them and the things they do for us. And of course, this is a joyful thing to do. But not for everyone.

Most of us grow up believing that mothering is an intuitive thing. You have a baby, and you are automatically granted 'mother' status. You will love this child, care for it, do the best for it, never stop loving it, and would fight for it unconditionally. Perhaps even give your life for it. But no, sadly, this is not the case.

Life is much nicer if we ignore the fact that some women are just not good at mothering. But it exists. And today, while many of us celebrate our mothers with love and joy, there will be children and adults who grieve. They grieve the lack of mother love in their lives, re-experience the trauma, past and present, that is a result of someone not mothering with intuitive care, skill, and consistency. Something that so many of us often take for granted. Our mothers have always been there. Loving us, protecting us, supporting us, sharing our lives with us. Mothering us.

It may seem foreign to try to imagine not mothering a child in this way. For me, it really does feel intuitive at times. At least the loving bit does. But I also feel lost in my mothering, and confused about what to do at times. In the end though, I find that love and it's consistency allows me to find my way. I think I learned this from my own wonderful mother.

So why do some women not feel the intuitive sense of mothering? Why do they make poor decisions, allow their children to suffer, disregard their needs, control or ignore them, or worst still, dis-own them? Perhaps these mothers didn't have good role models themselves, they didn't feel loved as children, or now other life circumstances prevent them from being able to carry out the kind of mothering they aspire to; illness, difficult or dysfunctional relationships, economics, and so on. It's not a straightforward answer I'm sure. Our world has a complexity like never before.

Some children I have worked with, who have not experienced intuitive mothering, who grieve the constancy of love and care from their mothers, often say "It would be easier if my mother was dead...". They imagine that this would allow them to package up their grief and trauma, and try to move forward in their lives. But it's not that easy.

There's a book written for children called "The Invisible String". It is a great tool to help young kids deal with separation anxiety as it explores the idea of constant connection between mothers and children, or between any two people who love one another. You can tug on this string and send your love all the way down the line to the other person. And when you feel their love in your heart, it means they have tugged on the string in return. This piece of string can go anywhere and everywhere, even to heaven, and it is stronger than anger. Nice in theory.

But I think in many ways this invisible string does exist. Unfortunately, for some children (and some mothers too) they keep tugging on that string, but struggle to feel the tug in return. For some, the string continues to be attached to their heart, even when it seems to be floating freely at the other end, unattached to the intended other. That's when instead of feeling the return tug and love in their heart, they feel pain and loss.

Today, I hope that for all those people who feel their mother-child invisible strings, not pulled taut with constant tugging, but loose and lost at the other end, they feel love and connection with others; fathers, brothers, sisters, friends, neighbours, teachers, or someone who lets them know they are loved. So that today, rather than being full of sadness, it can have moments of hope, kindness, and guiding experiences for how to mother one day themselves.

from: http://overthefencewithem.com/the-invisible-string/

The Power and Healing of Empathy

It seems fitting that today, ANZAC Day in Australia (an annual memorial day to Australian soldiers who have fought and died), I have been thinking a lot about empathy.

Apparently I have always been a very empathic person, although I haven't always seen myself in this way, and certainly not necessarily as a positive attribute.

My mother tells me that back when I was in Grade 1 at school, my teacher told her I was a compassionate child. There was one boy in my class, a difficult student, likely with an intellectual impairment or developmental disorder, whom no one would play with or much tolerate. But as a six-year old child, I cared for him.

In my teenage and young adult years, I always described myself as 'over-sensitive', thinking that what I experienced was a problem, a handicap of some sort. I chose not to continue my original career path after my undergraduate degree and become a practicing psychologist, because after some work experience I thought I wouldn't be able to handle the suffering that I would witness in others. I wouldn't be able to distance myself from other people's pain. I became an academic instead.

For several years I avoided dealing with these experiences in my life, as much as I could. I deliberately constrained my contact with sadness or pain. I stopped watching the news. All doom and gloom. I chose not to see violent, scary or particularly sad movies. Though not always very successfully. I remember reading the book "The Bridges of Madison County" when I was about 24 years old. The sadness and longing of the characters stayed with me for weeks. I became a 'greenie', and an amateur vegetarian, not really because of ethics or philosophical viewpoints, but because when I ate meat I would physically feel the pain of the animals who have died, and when I saw a tree being felled, a deep sadness would weigh on my heart like as if I felt the grief of Mother Nature.

