Thursday 26 July 2012

Turning the corner

A small corner has been turned. When I was young and foolish, I used to think that if I turned a corner, then the road ahead would be straight and clear, a lovely line to the horizon, without end. Sometimes, even now, I think that, in the magical part of my brain. In fact, I discover that really life is just one damn corner after another. You have to keep turning the idiot things, and the road is never, ever straight.

There are two kinds of people who really frighten me. They are: the very capable ones, and the very self-contained ones. I always think they are looking at me and judging. (In fact, that quizzical expression on their faces is probably because they are trying to remember whether they turned the oven off, but still. In my mind, they always know the oven is off.) Just lately, I have grown incompetent, and I try to cover the fact by talking too much. The capable and the self-contained would never fall into such a schoolgirl error. I always know when something is wrong when I get very bad at doing things. I break cups, burn the soup, can’t write a decent sentence for money nor love. I become incapable of fulfilling the smallest tasks; I cannot even take my library books back.

I am supposed to be writing a pitch for a new project, and a sample chapter, and I keep starting, realising what I have written is the biggest load of buggery bollocks ever invented, deleting everything, and beginning from scratch. I write pathetic emails to my agent promising tomorrow and tomorrow, and tomorrow never comes.

The reason I write so much about the horse is that in this season of uselessness, she is my one true thing. For some strange reason, I can do everything well with her. I think it is because she is such a quick study, and so she flatters me. Also, it has turned out that, despite her occasional duchessy moments, and her high breeding, she is in fact the softest thing in the world, and all she really needs is love. Even in the slough of incapacity, I can do love. I may not be able to tidy my office, but I can stand in a field with a sentient creature and bring her joy by scratching her ears. That is my twice daily fillip.

The corner was turned because I finally realised what all this is about. It is simple, but I am a little shy to admit it. (The stern critical voice in my head says: you really should be butcher than this.) It is that I am missing my dad.

I think I got grief all wrong. I think I thought that I could do it well, and that then it would be finite. I could mark the passing, plant the tree, honour the memories, and then, somehow, move along. It’s not like that at all. I start to think it does not end, and nor should it. You can’t just get on, through sheer act of will. Time does not stop the missing, it merely intersperses it with more normality. All the ordinary emotions come back; there are many days of usualness. But the heart carries a crack in it, because a person is not there.

I think I thought I could heal the crack, but that’s not it. I think, I think, that the secret is to accept the crack, and know that it does not mean the whole thing is broken. Leonard Cohen once sang: there is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in. I have a strong sense that Jung once wrote something very similar, although I can’t remember exactly what it is.

There will be days of joy, and there will be days of missing. My fatal tendency is to try to paper over the cracks, and that is when I get useless and can’t do anything well, probably because all my mental energy is being channelled into a sort of blank denying.

Anyway, last night, I remembered my dad and missed him like hell, and today I got up and my shoulders were light for the first time in weeks. I even went to the library and took my books back. Both my favourite librarians were there (I love librarians almost as much as I love dry stone wallers) and we smiled and laughed and wished each other well. I came home and put some Handel on at full blast and faced my pitch with open eyes instead of cross dread.

As I finish this, I think: I’ve written this despatch before. But that is because learning to carry a loss is not a smooth, linear process for me. I am learning it in stops and starts; I shall, no doubt, bash into another corner before the summer is done. I want to learn to carry my father with me, and remember him well. I want to let the light in.

 

Pictures:

26 July 1

26 July 2

26 July 3

26 July 5

26 July 6

26 July 7

This is not Red’s beautiful face. This is the donkey face she makes when I have been scratching her neck for ten minutes. It is her I don’t care what the hell I look like, I am so blissed out face. Notice the lower lip:

26 July 10

This is her ready for prime time face:

26 July 11

And, talking of beautiful faces:

26 July 12

The hill:

26 July 15

26 comments:

  1. This is EXACTLY how it works. And LC said it best.
    Through all the loses and all the sadness, I know my heart grows larger for the cracks...and God knows, we all need the light, for with it comes enlightenment.
    Thanks for this reminder Tania.
    "I will hold myself to a standard of grace, not perfection."

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    1. What a lovely comment. I love the standard of grace line; I am going to remember that.

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  2. You are precisely right.

    Can I say something about the 'capable and self-contained' ones? To public view, I probably (mostly) come into that category. Sometimes it's true (yes, I can tidy my office, and create processes that make it easier to keep life running, and have a problem-solving sort of brain). (Oh, and yes: we are usually wondering whether the oven is off.)

    However, the trouble is that it becomes a HUGE responsibility when that becomes your IMAGE. It means you must be 'capable and self-contained' at all times: and that, believe me, is an enormous source of stress.

    Many, many moons ago, when my first marriage had finally hit the rocks after some painful times, I had a meltdown in the office. One of my colleagues came in and caught me at it. Her way of encouraging me, and making it all better, was to say "Oh, but Cassie, you'll be fine. You're always so capable and so in control." She meant it kindly; but at that moment, I didn't want to be capable and in control. I wanted to fall apart, and shout and bawl, and be looked after; but the world wouldn't let me. And that was a painful realisation.

    Happily, another friend understood this, and the kindest simple action I have experienced is when she took me out to supper, gently removed the menu from my hand, and ordered on my behalf. I can't tell you what a relief it was.

