Precious

'The Wheel of Fortune' Tarot card from (L-R) 

The Gaian Tarot by Joanna Powell Colbert,

The Witches' Wisdom Tarot by Phyllis Curott and Danielle Barlow,

The Mood Tarot by Natalie Meraki

 

Yesterday, 

I watched the livestream of my beloved friend's funeral

While a dear one held me as I cried

Then fed me,

And we talked and mourned and laughed together.

Sometimes,

I wonder about this Wheel of Fortune we're all on.

Where is the up?

And when is the down?

Or is it all 

Just up and down,

All at once

And all the time?

Perhaps,

There is no Wheel of Fortune,

No up then down.

There is just life:

Grief and love and laughter and tears

All at once

And all of the time.

Which is why - while it lasts -

It is all so damned precious.

Signposts on the Way

I was talking with a friend who has been going through a rather turbulent time recently. She asked me if I'd used certain spiritual practices to help me through my own troubles in recent years. I replied that I had... but in all honesty I'm not sure that they really made a substantial contribution. So I have found myself since that conversation pondering, what did help? What got me through the darkest days after my life disintegrated around me? What kept me going?

Firstly I should say that I don't believe there's any one magical 'right' way through the swamps of grief, depression, despair. We all have to find our own way and that's one reason it's so hard. But I do think that those of us who've managed to wade through, swim through or sometimes merely keep a nostril above the murk of those swamps can leave some helpful signposts for our fellow travellers. These then are my signposts, the things that helped me.

1. Understanding the mechanism of grief.

I had heard of Elisabeth Kubler Ross's theory of the Five Stages of Grief but I really only took the idea on board when I was struggling through them myself. Basically the idea is that when confronted with sudden, traumatic change - bereavement, diagnosis of serious/terminal illness, profound loss - most of us go through five stages: denial, bargaining, anger, grief, acceptance. Briefly, the denial part is when we can't quite accept that this is happening to us and try to distance ourselves by pretending it's not happening; bargaining comes when we accept that it's happening but try to bargain our way out of it ("if I lose weight he'll love me again!", "If I start eating healthily the cancer will go away!", "If I pray hard enough she won't die!"); anger is when we rail and lash out at the unfairness of it all; grief comes when we finally let ourselves feel the loss; acceptance is when we reach the other side, absorbing and integrating our experience. We don't necessarily work through these in a neat linear fashion, often we go back and forth through them before we finally reach true acceptance.

Personally, I found it tremendously helpful to know these stages so that when it seemed my emotions were in chaos I could identify them as part of the process and know why I was feeling and reacting as I did. It was also helpful to know that by working through them I was making progress on my journey towards healing. In many ways the theory of the Five Stages of Grief is a vast oversimplification, but to me it was a vital map, a way of keeping my bearings when I really didn't know which way was up. And most importantly it held out the possibility that one day I would be able to drag myself out onto the longed-for distant shore of Acceptance and begin to move on with the rest of my life.

2. Remembering that you are not the first to go through this.

Strangely, I found some really sad break-up songs were helpful. Now I don't recommend sitting listening for hours to miserable music. I can't see that helping anyone. But there were a couple of tracks I loved because they articulated so well what I was going through. It helped me to know I wasn't the only one who'd ever felt like this. But most importantly, they were by artistes whose catalogue I was very familiar with, and I knew that the story didn't end there. These people had been where I was, they had felt as I felt, but they had moved on. They had lived through it and gone on to write other, happier songs in happier times. It held out the possibility to me that I could both feel this bad yet know that I wouldn't be stuck there forever. There was a light at the end of the tunnel, even if I couldn't see it yet, the songs let me know it was there and let me believe that one day I too would find it. 

Of course it doesn't have to be a song that holds out that promise. It could be a book, a poem, a work of art, a film, a friend's story. But whatever it is, it is a reminder that you are not alone, others have trodden this path before you. And if they got through it, you can too.

3. Letting it out.

You can only come to terms with what is happening to you if you let it out, expose the wound to light and air. If you hold it tightly to you and keep it in, it will fester and you will never heal.

If you can, talk. To friends, to family, to the person at the bus stop. Verbalising something gets it out of you, takes away some of the pain, reduces its power to hurt you. Sharing a burden eases its weight.

But of course, not everyone is able to do that. Sometimes there isn't anyone to talk to, sometimes we feel we have to shield those around us from our pain and anger, sometimes it's too difficult to express. But there are other ways to let it out. For me, I talked, but writing was a life-saver. Not just here on the blog. Some of what I had to express was too raw, too painful, too personal. So I also journalled obsessively. And each word on a page leached out a little more of the poison and pain.

Words are not the only means of expressing yourself. After the death of my son, I couldn't find the words to express how I felt. So I drew, and painted and scribbled on paper. And it was like a magic balm that eventually dissipated my pain until I found I could talk about it after all.

So let it out, however you can. In speech, or writing, or painting, or building, or punching a cushion, or dancing, or running, or playing music, or screaming or whatever it takes.

Let. It. Out.

4. Pursue happiness.

Who doesn't want to be happy? Yet too often we are passive in our pursuit of happiness. We wait for it to come to us, and we take it for granted when it is in our possession. 

