White Feathers and the Energy of Grief

When somebody you love dies, it either becomes the focus of your conversations, or the thing that people most want to avoid.  Strangely either way, you’re left knowing that when death happens, we’re all thinking about it. 

There were friends and family who didn’t call for months after my Dad died.  I understand why now, and I'm beginning to feel ok about it.  A note to those who find it hard to call, grief connects us I’m afraid, whether it pushes you away or pulls you closer. 

So in my experience, whether it is the big elephant in the room or the precious bird in our joined shaking hands, grief, when it comes (as it comes to us all) decides to stay. 

My Dad was 62 when his body was overtaken and stopped working.  Along with close family, I stood by his side and watched it change shape as his heart slowed and his frame became unrecognisable.  Good riddance I said, to these changes.  If you won’t leave his body alone, then his body must stop being such an accommodating host, I thought.  Grief had already begun to help me separate my love for my Dad, with the vessel that carried him.  I don’t think I ever equated the weakness in his body with a demise of our relationship, his character or his soul. 

I felt a sense of relief when it happened, to know my dad (who, in spirit at least was familiar) had found a way of breaking free and creating a safe distance. 

I actually don’t imagine cancer cells as monsters, or as an evil force.  Just intrusive, tenacious matter or stuff.  It’s not helpful to me to imagine my Dad fighting cancer. Because he died. My Dad was a fit, intelligent, capable, strong willed soul.  I don’t believe he was beaten, quite the opposite.  He was sensible, thoughtful and a scientific man who didn’t demonise his disease but looked upon it as the facts of the end of his life.  He didn’t like it, he didn’t want it to happen, but he never once told me he would beat it.  I don’t believe he ever thought he was in a competition. 

Instead, I think he felt angry that he didn’t have more time.  That his life became about illness and suffering, and not about good puns, pond maintenance or the art of building a perfect miniature Italian fishing boat.  He spent a lifetime loving the use of his body, its skills, where it carried him and what his hands and feet could do with time and care.  So in his death, in the demise of this fantastic body, I think we were left with all his pent up energy; his panic and the pressure of all the love and emotions he’d otherwise have shared over decades to come. 

Where does all that energy and emotion go when the heart stops? 

I’ve thought a lot about energy since he died.  I remember staring at his empty shoes in the garage the week after, studying the footprints that indented the worn rubber soles that once marched around the garden, all grassy and mowing lawns, cutting hedges and building that beautiful pond.  Those inanimate shoes had received his energy and changed to accommodate it.  I am forever changed because of it too.

Nearly three years on, I think what I feel most strongly now, is that grief is full of energy.  It is full of big emotional waves of love, loss, anger, sadness, laughter, emptiness and fullness all at the same time.  In some moments, it overwhelms me.

Time has helped hugely, but you can’t rush that of course.  In time, I have come to embrace the energy of grief and what it compels me to do and feel.  My relationship with most family members has strengthened, developed and deepened into ties that are more meaningful than ever before.  Coming together with people who share the same love for Dad, is like feeling him gifting us energy and positivity time and again.  The most wonderful thing about that, is that I don’t believe it will ever stop. 

When I think of Dad, the depth of sadness and joy I feel, creates this huge surge of feeling that needs to be shared somehow, passed on and gifted back into to the world.  The transference of energy has played a huge part in my relationship with grief.  And more specifically how I cope when the darkness and finality of grief hovers over me.

I look for my Dad’s energy in the world around me and I connect with him every time I find it.  I find him in the speed and elegance of the birds of prey he loved, I find him in the ever-flowing energy of rivers and surf that cool my feet.  I remember his gentle balanced nature every time I see a white feather and they’re everywhere too, like daily calling cards, gentle reminders and taps on the shoulder.  "Hi Dad" I say quietly.

I chuckle at how cliché that sounds now… but it reminds me that everything that lives and exists in this world, is moving and changed by the world around it.  Branches bow to the wind, feathers fall, opinions and behaviour adjust, hard stones smooth under the waves and we scatter bodies back to the earth to become something new. 