Then I suffered myself. I felt pain that was so intense I thought I would stop breathing. My baby daughter died. And then one year later, my baby son died too. On the first anniversary of my daughter's death, I remember waking and feeling such sadness, such desperation that I didn't want to open my eyes. I wanted to stop. Everything. I was tired of living, each day with a stabbing pain that wouldn't go away. I imagined not being alive. And then in that moment I had the thought "This is what it is like, for all those people in the world, who think about death, who want to end their life". I felt a strange sense of oneness, of connection, understanding, and peace. I was feeling what they were feeling. A whole bunch of strangers, people I'd never met, but with whom I felt somehow linked. For some reason, this gave me a sense of relief. It helped a little.

I've learned a lot in these past 8 years. I've learned to be comfortable with death, with sadness, with pain and suffering. I realised that I didn't have to avoid sadness and tragedy anymore. That in fact being over-sensitive or over-empathic was an important part of me, and that it could actually be a strength. I remember the moment that I finally decided to go back and finish what I'd started nearly 20 years ago, to work in counselling others. A student of mine contacted me for an extension on an assignment. Her grandmother had died. She told me how she had been there in the hospital on her own when her grandmother drew her final breath, and how terrible this was for her. When I read her message, I imagined what it would be like. To be lying there beside my grandmother, witnessing her life and death. I thought of how painful that would be, but also how amazingly beautiful and precious it would be to share this moment with someone that I loved. I shared this reflection with my student. She was very grateful, as it helped her see the experience in a different way; not so traumatic, something that she would treasure rather than a memory to be avoided. I don't really remember anything else about that semester of teaching. This moment between me and my student was the most important. So I resigned.

My over-sensitivity was in fact a strength. A strength that had always been with me, but something that my daughter and son helped me to experience differently, something to be thankful for rather than wishing it wasn't a part of who I was, as I had done in the past.

This week I gave a guest lecture in an educational psychology course at a local university. I talked about motivation, and how in teaching it is important to have an understanding of the broader factors that impact on students' motivation in the classroom. I don't know why I decided to do this, but I planned to do some role-plays. The idea came to mind in thinking about how to provide the students with an opportunity to really 'get' what it's like for some children who they will find in their future classrooms. Children who are experiencing the pain of a separating family, or who hunger not only for food but for love and a sense of safety, and for whom concentrating on maths or reading is so far from their immediate needs.

So I borrowed some school uniforms from my step-children, and wrote a couple of character dialogues, a 9 year old boy and a 17 year old girl, drawn from the life histories of several past clients. The boy's older brother had died and he was struggling to deal with his emotions at school; anger and fear. The girl had been kicked out of home by her mother and was missing her family very much. I chose some melancholy music to help set the scene, and off I went. At the chosen moment in the lecture, I donned the first school uniform, took my place in the front of the lecture theatre, and began to recite the boy's inner dialogue. I had barely begun before I could feel myself choking up. I was relieved to have my back to the students so they couldn't see I was upset. "What on earth are you doing!" I said to myself. "Get a hold of yourself". It didn't work. I also fought back the tears and battled the lump in my throat as I went through the girl's character half an hour later. Perhaps my sobs appeared part of my acting of the characters, perhaps the students knew I really was sobbing. It didn't matter. My over-sensitivity helped to produce what I really wanted. Empathy. For those few minutes in the lecture, the students were able to connect with the characters, and imagine what it might be like for that boy and girl.

The power of empathy is hard to quantify. But I reckon the world would be a much better place if we could somehow infect people with it. Connection with others is theorised to be a basic human need (such as in Abraham Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs). Connection occurs when we feel some kind of understanding or oneness with another being. If only we understood each other better there would be less violence, hatred, and fear in the world. Not only between countries, but between individuals, neighbours, work colleagues, strangers in passing.

The power of connection is expressed well by Rachel Reiland in her book "Get me out of Here: My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder".