Don't be passive! Seek out happiness. Make a list of things that give you joy and make it your mission to incorporate them into your life. It goes without saying that most of these things should be non-material or the pursuit of joy can easily sour into consumerism, hoarding and massive credit card bills. None of which are going to make you happy, quite the opposite in fact. But hang out with people you love, cook your favourite meal, sniff the roses, dance to your favourite music while doing the housework, watch the beautiful sunset, watch the DVD that always makes you laugh, cut fresh flowers for your home, snuggle up with your pets, nurture your garden, wear your favourite dress, play with your kids, walk in the bluebell woods, toast marshmallows round the bonfire with friends. And don't be too puritannical to give yourself a few materialistic treats too. If that designer perfume really does make you feel happy every time you smell it, invest in a bottle and spritz away.

I recommend two things - make a list of things that never fail to make you smile. My own list includes seeing the first swallow of summer, being with my favourite people and the exuberance of Tambourine Guy in this video. Just reading the list can lift your spirits, and you can also use it to remind yourself to do nice things! I've also made a playlist of all my favourite joyful songs that I can listen to whenever I need a boost - or just because.

And start a Jar of Blessings (or record them in a journal, or stick them on a noticeboard, or take digital photos of them...). Counting your blessings really does work.

5. And when you are finally out of the swamp...

Leave signposts for others.
Share your insights.
Listen to someone who needs a friendly ear.
Keep seeking out happiness - and spread it where you can.

If you have any helpful signposts of your own, please leave them in the comments section! Thank you.

Baby Steps

One of the strange things about depression is that whilst you're in its grip, you don't necessarily realise that fact. You don't always feel yourself slipping down into the pit, and even if you do recognise that you are down in those murky depths, it is usually only when you have managed to extricate yourself that you realise just how far down you had slid. Which is probably a good thing. Recognising what a long hard slog it is going to be to reach daylight again would be enough to put anyone off even trying.

I did not realise until recently how depressed I had become over the last few years. It started of course with my divorce, which was not only the end of my relationship with T but - and this is probably the bit it took me longest to see - the end of the life I had been living here at Halfway Up A Hill. While T was the breadwinner, I led an idyllic life tending the garden, growing herbs and veggies and caring for the animals. My schedule was flexible and I could concentrate on the things I most enjoyed (gardening, animal care and in my spare time, writing). I think coming to terms with the end of what I thought was a stable, happy marriage was the most obvious mourning I had to go through, but the loss of the life I thought I had was actually harder to come to terms with and took much longer. It will be 7 years this summer since T walked away, and it has taken nearly that long to fully come to terms with everything and joyfully embrace the life I now have instead of mourning the old one.

Things were complicated of course, by starting a new relationship with IB. That was - and continues to be - a source of great happiness, but starting as it did fairly soon after T had gone, I hadn't really had enough time to process my feelings and regather myself. And because I was in a new, happy relationship many people seemed to think that everything was magically fixed. It certainly helped, but I was also struggling to come to terms with the loss of my idyllic lifestyle. 

This is a beautiful area of the UK, but it is not an easy place to find employment. That, added to the fact that not having worked outside the home for years had left me (a) with outdated qualifications and work experience, (b) lacking in self-confidence and (c) in quite a quandary as to what to actually do. The upshot has been that while I have found employment, it has been in menial, low-paid jobs. I am often tired, usually short of money and always short of time to do the things I would really like to be doing. The worst part of depression is the way it leaves you with no energy or enthusiasm, and the result here at Halfway Up A Hill has been that my beloved vegetable plot and polytunnel are now neglected and overgrown and a backlog of maintenance tasks has built up to mammoth proportions.

Which all sounds incredibly gloomy, and yet it is not. This has all been part of my healing process, my journey back up out of the pit of depression and back into the sun. And now I am truly, truly back in the sun these challenges no longer seem overwhelming. They seem like - well, challenges, but challenges I am finally relishing getting my teeth into instead of ignoring in the vain hope they'll go away.

Baby steps are what I'm taking, instead of trying to tackle the whole big mess in one impossible super-hero style whammy. That is never going to happen. But baby steps added together, one after another are enough. Each little task sorted, each little improvement or repair made adds up to get us a bit closer to the goal of bringing Halfway Up A Hill back to life again.

Last year we tackled the patio area which had become overgrown with brambles and buddleia. After much cutting back and weeding, we have transformed it into a productive herb garden with a sitting area overlooking the valley. And we have enjoyed many barbecues there on sunny evenings! Recently I have added new flowerbeds by the garden steps that lead down to the house and they are looking gorgeous in full bloom. The overgrown area outside the kitchen window has been cleared of junk and nettles and is now neat, weed free and growing a fine crop of lavender, pineapple mint and sugarsnap peas. Working from the house area out, tackling one area at a time, eventually we will get to the vegetable patch and the poytunnel and the orchard. But for now I am proud of what we have achieved, and every time I go out to feed the chickens in the morning, I make time to take a little stroll around these reclaimed areas and enjoy them.

The magical thing is that each little improvement gives me encouragement and incentive to tackle something else. I am reminded of the old Greenpeace slogan, 'The Optimism of the Action is Better than the Pessimism of the Thought'. It is my belief that in difficult times the best thing is to do something. Even if that something is merely weeding the herb garden or feeding the birds. Each time you do something, you remember the power that you have, and remembering that you have the power gives you access to more power.

