Author and Inspired Writer

Well, I’m doing better.

Those of you who follow my blog know that I’ve been dealing with the passing of my dear friend, and making some measured progress. The shock and anger are past, but I’m still sometimes suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, and I can’t always tell when that’s going to happen. And I also catch myself thinking, “I must ask Jill about that.” Or, “This story will make her laugh.” And then I remember. And that still hurts.

BUT I returned to church a couple weeks ago, and that was a big step since church was so central to our relationship. Still can’t face coffee hour, so I stay downstairs and clean up the music files instead. Everyone seems to understand and gives me room. It’s a loving thing they’re doing.

And yesterday, I got a massage. I’ve only been back once since Jill died, and I’m not really sure why. Back in April, when I knew I was going to be preaching for five weeks, I told The Mister I needed something to offset the enormous energy expenditure preaching always entails, and that I thought a weekly massage was the way to go. He enthusiastically agreed. And it was wonderful! Even after the preaching was done, I came back almost every week to help sustain me through the time of caring for Jill until her death in early July. But only once since then.

My body’s been aching – shoulders, back, hips. I don’t usually give it more than a passing notice. I’m back to writing now, and involved with the church choir, and preparing for upcoming events hither, thither, and yon. So I can generally ignore aches and pains in favour of something more urgent or fun. But my therapist always begins my massage by pressing down the right side of my back and legs down to my toes, and then the same thing on the left to sense where there are areas of resistance needing special attention.

And I hurt! There’s tightness and tenderness and ache, and I want to cry, not because it’s painful, but because I feel so sorry for my body that I’ve made it carry burdens of stress and heartache, and generally ignored its need for comfort and peace.

Then my therapist goes to work untying all the knots I’ve been tightening for weeks. When she encounters one, she’ll stop and work on it slowly and firmly. It’s a very mindful moment for me. I’m completely focused on the area and I will mentally urge it to “Release. Let go. It’s OK.” Then she moves on to the next one. It actually quiets my mind to be so intent on one thing like that, and throughout the hour I become more and more relaxed until I find myself drifting off.

And an hour is never long enough!

I’m usually her last appointment of the day, so we have a little chance to talk afterward. I asked her if she encountered a lot of knots this time and she said, “Yes, but it’s different now.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well,” she said, “when you first started coming, everything was so tight, and I’d work on the knots but they wouldn’t always release. But now, they’re…” she groped for the right word…”they’re listening.”

“You mean, they’re responding?”

“Oh yes! Now they want to let go. You’ve made wonderful progress!”

And I nearly cried again.

That whole day the same message was repeating in any number of sources – “let go.” Even one of my dear Yaya sisters posted a gorgeous poem by Rev. Safire Rose entitled, “She let go.” I think I’m starting to get the idea. I can’t afford to carry burdens of fear, anxiety, unforgiveness, resentment, negativity of any kind. I need to let it all go for the sake of my health and as an act of radical self-care. It takes practice, but at this point in my life I want to express kindness and gratitude for the body that has seen me through so much. I want to keep my hands open to let go of what will only harm me and reach for the goodness that comes to me every day.

So practice I will.

And regular massages will help.

The robins are still here but they’ve gone silent. No morning or evening choruses. I miss it. And I know what it means. They’ll be leaving soon. And even though Mother Nature is messing with us with these 90 degree temps, it won’t be too long before autumn rolls in, then out, and then it’s time once again for that w-word I can’t bring myself to say. It’s just the way of it.

I’ve stopped my early morning bike rides. The restless energy, the nameless rage is gone. I couldn’t even articulate what or who it was I was so angry at, until just a few days ago it came out in a conversation with The Mister. Time ran out too soon for Jill and I. There were things we were going to try. Alternate treatments to slow the cancer. Another procedure for her back pain. There was hope. There was a great will to live. There was time to organize, catch our breath, or at the very least prepare for the end. Until one day she woke up and told a dear friend she was done. She wasn’t going to fight any more. A few days later she was gone and I wasn’t ready. It was a cheat, you understand, a goddamn cheat that generated such a fury in me I wanted to put my fist through the wall! But I rode my bike instead, and somehow that helped me work it out, or let it go, or something, cuz I’m better now.