Not being able to see, smell and interact in familiar ways, is heart-breaking.  So I know that this powerful grief is not simple and sometimes just painful.  I still watch how initially, grief lowered the bar for the potential of my Mum’s happiness, making everyday life for her just ever so slightly dimmer.  She was his partner, his lover and equal and her loss is different to mine.  Though she is forever changed, I hope in time his energy will direct her into a new kind of happiness.

I listen, feel and respond to Dad in new ways now, and when I'm busy I can forget to stop for a moment.  Because when I do, I realise I can make use of all that he gave to the world around me and channel it into amazing new thoughts and deeds, that keep his energy flowing and his memory alive.

Goodman's Croft Day 2/3 - Earth, wind & fire

My fall awake was as effortless as my fall asleep.  Waking up in Lumsden, I felt calm and charged with humour.  The first day here had ended in the pub, with room temperature beer and brand new smiling faces.  With anecdotes flowing freely and new perspectives being considered, I feel already that my trip feels too short. 

I'm a person who really loves people, but you can't always find people who feel the same.  Yet the people here at SSW seemed to have struck this delicate balance between giving individuals their space, and revelling in communal living.  Like a weeble toy, I think the core of this 'artist's' community is so grounded, that if knocked by stressful projects, funding crises or the frustrations of rural living, it would roll back upright again.  Like a really steady ship.

The banter over meal times and boiling kettles is infectious and yet strangely I'm inspired to focus on work and enjoy the task in hand.  Saturday I was to meet Ann from the Old Smithy, for tea and an all butter biscuit. I had introduced myself on Friday and asked her to pop over to the workshop to talk to me a little about Lumsden life.  Ann is popular and frequents the SSW regularly; for fun, for company and for the joy of being near people who create. 

The voice recorder I knew may pose a worry for Ann, as everyday words were proving elusive since the onset of her recently diagnosed Dementia.  She expressed (rather succinctly actually) that she thought she might sound stupid if she ruined the recording with her lack of eloquence.  I told her I could understand her just fine and if she or I couldn't find the words, they aren't worth hearing anyway.

The recorder was placed just out of sight and within reach of our conversation and we talked for just over an hour.  Ann spoke of her arrival in Lumsden just 6 years ago, but also of the lifetime that paved her way to the village.  She cared to remind me of the stories that weren't for public consumption and we agreed that what I would keep, would be the tales of what makes her happy, what nourishes her wellbeing and the positives of the Lumsden community.  The listeners could fill in their own gaps.

So for an hour I was engrossed and we laughed and we spoke of family, friendship and the community pulling together in times of need.  When editing the material alone later that day, I discovered it was going to be a challenge to produce a worthy recording of our conversation.  This made me sad an somewhat disappointed. I could follow Ann's train of thought so easily by being with her, seeing her physically act out the words that were just out of reach.  But hearing it again, I found myself wishing I had her there with me.  Like the comfort of a book with pictures when you're learning to read.  I suppose there is something poignant about how easy it is to understand her in her presence, but how distanced it feels to hear only her voice.  I feel happy that her family live only next door.

Consoled by the joy of my live conversation with Ann, I looked forward to the promise of her popping by again soon, but I needed a break away from the lap-top and craved some banter with Craig and the others.  Soon our plans to go to a neighbouring village pub were scrapped in favour of a bonfire at base camp, with marsh mallows, whiskey and an American with a banjo.  The company was SO delightful and cheeky, and I could totally be myself.  Such naff impressions and tenuous puns would be social suicide in the hands of a lesser mortal. 

We poked and stoked a precarious and ladened mass of wood that Brigitte, the resident Aussie, had set alight with a giant blow torch.  I realised (as crude and miscellaneous artifacts were chucked on the flames) that part of what I already love about this place, is being in the presence of not only down to earth people, but earthly matter itself.  Great hunks of wood and welded metals, and stone and glass amidst all the elements.  It's safe and healthy here inside this bubble of rubble.