My final step back up out of depression occurred in January this year. I was driving back from work, feeling blue for no obvious reason, and thinking 'I just wish I could get back to my old self!'. A voice in my head said, 'Why would you get back to your old self? You have been changed by the things that have happened to you. You are not your old self and can never be again. Embrace who you are!'. And it was like a light-bulb went on. Of course I am no longer that same person. Of course I have been changed by events in my life, events I did not necessarily have any control over. But I can own that, accept it and choose how to move forward from here. The changes in my life have made me stronger, wiser, more compassionate. And that cannot be a bad thing.

Avalon Spring Witchcamp

I have attended, helped to organise and co-taught at Avalon Witchcamp (latterly Avalon Spring Witchcamp), since 1998. Today I am saddened to be posting that we are at the end of an era. Avalon Spring has come to an end.

I loved Avalon deeply, have had some life-changing experiences there, met wonderful people and learned so much. I am deeply saddened at the loss of this event, yet I know that things must change and move on, and Avalon Spring seems to have reached an end point. I am also glad that there is an alternative British Witchcamp, Dragonrise, where the British Reclaiming Community can continue to meet and grow.

R.I.P. Avalon Spring.

Below is the statement issued by the organising team:

Dear British Reclaiming Community,

We (the organising team for Avalon Spring) regret to announce that there will not be an Avalon Spring Witchcamp this summer or in our foreseeable future. After 16 years, Avalon Spring organisers have taken the decision to end their work of running an Avalon Spring Witchcamp. The cancellation of the 2012 camp left Avalon Spring without any 'seed money' to finance another event, and in addition the current organisers all have various time, health, finance and work circumstances which have led to the decision. This leaves a clear magical space for any others to offer their time and energy to the challenge if they so wish. We hope that others may feel inspired to take up the mantle of another witchcamp as an event that belongs to the community, or of initiating a new event/events at some point in the future. Ending Avalon Spring does not mean that the current organisers will not participate in new endeavours for the community, but in fact several have moved on to other organising and community teaching activities.

 

We would like to thank all current and past organisers for their contribution, who all gave freely of their time and creative energy. They were not paid for the work, and financially subsidised the events in many ways. We would also like to thank all those in the wider community who supported the events, both financially and in other forms. A particular mention goes to the Earth Group who gave generously of financial backing so that camps could go ahead. 

 

On reflection, we recognise that camps have evolved and changed over the years, as has the economic climate. This included the growth and developments at Earthspirit, a venue created not long before our first camp, and which has offered us positive support throughout. The nature of camps changed allowing for a more experimental model, but this was in parallel to increasing pressure on our attempts to maintain affordability. We realised that certain numbers attending were required to support lower costs, and lessons have been learned about the type of flexibility required in this work.  

 

To conclude, we believe that Avalon Witchcamp  has offered many people positive and valuable magical and communal experiences over the years. The camp played its part in introducing teachers from overseas, training Reclaiming teachers in the UK, providing links to the wider Reclaiming community internationally, and creating links between people which facilitated the formation of the British Reclaiming Community. 

 

Thanks once again to everyone who has supported Avalon Spring over the last 16 years - campers, organisers and teachers.

 AnneMarie, Georgia, Mikey, Monica, Susan, Suzanne, Will, and Annie

Sun and Rain, Hope and Sorrow at Imbolc

Sunday 2nd February

After seemingly endless weeks of wind and rain, the morning of Imbolc was calm and bright. I donned a waterproof jacket and packed a small rucksack with a bottle of water, some snacks and a torch, just in case. I was on a mission.

Two days earlier, our two kittens, Mandrake and Woodruff had gone missing. We were beside ourselves with worry. Although by now 6 months old, it was very unusual for them to disappear for any length of time. And with the weather being so awful it didn't seem likely they were off adventuring when they could be warm and dry by the fire and the food bowl. We spent all day Saturday searching and asking neighbours to check their garages and outbuildings, but without any luck. We ended the day despondent and worried the boys may have been taken by someone. It seemed unlikely, but as they had both disappeared at the same time it seemed a possibility.

On Sunday morning - Imbolc - however, that possibility seemed remote, as Woodruff returned. Unfortunately he returned alone. After some discussion, we decided that IB would continue searching the immediate area around Halfway Up A Hill, while I would walk a circular route around the valley, calling for Mandrake in hopes he had merely wandered off away from familiar surroundings and got lost in the area.

Although there was a light shower of rain as I left the house, by the time I had walked to the end of the lane and begun climbing the first hill, the sky was blue and the sun reflected dazzlingly off the wet road surface. At the top of the first hill I had to stop to take off my rainproof jacket. Everywhere there was birdsong and the sound of running water. It felt like spring. Where the hill levelled out, water running off the fields covered the road and even the grass verges, and I had to tiptoe like a tightrope walker along the centre of the roadway where the water was shallowest in an attempt to keep my feet dry.

As I walked, I called 'Mandrake! Mandrake!' hoping each time that I'd catch sight of his sweet, quizzical face peering from a hedgerow or thicket, but instead I was regarded only by stoical sheep and scornful crows.

Pausing every now and then, I listened intently for an answering miaow. Sometimes my ears would catch a faint sound and I'd freeze, listening hard, only to realise it was not a cat's miaow but the mew of a buzzard, not the chink of the bell on a cat collar but the dripping of water down a drain.

The road dipped down again into a shady, steeply moss-walled part of the valley where cascading waterfalls hurled themselves into the river below. By the time the road turned back uphill again and I emerged back into daylight, thick grey clouds were threatening the sun. 

