I am talking to my plants in silence. They don’t need to hear my voice. They tell me that they can’t all bloom at once. There are not latent, they are working. Under the soil. They don’t have anything to prove. I trust their actions, they know what they are about. I have trodden on the frosted grass and felt its derision as it reminds me that it will never be the same again. Bruised by my imposition. I take photos of the lilac buds, and the clematis. I wonder how the passion flower faithfully makes its curly tendrils, believing there will be something for them to cling onto; by and by.
Yesterday I was crying for myself again. So tired. A week which began with my return to work, from the solitude of my office, surrounded by a carefully curated scene of things – useful stuff, decoration – things that harked back while I looked forward.
That and then the instruction to stay indoors, just as the lock had opened.
Still I think that nothing is all that bad. When the sun is bright. When I connect with all the things that make me Jo.
I am not in control- so I seek something to steer. Too cold to paint a wall- too tricky to finish the tasks that require fully focussed attention. I set about finishing off the biscuits; I can handle that.
I had been all ready for school. LP had her polo shirts pressed and plenty of kit to send along to her grandparents, they too primed for her arrival- the call to help out with the school run while I stepped back into professional life. We were set.
I wrote something at the end of last year, and I’m thinking about it now. I will put it here. Often when I write and then read back it is like I am listening to someone else. It stands as a reminder that I am not the same every day. Here in this post are two faces. Proof that grief is not linear.
My sewing machine and thread box are busy again, the tactile nature of the art giving me peace and focus. My mind is a riot of ideas. Having once kept things stored away, the space in our house has been taken up with more shelving than I thought possible and those shelves are laden with an enviable haberdashery built up over the years from my time working in the field. It is good to make use of these things again. The act of display, the tins and glass jars, the memories of how and where I acquired them- most of the time not knowing yet what they would become. Looking at the freeze of January I am drawn to yarn again and will get something on the pins to pick up and put down. Something I can finish without too much drama.
These things matter to me. The makers I know; whether humbly working at home or with their work out in the world will understand the joy that comes from the freedom of choosing materials; of gathering inspiration; of setting to work and making progress and of completing and sharing the finished article. These stages build us up; feed our self worth; give us time to think and reflect and a place for our minds to do the work that we can’t switch on consciously ourselves.
It must be like this for other creative practices. I feel similarly about gardening, but with that it is the most glorious tidying up of nature with spectacular results. I have seeds to sow. Some to cast out into the hands of the earth, some that will need to be held indoors, spoken to out loud, with high praise for their progress; just like me.
There are other things that have assisted too. I have been running a bit- I do it best accompanied by women who sing about being fabulous and out on the town. I have decided that perhaps those days aren’t quite as over for me as I thought they were. I sing and dance when I am by myself. I feel sorry for my neighbours when I really get into Celine Dion. Karen Carpenter and Barbra Streisand both have my back.
These expressions of self are like donning fresh armour. This is who I am now. Who I was but more quietly before.
One thing that Seb did well was to wear his obsessions proudly and although I felt at times that there wasn’t quite enough space for the both of us; I am grateful for the way in which we were left in no doubt as to who he was. He took up his space.
I have thought a lot about this. The cost of it in terms of the balance in our relationship and how the reward is playing out now. These fine threads that stitch the relationship between the two of us can be painful in their unpicking. I unravelled the reasons why I made sacrifices to be what he needed and why I needed him to need me in that way. I see how willing I was to put parts of myself away in order to have the security of his love. Sometimes I revel in the joy that comes from being the only adult in the space now; with my likes and wants filling the room. Then the cost of this freedom envelops me again.
These are the struggles that I’ve not heard talked about much. I chose to be tethered and yet the release holds its own pleasure.
Grief is definitely not a simple process.
I am at the point where I am trying to find the new equilibrium. I couldn’t achieve any of this process without the support I have. Our bubble. LP skips along the coast and I get some respite. We are glad to have them so near. I have learned that when I am alone I sometimes just need to keep still. I’ve got better at staying in bed, even when my active moments are the times when I am much better at coping with the sadness. I am able to feel sorry for myself without berating myself for being self centred. The worst thing happened, I am allowed to state how bad it has been.
I made myself a banner from the off cut of a navy blue velvet curtain I had hemmed, Liberty print from my stash and mostly consistent embroidery thread which was all one colour until I ran out and had to switch to a similar shade. The letters are hand sewn in a chain stitch and it reads ‘for tomorrow’ – a bit of Blur and a nod to the suffragettes. I have hung it above my bed and every day I hope to be able to face forward with purpose at my heart.
Doing these things has kept me present. I don’t have to pinch myself to remember that I am alive.