"For all these years, you’ve lived under the illusion that, somehow, you made it because you were tough enough to overpower the abuse, the hatred, the hard knocks of life. But really you made it because love is so powerful that tiny little doses of it are enough to overcome the pain of the worst things life can dish out. Toughness was a faulty coping mechanism you devised to get by. But, in reality, it has been your ability to never give up, to keep seeking love, and your resourcefulness to make that love last long enough to sustain you. That’s what has gotten you by".

Now back to the beginning. ANZAC Day today. As I think about my 21 year-old step son joining the army next year, I hope that through whatever difficult experiences he may endure, he is able not just to be tough but to be connected with others, feeling empathy for his fellow human beings; and that these are the things that not only keep him going, but are what he strives for in his service.

http://cultureofempathy.com/

http://cultureofempathy.com/ 

Creativity and Grief...

Who'd have thought that there could be any similarity between creativity and grief? This may seem like a long shot, a creative mash-up gone wrong, but somehow it makes sense to me.

Last week we attended the Sunday service at the church located at our son's school. My husband regularly plays the drums in the church band and it was one of his playing days. I didn't know it in advance but it also happened to be the special Year 3 service, where these students actively participated in the service, with singing, talk and drama. About 40 little 8-year-olds and their families flooded the chapel. The girls were wearing their favourite dresses and looking very much like, well, little girls. Bright eyes, smiling and nervous faces, hair bows and shiny shoes creating a wave of glitter as they rushed by.

At one point all the students were on stage, and I could see the full array of little girls. I wondered to myself, "What would Lillienne look like now? Would she be like that girl, tiny and shy, or like that other one, seemingly proud and confident. Would she love to wear sparkling sandals and a flowing dress? or would she rather something else?". Lillienne, my dead daughter, would be the same age, in the same class, as these girls. As we began to sing a hymn, I couldn't hold back my tears any longer. They rolled down my cheeks and I covered my face with my hands. "No, not now!" I thought. So I gathered myself together in the moment, and steeled myself for the rest of the service. I lip-sync'd the rest of the hymn. I was unable to get any words out, especially anything to do with love, longing, suffering or goodness. Unfortunately pretty predictable themes of most religious songs.

As the service ended, I avoided the gaze of anyone, knowing that if someone were to say 'Hello, how are you?' I would burst into tears. And that would not be good timing. After 8 years of experience, I've learned that it is unlikely for people to handle another person's tears very well. Even less well when they discover that not one, but two, of my babies have died. What does one say to that? Usually not much, followed by an uncomfortable silence, and muddled segue to some other topic of conversation or a need to leave. I truly feel for anyone who has unknowingly walked into this with me. Of course they don't know what to say. Why would they? Grief is one thing that all humans experience, but it is one thing that we rarely talk about or learn to be comfortable with.

So my grief, when it comes, is not often timely. In the middle of a church service, or driving in the car. Not good timing. Tears and driving are a particularly unsafe combination. Like sneezing repeatedly. Both could potentially lead to a crash. Tears and being in public are just plain uncomfortable and inconvenient, for everyone. So I've learned to 'suck it up'. Suck up the tears back to where they came from, suck up the pain and cover it with my invisible armour so it cannot be seen. And hope that it returns at a more opportune time. When I'm alone and have the time to be with it.

Because I do hope it returns. At least most of the time.  It is through my grief - the pain, the memories, the longing - that I am able to connect with my daughter and my son. Love and pain are inextricably entwined in grief. Especially grief that follows the death of a child.

But the inspiration, or trigger, for my grief is not something I can contain or control. Just as is the inspiration for creativity it seems. And here's the link. Finally! I hear you say. Famous creative individuals have often talked about the process of inspiration being something you can't always control, that it often happens out of the blue. For example, Leonard Cohen the musician and songwriter has said:

"I can work, I can go to my desk and work every day for a year and nothing happens...Whereas, sometimes just a waitress handing me a sandwich can...touch me very, very deeply and suddenly everything will open up - the heart will open up. It's very mysterious how the heart opens up."

And Elizbeth Gilbert (author of "Eat, Pray, Love") recounts how Tom Waits once described driving down the freeway in LA when all of a sudden he hears a little fragment of melody, coming to him in that often elusive way, when there is no way to capture the inspiration as it comes. In this story, Tom apparently looks up to the sky and says, "Excuse me, can you not see that I'm driving...do I look like I can write down a song right now? If you really want to exist, come back at a more opportune moment when I can take care of you...".