'Mandrake! Mandrake!'. No sound, save the outraged barking of a distant farm's dog, and the harsh 'Cronk! Cronk!' of courting ravens wheeling in the sky above me.

As I took the turning that would allow me to cross back again to 'my' side of the valley, the horizon turned misty and I hastily pulled on my waterproof jacket, knowing the rain would soon reach me. It did, propelled almost horizontally by a sudden, fierce wind. I sheltered under some evergreens by a thick hedge but even so I was thoroughly soaked by the time the squall had passed. If Mandrake was around I hoped he was sheltering somewhere out of the elements.

The sun and blue skies and birdsong returned so astonishingly quickly that only the clamminess of rain-soaked denim against my legs confirmed that I hadn't in fact imagined the storm.

Another turning took me that little bit closer to home and my heart quickened. Surely this was where I'd find him. Close enough to home to be feasible, far enough away for him to have got confused and lost his bearings.

'Mandrake! Mandrake!'. But still nothing, and my pace began to slow as the possibility that I may not find him after all started nibbling at the edge of my mind.

Downhill again, this time to the little chapel by the river. Now I was feeling anxious. What if I didn't find him? What if he wasn't just lost somewhere nearby?  Unpleasant possibilities began to seem frighteningly more likely.

Just the other side of the chapel in a sheltered spot I came across a bank of snowdrops, the first I'd seen. I remembered an old tale that if you 'rang' the bell of the first fully open snowdrop you saw, Brigid would grant your wish. I said a little prayer to Her, thanking Her for Her gift in this sacred place of bubbling springs and rushing water, and 'rang' a snowdrop, praying for his safe return. Then another, and another. Please, Brigid, please. Let him come back to us.

Back up from the valley floor on the road that leads to the ridge of the hill. Slower and slower now. I don't want to return without him. I don't want to allow the possibility that Mandrake may never return. Up along the ridge. Surely from here, he will hear my voice and come running. But he doesn't come, and now all I can do is begin descending back down from the top of the hill to Halfway Up A Hill.

I return alone, face streaked with more rain. Rain and tears. Where is he?

*******

Today, Wednesday 5th February

No Mandrake. Not on Sunday. Not on Monday. Not on Tuesday.

By Wednesday IB and I are depressed and exhausted. We have run out of places to look, people to ask for help. Neither of us have slept properly since Friday night, tossing and turning and fretting through each night, rising to fresh disappointment each morning.

We return from work and sit in disconsolate silence sipping tea at the kitchen table. Woodruff miaows and I turn to tell him to hush. And realise it is not Woodruff miaowing at all. It is the cat at the catflap, the cat miaowing to be let in. The cat who is Mandrake.

And then he is in, he is back, and we are all falling over each other, cats and humans alike in a frenzy of joy at this longed for yet unexpected reunion.

He is starving. He wants food and cuddles and cuddles and food. Woodruff jumps all over him in excitement at getting his brother back. We laugh, and cry, and laugh again, and shower him with kisses.

He is back, tired and hungry, but he is safe and he is home. I could ask for nothing more.

Thank you Brigid. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 

                      

   

The 'C' Word, Part 2: Three Weddings, and a Burial

Wedding Number One:
In the summer of 1985 I attended a wedding as the 'plus one' of a platonic male friend. At the reception afterwards, I was pleased to be asked to dance by the Best Man, whose blue eyes had caught my attention. We danced and talked and danced again, and I was happy when he asked for my phone number. To my delight, he rang a few days later and we went on our first date.

Wedding Number Two:
In 1991, reader - I married him!

Yes, I met T at the wedding of our friends Kevin and Ann, and six years later, Kevin was T's Best Man at our own wedding, in the little village church in which my parents had married. By then, Kevin and Ann had a three year old daughter and another on the way. Our friendship with Kevin and Ann was so close that they asked us to be guardians for Rachel, Charlotte and (in time) their younger brother, Michael, in the event that anything untoward should happen to the two of them. Until T and I moved to Wales in 2000 we spent virtually all our spare time together, like a big extended family (Kevin and Ann were originally moving here too, but ultimately decided to stay on Essex).

T and I were married for 17 years, and I thought we were pretty happy until he dropped a bombshell and left in 2008. Since that day, he and I have been in (mostly cordial) irregular contact, yet I had not met - nor wanted to meet, to be honest - his new wife, Sawittree.

So when I received an invitation to Rachel's wedding it brought up mixed feelings. Firstly of course, excitement and happiness at the wonderful news, and pleasure at the thought of sharing my beautiful Goddessdaughter's special day. But also... Sawittree would be there. Younger than me, slimmer than me. On T's arm. That brought up less pleasant emotions. Anxiety, insecurity, apprehension, and a lot of the grief and anger I thought I had processed and left behind by now.

Hmmm.

Luckily I had a few months to prepare myself - firstly by making careful plans to ensure I would be looking my best and hence feeling as confident as possible, and secondly by continuing to work through my feelings about T and Sawittree.

I'm not sure why or how it happened, but at some point before the wedding, I realised that actually, I don't care what T or Sawittree think about me or how they see me. I am now happy in my own skin, at peace with who I am, loved by and in love with IB. Perhaps enough time has elapsed, perhaps I have moved on, perhaps I am a different person. But something has shifted, healed and it is time to move on. And how symbolic that this closure manifested via the wedding of the eldest child of the couple whose own wedding was the starting point of my life with T? And what better symbol of 'new beginnings' than a wedding? The significance seemed staggering when I made the connections.  