I knew, the moment I thought I could solve burning problems of prejudice in Uganda, I should bid my fellow pyromaniacs adieu, and take my warm and cosy feeling to bed.  Also the zip on my jeans had gotten so hot in front of the fire, that I was beginning to scorched my lady parts.

Today, Craig and I gleefully finished off our prep for the kids 'recording' workshop tomorrow at the school.  And now I lie here in my humble abode, satisfied from Ross' skillful and sublime roast pork Sunday dinner, and the knowledge that I wake here again tomorrow.

Goodman's Croft Radio Lumsden - Permission to engage?

Today I arrived at the Scottish Sculpture Workshop and was warmly welcomed into this fervent yet relaxed arts hub, buzzing and screeching with tools and tinkering and set boldly at the mouth of Lumsden Village.

I’m here to assist a community engagement project to pre-empt the launch of Goodman’s Croft – Radio Lumsden; a community arts project steered by the inspiring and engaging artist/puppy, Rocca Gutteridge.

My mission - our mission - (that we’ve fully accepted) is to unearth the voices that anchor this village and discover a hunger for creativity in an outwardly fed and watered community.

Craig is the 'tech' wizard who picked me up from the station and he's perfectly lovely. I'm instantly endeared to his northern English easy nature, his scruffy attire and particularly his use of the expression "absolutely beautiful" when describing the people he's been working with; two weeks in to this exciting internship. We're going to get on, because I've barely wondered if we'll get on (other than to write it here) and we both love beer. Again, marvellous.

Whilst SSW folk are busying around the workshops, I set off on foot into the village, armed with dry-cured beef strips for my first wander around. It’s true I found myself masticating alongside the cows and with only slightly less foam at the mouth. Why the beef ‘jerky’ I don’t know, it was a culinary experiment, to accompany my trot into the unknown.

First stop, the Old Smithy, or as a friend with personal connections has informed me, it is the “‘al smiddy’”, owned and blessed by Anne, a local woman with worldly charm. And a tiny dog. But more on Anne tomorrow, as we have our first official chat arranged.

I stopped into the local (and only) hairdressers. My master plan was to book an appointment and slowly, snip by snip hear the owner reveal all the secrets of the village; the gripes, the moans and the stories unfolding as I am trimmed and spruced into a shadow of my former self.

“Nothing this week I’m afraid”, she smugly chirped.

The empty village shop seemed sparse and pricey and the staff have a reputation. But instead, with a very local Express under my arm, I’m greeted with smiles from a mother and daughter team behind the counter, French, and pleasant. I ask where they hail from originally (as I have a foreign accent too) and the chit-chat escalates into a tale of woe, about how difficult it is to join in activities in Lumsden, if you’re from a neighbouring village. They spoke of hostility.

The pub was closed on the way past, as I made my way along Main Street at around 5pm. It's nestled in the bosom of the Lumsden Hotel Inn, which was also closed. The reception, it would seem, is definitely not as warm as the bosoms I’m used to.

Undeterred and parched from the excessive consumption of jerky, I veered off-piste to venture onto a country track, which pleasantly sloped down towards the luscious Lumsden fields. It was on this route that I made my first enlightening discovery. After strolling past a succession of low window sills, adorned with teapots, china cats and Geraniums, I caught the glossy eye of a ceramic figure. Dark and twisty, this was colourful, macabre and altogether unusual - wait a minute, there are locals here who flirt with unusual passions and display them, defiantly, in place of a pair of china cats. Marvellous. On I go...

Final stop the primary school, via the soft and mossy path that's home to the Lumsden Sculpture Trail. The presence of the arts is weathered and permanent here, though the locals I see choose to take the shorter route on the Main Street pavements above.

I was too late for the Head Mistress and the school was winding down for the day, but just the smell of blu-tack on magnolia paint made me enthusiastic about preparing our forthcoming workshops with the P4s to P7s there on Monday.

Looking beyond the school buildings, the 'no speed limit' signs bookend a travellers pass through the village. I turn on my heels back to SSW. Checking if the pub had now opened on the way.