So I wonder what the underlying similarity is for this triggering experience in grief and creativity? Perhaps it is that both involve our emotional memories and processes in the brain. Perhaps that is why creative approaches are often used in therapy, such as writing, art and drama. But here's another thought. What happens to creativity if you ignore it? With grief, it inevitably comes back to you, and often in waves much stronger than those you've tried to repress. Or it finds other ways of seeping through you such as with illness, depression, anxiety, or an inability to be free to feel anything.

But what of creativity? Would it matter if you repressed those inspiring moments, those urges? Abraham Maslow (early proponent of Humanistic psychology) suggests that humans have a innate need for growth and self-actualisation, "the full realisation of one's potential". Perhaps for some individuals, creativity is part of their potential and therefore not to fulfill their creativity would be not to fulfill their potential. According to a humanistic view, feeling stifled in one's personal growth leads to mental ill-health. So, like repressing grief, perhaps ignoring the need for creativity would also have a negative impact on one's well-being.

Later that day, after coming home from church and entertaining family for the afternoon, I was still feeling the heaviness of my held-back tears. But I felt like the moment had passed, and I thought "What good would it do me now?" as I climbed into bed. What was the point of sharing this with my husband, when there was nothing he could do? But as I turned to say goodnight, I couldn't get the words out before I began to cry. Through gut-wrenching tears I told him about seeing all the little girls at church. I don't know how long I cried for. But I haven't cried like that for years. I cried so hard it hurt my ribs, my eyes, my head, my heart. I cried for all the times I couldn't cry. For all the times I held in my tears, too embarrassed, exhausted or guilty to shed them. For all the times I wanted to show the world my pain but didn't. For all the times Lillienne's or Finn's spirit had come to me at an inopportune moment, and I had wanted so desperately to be with them but couldn't. Afterwards I felt a little lighter. Relieved to have allowed the inspiration to come and be processed.

A friend of mine, a writer, academic, musician (and just all round very creative person!) recently wrote of her experience of creativity. She talked about how she engages in her own creative processes, allowing herself to take moments of inspiration, and that her well-being, personal and professional, is so much better when she does. It was reading her reflections that inspired me to write this. So there you have it. Creativity and grief. Perhaps a perfect combination.

Oso Blue: without you Paula Swenson ©2013
   (from: http://seekyourcourse.com/blog/2013/02/creativity-as-self-care-in-times-of-extreme-need/)

                                                                                           

Place, belonging and home: I love a sunburnt country...or do I?

As Australia Day came and went this year, I found myself thinking a lot about what this really means for me. It's never been something I feel compelled to celebrate, beyond enjoying time with family or relaxing away from work. I see the total engagement by others each year, flying flags from homes or cars, gathering in hordes at the beach or city park to enjoy what it is to be Australian to them. It isn't because I am not an Australian. I was born here, part of the 4th generation in my family. But I just don't "feel" particularly Australian, whatever that may feel like. Why is that?

At the beginning of a new year, I often go through a time of yearning, searching, longing for something that I can't quite put my finger on. The new year brings thoughts of change, as we consider our resolutions, ponder the merits of a new job or what other project we might begin. For me, it always brings a sense of restlessness and wistful feelings that leave me unsettled for a while.

It wasn't until I attended an amazing workshop about 18 months ago called The Literary Therapist, in Castlemaine Victoria, that I began to make sense of this experience. The workshop presenter, Karen  Masman, talked about the feelings of sadness that we sometimes experience, and focused particularly on a sense of 'soulful sadness' (see her book, "The Uses of Sadness"). She explored the idea of longing or yearning in other cultures and languages. These concepts spoke to me (pardon the pun), and I began to make sense of my own feelings.

In the Welsh language, hiraedd or hiraeth means something that is longed for but cannot be obtained, homesickness, a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness for Wales, or as one woman describes "the call of my spiritual home". Similar and yet different, is the German word fernweh which means homesick for abroad, and the Finnish word kaukokaipuu which translates as faraway yearning. But perhaps they are not so different. Perhaps what is essential in both the Welsh homesickness for Wales and these other concepts, is that notion of yearning for the home of one's heart, wherever that may be.