Wedding Number Three:
Rachel's wedding was to be held in Maldon, Essex, so IB and I travelled up from Wales the night before and stayed with my sister and her husband in Kent. The weather was still searingly hot, and although we left in plenty of time in the morning, traffic snarls at the Dartford Crossing meant that we weren't as early as hoped by the time we'd arrived and parked the car. Walking through to the High Street, we arrived at the church with about 15 minutes to spare. But to my horror, it immediately became clear I had brought us to the wrong place - the church I had assumed the wedding was in is now a Heritage Centre and was buzzing with stalls selling arts, crafts and jam! Rifling through my bag in a panic I realised I had not brought the invitation. I asked one of the stallholders for help and she explained that there were two churches that the wedding could be in, either St Mary's or All Saint's - but they were at opposite ends of the High Street! This was now beginning to resemble a scene from 'Four Weddings and a Funeral', and my chances of arriving looking cool, calm and serene as I had hoped were fast melting away. I had the name 'St Mary's' in my mind for some reason so off we headed as fast as we could through the crowds of Saturday morning shoppers, me tottering in unaccustomed high heels. We finally arrived at the church to find no one outside and the door shut. Tiptoeing up, I opened the creaky old oak door as quietly as I could, expecting all eyes to turn on the latecomers... only to find the church completely empty. The wedding was, of course, at All Saints, at the other end of the High Street. 

At this point something in me stopped worrying and just decided to go with the flow. It was blazingly hot and humid, my feet were killing me and we had clearly missed any chance of arriving in time for the wedding. We sat in the church porch, while I changed into the flat sandals I had mercifully thought to stow in my bag and discussed our options. IB said to me, 'You are always running round after everyone, trying to keep everyone happy. Just let go of that, and accept things the way they are.' Which was true, helpful and a very liberating perspective all at once. We decided to walk - slowly - up to All Saint's Church, wait outside during the service and get some photos of the bride and groom when everyone emerged. I realised that though I may have missed the wedding service itself, all I really cared about was seeing my beautiful Goddessdaughter happy, enjoying her special day. But then as luck would have it, just as I'd changed back into my posh heels we spied some other latecomers at All Saint's Church and crept in behind them. Mercifully it was during a hymn and we slid quietly and gratefully into a vacant pew.

It was a truly lovely wedding with Rachel absolutely radiant in a gorgeous dress she had designed herself, and her new husband beaming and handsome. As we filed out at the end of the service, I spotted T and Sawittree shading themselves under a tree. IB and I walked over to say hello, and I was quite taken aback to be greeted by T as 'Darling', which I certainly wasn't expecting. That said, it made me think I couldn't be looking too bad for an old girl!

I took plenty of photos and then we made our way back to the car. We weren't expected at the wedding breakfast as the venue was small and the family party large, but we would be returning later for the evening reception. In the meantime IB and I went for lunch at what was one of my favourite pubs when I lived in the area, The Anchor at Runsell Green, Danbury. It was a beautiful summer's day and we sat outside the lovely old pub surrounded by flowers, enjoying a cooling breeze while we ate. Afterwards we took a meandering drive through my old memories, and I showed IB the church where Kevin & Ann married, the first house T & I lived in together, my paternal grandparents' house and the village my father had grown up in, the village where I went to school and finally the village where I grew up, Mountnessing. We also made an unscheduled stop at T's parents' house. I had always got on well with them, especially T's stepmother and although we'd spoken on the phone since T and I split, I hadn't seen them. By luck, they were in and we had a lovely though brief catch-up, and I was able to introduce IB to them.

At Mountnessing we had arranged to meet up with my Mum and Dad - who were in Essex visiting friends - at the home of an ex-neighbour. It was a little surreal as this meant we were in the house opposite my maternal grandparents' old house and diagonally opposite the house I'd grown up in (we had lived next door to my grandparents). Things became even more surreal when the people now living in what had once been my grandparents' house, invited us in to have a look round and see how the house looks these days. This was turning out to be more of a trip down memory lane than I had expected!

The house was at once familiar and not: some rooms had only changed a little, yet others - including a new extension - were completely different. It was not unpleasant though, as the family now living there are lovely and the house retains its warm atmosphere. Out in the garden there were also signs of time having moved on - plants and trees had grown or disappeared, new fences had been erected, and the patio and fishpond my grandfather had lovingly constructed is now showing its age and is in need of an overhaul! We also wandered down into the orchard next to the house - well, it used to be an apple orchard but now the apple trees and blackcurrant bushes of my childhood are all gone. But still there is the silver birch tree T and I planted when we buried the ashes of our son, Peter.

The tree now towers over me. Time has passed, and the sharpness of grief has dulled, yet it is still there. Suddenly all these ghosts of the past are too much, I am overwhelmed by it all and tears well irresistibly up. Luckily IB and my Mum are there to comfort me. I am held in loving arms and given time to cry, and breathe, and compose myself. More closure. We walk slowly back to the present together. Time to get ready for the wedding reception.

