In between
Loss, little things, hovering
A few days later as I come to edit and publish this Substack, I wondered about a title. ‘In between’, covers so many things. We are in between a death and a funeral, in between two weekends, in between waking and sleep. ‘In between’ covers when you are neither one thing nor another, one place nor another. For anyone who is a bit lost, you may relate. In fact, maybe we are always ‘in between?’
The sky is two tone this morning, the light grey bands edged with hints of blue white. The snow capped mountains seem distant. The foothills dark and clearly defined.
I look at my Topic Fish Bowl - a little file in Scrivener where I capture ideas for future posts and see nothing that feels juicy. The hiking club, setting up my home office, the writing Circle, getting on the road, indie bookshops, emotional literacy, 12 birds in the backyard. They all seem elusive and far away, another life. And the festive season is approaching, surely there must be plenty to observe and compare between traditions both sides of the pond? None of this calls me today. Maybe later or maybe those topics are already past their sell by date.
I am noticing Substack publications by women writers who share boldly and without apology their fascination with the pull of the landscape, the unseen realms, the liminal space where creativity rises like a dawn mist evaporating and dispersing in the warmth of the sun. This is what pulls my interest just now.
Here I am, far away from those I know and love, yet close as can be to my beloved and connecting with new friends, weaving a new web. It is strange and wondrous to notice the richness of this moment, any moment. Kneeling at my new low table, typing on my laptop, in my dressing gown (robe), I let the first draft of this Substack spool out of my mind through my fingers onto this Scrivener file where I create the first draft. The low table inspired by Petra Fisher, a Canadian movement coach in her fifties who left a corporate legal career to become a surfing nomad with her partner. Link below. The table is a lacquered, ornate coffee table, about 4’ x 2.5’, standing about a foot and a half off the ground. I’m knelt up on a stack of cushions looking straight out to the mountains.
The low table was a treasure from a day out when new friends Michelle and Mary invited me out for a day of thrift store hunting and lunch. Thrift stores are what my UK friends call charity shops. First stop was Vintage La Conner where the three of us immediately scattered to our chosen areas: me, crockery; Michelle, jewellery and Mary Christmas decorations. It was a delight to spend time with these new found friends who’ve extended such love and kindness to me as I find myself out of step with holiday cheer. My tank runs out unexpectedly as waves of grief, my own and other people’s crash over me at random moments. Surrendering to this is proving a humbling education. Just how much thoughts of ‘should’ and ‘ought’ can run my day is mind boggling.
I feel held in an extraordinary tenderness just now. Events this week, Paul’s back going out, have shifted the kaleidoscope once again (thank you Carol for that beautiful image that returns again and again to me). The week’s focus has turned: cancelling many social encounters and shifting to getting to appointments. As decades of holding get released we are both landing in a space of stillness and surrender. Christmas, funerals, grief, the UK, all seem far away.
Some years ago, we found ourselves in a little AirBnB in the Plaka district in Athens after sudden and violent sickness overtook us on the last day of my month long house sit in the mountains of the Peloponnese Peninsular, three hours from Athens. Paul had arrived for the last week, hired a car and driven up to the mountains to join me. We made it back to Athens, weak as kittens and spent the next 5 days flaked out on the sofa watching Netflix barely able to make it downstairs. Yet what stands out is the deep love we experienced between us. I look back now and see, we surrendered to what was and in that surrender found extraordinary love and peace.
Society marks some losses with formal ritual and we have shared and sanctioned ways of supporting the bereaved, those who are recognised as being bereaved. Yet so much loss people experience is hidden - not acknowledged or recognised let alone honoured. Loss of function, roles, relationships, sanity, identity.
I have spent much of my life going against the tide of my peers. As a young woman I felt proud of this distinction, a rebel in my own way.
Now once again I find myself in a private complicated grief and it has me wanting to extend that energetic vigil to all those who are experiencing profound loss that goes unrecognised. I’ve begun to write poems for ‘complicated grief’. They are raw and personal and may never see the light of day. A welcome container for the mix of emotions I’ve been feeling these last few weeks. In a local bookshop, I was looking for poems about complicated grief and found none. So why not write some, I thought.
I briefly toyed with the idea of writing a chirpy post about setting up my workspace. Sharing fun insights about American electricity supply and plug shape differences. Surely people don’t want another post about grief? But my heart wasn’t in it. And these days, listening in to my heart, going at the pace my spirit requests feels like an honouring of something much deeper than doing what I think I should.
Loss is so much part of life. I wrote a reflection on loss in 2020 as the pandemic blossomed across the globe and I caught a flight from San Francisco back to London, between two cities, one shutting down, the other yet to shut down. You can find it in the links. It’s my old website, which is lingering like a restless spirit hovering between life and death. Shall I mothball it? Publish the articles in a collection? A question for another day perhaps.
Following on from last week’s threads, in my conversations with ChatGPT, I explored the what, why and how of my writing. So why do I write this Substack?
I am drawn to it, each week. Not always knowing what will come through, but pulled to put words down. As I drop more masks, yawning in the middle of appointments, canceling commitments, the channel is getting clearer.
I sense by writing I reveal something true in the moment. True in the sense of authentic. And perhaps, this writing is to encourage me, but more importantly, you, the reader to pay attention to what is authentic in you and to express and honour that, moment by moment.
Turbulence, upsetting thinking, it happens to us all. Wobbles and spills. I’ve had a few.
Ah, as sometimes happens, something gets revealed right at the end. In between is really where all the juice is. In between breaths, in between thoughts, in between these precious moments of our lives. In between is where magic happens. We are always just one thought away from a different experience, if we can just stop holding on to whatever experience we are having and allow that one to go, then the next one will show up all by itself!
Until next time, dear reader, enjoy following threads that pull you.
Gratitude
Sometimes the perfect words land in your awareness to help revive your spirits. Just so with this blog post from Julian Fraser. Many thanks to him for writing it: Navigating life when batteries aren’t included.
Email correspondence: I have been reminded how nourishing it is to correspond with friends by email. It’s not for everyone. But friends who have said yes, I deeply appreciate this connection. Thank you.
Deep thanks to so many friends who have offered help and good cheer over the last couple of weeks. My beloved got to perform in the Skagit Valley Chorale concert yesterday despite a seized back. It was all possible thanks to Dicken and Coizie giving lifts and encouragement.
Links
Julian Fraser blog post, Navigating life when batteries aren’t included
Juliet blog post - Reflections on loss
Threads that Pull Me
RECIPE: A warming sausage and lentil hotpot with sage and apple this week felt nourishing and just perfect for the situation. From Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall’s book, How to Eat 30 plants a week.