My experience of longing, hiraedd, fernweh or kaukokaipuu is often triggered by the environmental aesthetics around me. Instead of the sweltering heat, dry earth and brown grass, I yearn for green, wet and cool. British or European architecture, cottage gardens, autumnal leaves and rolling pastures, rather than a rambling Queenslander, gum trees and grevillea shrubs. Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but I'd probably prefer snow or mountains or a forest with babbling brook.

As a child I always had my head in a book. I loved reading. It was my sanctuary, my escape. I remember with love reading stories of Enid Blyton, Beatrix Potter and the like, about fairies and other such fantastical creatures and places, surrounded by greenness and flowers, village life, four distinct seasons and a mix of cockney and aristocratic language and culture. I had a longing even then, to live in this environment. I remember being 3 or 4 years old, and driving in the Landrover with my father on our property, probably to check on the cattle. In my memories, there was a small winding creek at some point, which created the need to drive through the dry bed and up onto a grassy mound a number of times. Taking this route generated the illusion of being on a circular, grassy knoll as we emerged each time from the creek bed, especially in spring when these openings were often full of tiny bluebells. I imagined all sorts of wonderful things about this place. Fairies, elves, animals, toadstools, butterflies, all living together in a comfortable and idyllic existence.

Why have I always been drawn so strongly to a particular environmental and cultural aesthetic? Part of my developing understanding of this issue came a few years ago when I read about the genetic transmission of culture. We are all a unique combination of genetically inherited traits, physically and psychologically. But this idea goes further to suggest that we may also inherit a connectedness to land or culture. I also recently read about the genetic transmission of ancestry memory. I'm not so sure about the latter, but I do think there is some potential in the idea that along with our physical and psychological makeup, is a spiritual element that may be genetically transmitted over the generations. Why not? Stranger things have been found to exist.

A dear friend of mine, who was born and bred in England but is originally of Viking descent if you go back far enough in her genealogy, has told me of her experience when she first spent time in Denmark. She was both unsettled and inspired by a strong sense of connectedness, a sense of being at 'home'. She didn't want to leave.

This is what I have experienced whenever I've visited Britain, and to some degree Tasmania, or even Melbourne. It is certainly what I feel when I read about or see images of these places, as well as northern Europe. And like in the Japanese poet Basho's haiku, "Even in Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo’s cry, I long for Kyoto", I have a deep longing for these places in anticipation of my inevitable leaving, a sense of grief of what I have not had, and may not ever have. Now, to take a genetic or genealogical perspective, this makes complete sense. My ancestry is strongly connected to these places. My maternal grandmother's family came from England, and my maternal grandfather's family came from Scotland and Denmark. My paternal grandmother's family came from Denmark and Germany, and my paternal grandfather's family came from Denmark and England. No wonder I don't like the heat!

Although I acknowledge, with gratitude, my being born in Australia, the lucky country, I have never felt really at home here. My goodness, I wonder how first generation immigrants feel?! There is the sometimes jarring of culture and ideas, of environment and surroundings; a sense that I do not relate to being 'Australian', indeed to not even really knowing what that means. But perhaps that doesn't really matter. Perhaps for me on Australia Day, I can just be grateful that my country is not (yet) at war, that as an individual (man or woman) I have freedom to make choices about my life, I have lots of wide open spaces to look at out the window rather than cramped high-rises blocking my view, I have the capacity to travel to another place that I feel connected to rather than being refused a passport or not afford the fare, and I have the foundation of a good education on which to ponder all these things.

Ok, so I don't like cricket or football, steak and prawns on the barbie, beer at the pub, or whatever it is that seems to symbolise being Australian (I don't include 'mate ship' or giving people a fair go, because to be honest I think you find that no matter where you go, and we could do a darn sight better on this score than we do). But I do respect the decisions that my ancestors made in coming to Australia all those years ago. And I do appreciate many of the wonderful things about Australia, especially the diversity, of people, culture, land, and opportunity.

My heart will always yearn for somewhere else, my spirit will always have moments of wistful longing, grieving a past never known. But as Karen Masman says, being sad is no reason not to be happy. So, Happy Australia Day everyone!

House once owned by Enid Blyton - Buckinghamshire, England
photo from: quaintgarden.blogspot.com

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 :)