*****

The evening reception was as lovely as the wedding itself. The venue was superb. A live band played jazz and swing and people danced, young and old together. There was cake, and champagne, and pretty vintage china. The heat of the day abated as the evening drew on. I saw people I haven't seen in years and enjoyed catching up with them and seeing the amazing young adults their children have grown into. My parents and brother were there too. It was a very special occasion and I was so glad to have been a part of it. I was glad to have finally met Sawittree and put that particular anxiety aside. I was glad to reconnect with old friends. I was glad I saw Peter's tree, and both the continuity and changes in places I used to know so well. It felt like everything that was important to me from my years living in Essex had all come together, been revisited, acknowledged, and put properly away. Closure, writ large. Again.

And that was when the fiercely hot spell of weather finally broke. Thunder rumbled overhead and lightning flashed. But it all seemed part of the celebrations, Mother Nature's firework display. Deliciously cool rain fell onto warm pavement as we said farewell to the wedding party and made our way back to the car between showers.

I was exhausted. But so glad I'd come.

Gunny

IB's beloved cat, Gunny, died yesterday. He had been ill for a few weeks with some kind of lung problem,, gradually fading in front of our eyes. He was only 9 years old.

Later that evening the screen saver on my computer, displaying random photos from my files, brought back so many memories. Not just Gunny, but so many other loved and much missed animals. Cats - Teasel, Tigger and Herbert. Chickens, from our first three (Josephine, Daphne and Sugar) all the way through Blanche, Blodwen and Bronwen to our rescued battery hens (Ginger, Babs, Mac and Norma-Jean) and more recent arrivals like Blodeuwedd I who was snatched away by a fox. Ted and Dougal, the guinea pigs. Our original geese, Buffy and Angel are now gone, along with their goslings, Snowy (killed by a predator) and Sunny (re-homed after fighting with his father). Further back, there are older, pre-digital era photos - Algie, Koshka, Julie, Mina, Thomas (cats), Max the budgie, Frances the duck, Nicky the dog.

Anyone who has had a companion animal can tell you that they are all individuals, each one a unique character. Oh, how they worm their way into your heart - and the pain when they are gone.

Today, in beautiful sunshine, we buried Gunny in an area we have earmarked for a forest garden. He was wrapped in one of IB's T-shirts, and we placed flowers and a favourite toy with him in the ground. We planted an apple tree on his grave. In years to come I imagine us sitting under the tree on such a sunny day, sharing our memories of Gunny. In the meantime, we will continue to create new memories with  Bear, Marley and Dandilo, the cats. And enjoy the antics of Bella, Dot, Daisy, Blossom, Ceridwen, Blodeuwedd II, Misty and Morag, our current flock of hens, and Spike, the gander. Our animals bring such colour to our days. Sharing our lives with them is a privilege, and the pain of their loss is a small price to pay for the joy they bring.

RIP Gunny August 2002 - June 2012

Falling In Love Again

A favourite cushion with an old vintage mirror that belonged to my Nanna

How quickly time passes. Only three years ago, I was still married - and oblivious to any hint of trouble. Now I have been divorced for over a year and a half, and my life is so different.

I am still at Halfway Up A Hill though, which when T first left, I never expected. I thought we would have to sell up and split the proceeds. Then, when we agreed that I could keep the house as part of the divorce settlement, I fully expected to sell up and move on anyway. Too many memories here.

Funny how things turn out, isn't it? With the collapse of the housing market, I resigned myself to staying put and just redecorating and smartening the place up for a couple of years until the economy picked up and I could sell. But over the past couple of years, I have started to see this familiar house with new eyes. By slowly, but surely putting my own mark on things, I have begun to fall in love with the place again. The painful memories are gradually being erased with each fresh coat of paint.

A handpainted dresser top that was picked up for a few pounds at a car boot sale. Along with some of my china and knick-knacks! Most of the china was passed down by my grandparents.

T's taste was fairly conventional and minimalist. Mine is more hippy-witchy-shabbychic-vintage-bohemian; definitely not minimalist. Now I am free to indulge those preferences without restraint! The interior - and exterior - of the house is beginning to reflect my tastes and personality as it never did before.

The lawn - once so carefully tended by T each weekend - has been declared a wildflower meadow. I prefer the look of all those flowers, and life is too short to spend it mowing! The overgrown flowerbed by the kitchen door has been tidied and planted up with roses, hardy geraniums and fuschia, and is now thronging with happy, busy bees. Pots of flourishing geraniums and herbs surround the back door with colour and fragrance. Suncatchers and windchimes dangle from every window, paintings and vases and lanterns and plants, new cushions and throws decorate the rooms. I have fun creating seasonal altars around the house and garden.

I LOVE my pantry door, which was made to measure by my very talented friend, Harry.

IB loves this house, and I am starting to love it once again. This weekend we have put up some wall cupboards that I have painted with a distressed finish in my favourite colours. In the dining room hearth, a 'new' (secondhand!) woodburning stove is waiting to be installed in readiness for next winter. I am planning to add a porch to the back door, and a forest garden down the hill...

The new woodburning stove, waiting to be 'plumbed in'.

I thought there were too many memories here for me to stay. But would they really have dispersed just by moving location? The memories are a part of me, a part of my story. The trick, I am beginning to learn, is to hold on to the best of the past, and let go of the grief and the anger. And in the meantime, go on, creating new memories as you fall in love with life once again.

Says it all.

  

Mother's Day

The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I can even hear fledglings peeping in their hedgerow nests. It's Mother's Day and later I will be taking along a card and gift for my Mum and having lunch with her and Dad, which I'm really looking forward to.