I’m writing again, something I haven’t done in months. Finishing up my manuscript. And I’m working up the courage to go back to church again, where I will feel Jill’s absence most keenly. Coffee hour is unthinkable at this point, but I’m hopeful the old comforts – the services, the music, the Scripture, the sermons, and the fellowship – will continue the healing, restore my soul.

In Part 2 of this little missive, I want to write about something that happened just before Jill’s death. I’ve been trying to write about it for weeks now, but haven’t had the heart. Not that it’s sad. Not at all. It’s funny and sweet but, well, I just can’t seem to settle into it yet. Soon though. I think soon. Baby steps, right?

Baby steps.

I’ve been riding the hell out of my bike lately. An old, second-hand ten speed. I take it out every morning I can, very early, around 5:30, and ride up and down and up and down the streets in my neighbourhood block until my butt is numb and my fingers ache clutching the handlebars. It’s helping me deal with my grief over my friend’s death. In all those miles of pedaling, something is getting worked out. It’s good.

My little town is a mix of blue and white collars, and many start their day very early. Even before the streetlights start winking out, kitchen lights have been burning for a while. I was surprised at how much traffic there is – folks heading off to their shift or down to Timmy’s for a fortifying “double-double” to begin the morning.

Lots of wildlife out that time of day too – bunnies scampering across people’s lawns or peeking out from under the semi trailers at the distillery, feral cats that I think are getting used to this strange human on her alien craft, and birds! Oh my, the birds! Robins are the first to greet the light, then the sparrows, and then the mourning doves. There’s a full-throated cardinal that hails me every time with an enthusiastic and ever-so-affirming “Oh! Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty!” But lest I become vain, a blue jay a little further down the road gives his equally enthusiastic opinion, “Yikes! Yikes! Yikes! Yikes!”

It’s all good.

Jill’s daughter invited The Mister and I, and all the friends who helped to look after her mum to lunch on Monday. It was a lovely time with much laughter and good food. We traded stories and jokes, and at the end of the meal, she related something that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Let me preface this by saying that about a month before Jill died, I found the poem I would read at her memorial on FaceBook. Someone posted it on their page who had no idea who Jill was or what I was going through at the time. I immediately ran it off and kept it aside, ignoring the guilt of planning something for her funeral before she was even dying.

After she passed, her daughter and granddaughter were going through some boxes a few days before the memorial service, and found a poem Jill had kept through the years. They didn’t know where it had come from or why she had saved it, but they commented on how beautiful it was, and how apropos to have discovered it now. It was right about then that I sent a message to them saying I’d found a poem online a while back which I thought they’d find very consoling and should I send it on to them? No, her daughter replied, but we want you to read it at the memorial. Any poem you select will be fine, they said. No need to see it in advance.

Needless to say, a day or two later, they heard me read from the pulpit the very poem they’d found among Jill’s possessions, Henry Scott Holland’s “Death is nothing at all.” The text of the poem is written out in my previous post below should you want to read it. Particularly meaningful and touching to me now is the line, “There is absolute, unbroken continuity.” She’s gone, yes, but something of her remains. Something so powerful and so loving it enabled her to orchestrate this final, wonderful bit of synchronicity. Someone called coincidences “God winks.” I like to think of this one as a “Jill wink.”

Thanks for thinking of us, dear friend.

Peace.

I read a poem by Henry Scott Holland at my friend’s memorial service this morning and many were asking for a copy, so I thought I’d post it here. In the interest of full disclosure I confess I altered the ordering of the stanzas near the end, but none of the wording was touched. You can find the original version online. What follows is how I read it in church.

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
that, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

Nothing is past; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before
only better, infinitely happier and forever we will all be one together with Christ.

I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.

All is well.