    Happier still, I now have dear friends, and most importantly, my darling husband, with whom it IS alright to fall apart. However, there's no getting away from the fact that the Big Smiley Face is always there. The joker, the capable one, the solution-finder. She's useful, but exhausting.

    "A standard of grace, not perfection": thank you for that, Jacqueline.

    And Tania: don't be frightened by us capable ones. Please. We are usually only pretending.

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    1. You are always so wise and kind. Thank you for telling me that story; it is so human and true. I wonder if we are not all pretending, just a little, some of the time.

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    2. I think we are all pretending a bit. And with Cassie, I'm incredibly lucky enough to have a husband who I can fall apart in front of. The relief of not having to always be the strong one....

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  3. This is beautiful. Thank you.

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    1. Thank YOU, for such a lovely and simple comment.

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  4. You are carrying your Dad with you, and you are letting the light in, with everything you do with Red.

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    1. That has made me a bit teary. In a good way. Thank you.

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  5. Every time you write something like this, I realize the "capable, contained" thing is what I've been trying, to avoid missing my dad.

    P.S. It doesn't work.

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    1. Marcheline - I think you are so right. It just takes a few false starts to learn.

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  6. It seems that acknowledging the feelings and allowing them to be "lightens" the load.
    I know from experience that trying to suppress -- or ignore stuff backfires big time on me. (And I can do a really believable front of appearing "contained".)

    Just had a good old tears horizontally out of the eyeballs cry the other day about something over which I have NO control (always a frustration!)...and also felt "lighter" later...

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    1. Pat - So know those kind of tears. What my old godmother used to call 'tears coming out at right-angles'.

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  7. I have been thinking about your comments a few days ago. The one where you thought about writing about emotions. I love your blog and your writing. Partly because I can really relate to it. I come here to find out what you are feeling and alot of the time it resonates. Although I have not experienced your kind of loss but your words explain you and where you are with your loss. I don't think your blog needs to change but I have been thinking about your germ of an idea about posting about 'emotions.' I once had a journal that had a little bit where you wrote in what you felt each day - today I am feeling, today I am happy about, today I am sad about, today I achieved............ I loved this journal and on the sad days I looked back at all the happy ones. Even of sad days there were good things happening. Journal keeping is a very private thing and for me blogging has replaced my journal keeping. I have journals all over the house but not yet shared my blogging. It's not that I want people to read and think - what a great writer, it is a little bit about 'sharing and connecting.' I don't like Facebook so much because I don't think people really connect, they show off. I also saw another blog the other day where the lady had kept the blog, then every year she created a book. I just wondered whether there is anything you can do to create an 'emotional journal' but one that you can share with lots of people every day - so you can document your mood but also help to connect and generate positivity. The idea would be to get share of lighten but then create positivity by trying to get lots of people to share their words, feelings and quotes. What good deeds happened today, what good things happened today. Why are you happy today? Why should we be happy today? What do we need to get mad about today? What one thing should we change in our lives today. There is alot of positive stuff on blogs but quite isolated and no great movement. What if you could get people to connect via an emotional journal and journey - then you would have a book each year too! Not sure how you police the crazy people (of which you may think I am one!!). Sorry to ramble on but just think you may be onto something! It does sort of tie in with your book but for that you can only read - with a blog movement you could contribute and you could move people to contribute.

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    1. Anon - this is such a great and lovely comment and you have given me a lot to think about. Thank you.

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  8. That was truly lovely.

    And anyone who quotes Leonard Cohen is a friend of mine. :-)

    Pearl

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    1. Pearl - thank you. I sometimes think that L Cohen really is the soundtrack of my life.

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  9. There is so much truth in what you have written. I have a grief of my own and the way I began to cope with it was to accept that I couldn't accept it. Once I did this, the grief began to lift in a way that it had not before.
    Sending love and light from the mist enshrouded mountains of North Wales x

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    1. Jules - So, so lovely to have light from the glorious Welsh mountains. Thank you.

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  10. My Dad died in 1985 and, even though we lived at opposite ends of the earth, I still miss him - I always will.

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    1. Susan Heather - It's taken me a while to realise the missing never goes away. And I think perhaps it never should.

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  11. Yes. Oh yes. And I think part of it is that truly, time is NOT linear, nor are our emotions.

    Also loving "A standard of grace, not perfection", particularly as someone who paddles madly under the surface, has compulsive tidiness/control tendencies and is closely entangled with the nasty black dog of depression (side thought - why dog? dogs are lovely, especially black dogs like Pigeon or any of my much loved Rottweilers).

    So late with these comments on the last few posts, but have been lurgy ridden. Brain work *is* tiring, always get cross with people who say I can't be tired after sitting down all day, even if I've been doing mental gymnastics trying to figure out why something is broken and fix it. It's exhausting in a way that gardening all day isn't. Loving Red's wobbly lip. The power of touch is incredible, my dogs adore massage (as do I). Also loving all the close up photographs of plants and the new header. Lavender is one of my favourites, well up there with roses!

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    1. Erika - Oh, yes the paddling. Know it so well. And am very, very glad you appreciate the lower lip. It slays me.

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  12. Tania,

    I've followed your blog for months, but have never commented before. Anyway, i just wanted to say, you're an inspiration, on so many levels.

    Imo

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    1. Imo - what a very, very lovely thing to say; thank you.

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