This morning as I was lying in bed listening to the radio I heard a request for a song to be played for 'All those mothers who no longer have their children with them'. This of course applies to many situations - mothers whose children are being raised by someone else (children adopted, fostered, or being raised by their father for example) - but I think the person making the request was thinking more specifically of mothers whose children have died. One doesn't of course, stop being a mother or feeling the emotions of a mother just through separation or bereavement.

For the first time this morning though, I realised that I too fall into that category. I have mentioned here before my unfulfilled desire for children of my own, but what I haven't written about is that I did bear a child.

He was longed for and the pregnancy - after many years of trying - seemed like a prayer finally answered. Unfortunately, complications developed during the pregnancy and Peter was stillborn.

Losing a child at any age is unbearable, but losing a child before he is born puts you in a strange kind of limbo. Many people seemed to think it was kinder just to brush over the whole episode - "least said, soonest mended" - but in my experience I would say being able to talk about Peter, being allowed to hold him and spend time with him after the birth and then being able to give him a proper funeral was what gave me peace and closure.

The strange kind of limbo comes in the years afterwards. Do I count myself as a mother or not? What do I say when people ask if I have children? I usually just say no and leave it at that. It's mostly too complicated and painful to explain. But occasionally when I say I have no children I see the immediate assumptions being made. Oh, career came first. Oh, doesn't like children. Oh, chose to live the life of Reilly without the inconvenience of kids. That stings, even worse when it comes with the slightly judgemental, 'Oh, didn't you want a family?'

I suppose what I am trying to say this morning is that Motherhood - and Fatherhood for that matter - comes in many shapes and sizes. Women have children, have miscarriages, have stillbirths, have abortions. Children are adopted, fostered, raised by other family members; are abducted, run away, die. Shit happens, and we don't always have a choice in how things turn out. And that doesn't stop us being parents, or experiencing the love and pain that that involves.

So next time you ask someone if they have children, please don't make assumptions based on a 'yes' or 'no' answer. The story is almost always more complicated than that!

Happy Mother Day to ALL the mothers out there. Including me.

Frozen 2 - The Sequel

I've written on here before about the notion of being predicted by the weather. Once again I find the conditions outside - this time snowbound, frozen solid - mirror my internal process. I feel stuck, frozen, unsure of myself and hence unable to make any progress.

I have found a job, not easy in the current economic climate nor indeed in this area of the country. It's only a part time job, but I'm clinging onto it for now. After 15 years without a paying job, I know how important it is to keep my foot wedging open the door of employment. On the plus side, it is close to where I live and the people are nice. But - I hate it. It's both mind-numbingly boring and hard physically. I don't mind working hard if it's interesting, or being bored if it's easy. But this is hard and boring. Plus - I'm working alone which adds to the boredom factor. Not much use having lovely colleagues if your contact with them is minimal! The hours - a split shift - are horrible. And the pay is lousy.

All in all, not a great job. So I need to find something else. But what? After so many years outside the paid workforce I feel at a distinct disadvantage. Virtually everybody has more experience than me. It seems like a good idea to do some training in something, but to be honest, I'm not sure what I want to do. I was really drawn to the idea of working in Counselling, perhaps Grief Counselling, but I've been told it is not an easy field to make a living at. So I'm stuck, frozen, unsure of my next move.

At the same time I go back and forth in my mind wondering whether I should stay at Halfway Up A Hill, or make a clean break and move on. On the one hand, I have endeavoured since we moved here to make a connection with the land and really put down roots here. I have put a lot of effort into making this a permanent home. I also feel a part of the local community and have lovely neighbours. But...

Halfway Up A Hill is a lot for me to manage alone. It is really too big, and alone I am not physically able to keep on top of many of the jobs that need doing around the place. Though family, friends and IB help where they can, I still have a sense that the place is deteriorating faster than I can maintain it. And there are so many memories of my marriage to T here. Perhaps a clean break, a move to a smaller, more easily maintained property - still within this area - would be better?

Interestingly, in hunting out the URL for the post about being predicted by the weather, I found that I had already written a post entitled 'Frozen', almost exactly a year ago, which echoes - or foreshadows I suppose - some of my current feelings. Perhaps all this is just the winter blues. Or perhaps, as my wise and wonderful friend Anne Hill has just written, it is part of the ongoing struggle of Divorce: Year Two. I don't know.

I am frozen with indecision and quite frankly, yes, I am tired from the ongoing struggle. What I would like to ask anyone kind enough to comment is: What do you think? Any career tips? Any thoughts on moving? Any helpful words on how you got through your own divorce/career crisis/life crisis?

Any advice will be most gratefully received. Over to you...

D.I.V.O.R.C.E.

(The title of this post being part nod to the Tammy Wynette song, part acknowledgement that this is Big Stuff and hence deserving of capital letters.)

I feel a little tightness in my chest even now as I say it. Divorce. My divorce is finalised. I am divorced.

Don't get me wrong - I am glad it is finally over, able to see it as a new beginning, and perhaps a good thing for both of us. Yet still there is a sadness, a grieving for what has been lost.

I grew up with parents who had a stable, loving marriage, and that was what I expected for myself, and what in fact I thought I had. T and I were together for a total of 23 years and 2 months before he dropped his bombshell and left. I realised the other day that it was just over half my life. And as I had absolutely no clue about his infidelity until that fateful day, no wonder it knocked me sideways.

Yet in the intervening months I have begun to look more closely at the fault lines in the relationship, the ones I hadn't even noticed or hadn't considered problematic. Yes, we loved each other but there were also fundamental differences in the way we approached life, and what we thought was important. For me one crucial difference was that T hated to talk about his feelings and his unhappy childhood, even to me. In the early stages of our relationship I thought that eventually he would feel safe enough with me to share those things. Over the years that failed to happen and I began to tell myself that was just the type of person he was. I now believe if he had been able to talk about his feelings more openly we may have been able to negotiate a course around the obstacles that eventually derailed the relationship. But that is all academic now. What's done is done, and no doubt T has his own version of what went wrong and why. There are after all two sides to every story and no one person holds full responsibility for what happens.

Yet still... 23 years. A huge chunk of my life was spent with T and most of that time was good. That is what I grieve for, and plan to release - or at least begin to release - at this time of Samhain. A time of ending and new beginnings, a time when we enter fully into the dark half of the year, a time to turn inward, meditating on what has been and dreaming of what will be.

I can feel myself changing. I believe I am becoming more fully myself. I am accepting this end and grieving for it. But also knowing that each end is a beginning, I am moving forward into the next stage of my life, eager to see where this new road will lead me...

365 Days

365 days ago...

You said, "I've got something to tell you. I've met someone."

I waited for the punchline. But there was no humour in the situation. Your china-blue eyes were deadly serious.

"We want to be together. I'm sorry."

I had no words. What could I say?

"I think it's best if I go now and give you some privacy."

Now I had words. Words like, 'why?' and 'how?' and 'when?', but when I tried to speak them, you turned awkwardly and walked away, drove away, away from me and into your new life. And I stood in the wreckage of the old one, alone and quite bewildered by the way everything had suddenly turned upside down.

Today, 365 days later...

He said, "I love you" and kissed the end of my nose as we prepared breakfast together.

I kissed him back, "I love you too," my heart so full as I gazed into his sea-coloured eyes.

The world has turned full circle, a complete year. And in that time everything has changed. Everything is right side up again, bewilderment replaced by contentment. I have lost a husband, but found true love. How has that happened in just 365 days?

Miracles may not happen overnight. But they can clearly manifest in less than a year.

Thank you, multiverse.

Tragedy

Buffy and Angel's gosling - so new to the world it was as yet unnamed - has disappeared.

Last night when I went down to shut the little family into their shed for the night I couldn't see the gosling, but assumed s/he was probably safely snuggled under Mama Buffy on the nest. Even so I had a mild twinge of unease, so to be certain, after shutting the shed I checked all round the goose run and in the pond. I found nothing out of the ordinary. I knew the devoted parents would never have left their offspring unattended anyway.

This morning when I opened the goose shed the bad news was confirmed. For the first time since she began incubating her eggs, Buffy came out of the shed as soon as I opened the door. Followed by Angel. But only the two of them. I checked inside the shed - perhaps the little mite had taken a chill in the cold, windy, wet weather. But no, no ailing gosling, no sad little corpse.

I can only assume that some predator - a buzzard, red kite, rat, weasel, stoat, mink or polecat? - must have snatched the gosling. Whatever it was must have been quick and sneaky to have outwitted Buffy and Angel, whose entire focus was their baby.

I know they are grieving, as they did last year when Snowy died. I just hope geese have short memories, and they are not left hurting for too long. At least they have each other, a rock solid partnership for comfort. Looking back over the posts I have written about them and the other animals here at Halfway Up A Hill it's clear to me how unique and individual a character each creature is, how rich and complex their relationships with each other. How anyone can deny that animals experience emotions as we do is beyond me.

Sadly that includes grief sometimes.

A Piece Missing

Tigger and her sister Teasel came into our life aged 6 in 1999, when a friend persuaded us to adopt them. They had belonged to her neighbour, a woman who was now terminally ill; her husband was her carer and struggled to cope with job, terminally ill wife, children, running the household and pet care. Something had to give, and as a result Tigger & Teasel ended up living in the garden with a rather intermitttent supply of food. My friend asked if we'd adopt them, and we did.

Tigger and Teasel were from the same litter, but as different as chalk and cheese. Tigger was very big for a female cat, strong, big-boned, sleek of fur and boldly striped. Teasel was small and fluffy with a delicate heart-shaped face and subtle dark mackerel-striped tabby fur. Tigger was a diva from nose to tail, highly strung, proud, regal, thoroughly convinced that she was the centre of the universe. I used to joke that she thought T and I were a pair of trained monkeys employed to wait on her. Teasel was sweet, affectionate and sociable. I nicknamed Tigger my Princess and Teasel my Angel.

Unfortunately, Tigger and Teasel never got on. Perhaps because they'd had to compete for food during their life as outside cats, or perhaps they were just too different. But somehow we all learned to work round each other and when we moved to Wales in 2000 they came with us to a new life in the country.

Teasel adapted to the countryside well, and became an expert hunter, once even struggling back home with a rabbit bigger than herself (which I rescued and freed, much to her disgust). Tigger enjoyed a life of aristocratic snoozing in sunny patches under the hedge. Both were spoiled rotten by T and I.

In 2004 we added two kittens to the household, Bear and Marley. Teasel acted like a slightly impatient aunt and taught them hunting skills, and Bear in particular followed her around with a look of hero-worship. Tigger on the other hand treated them with utter disdain and was quick to quash any kitten nonsense with a swipe of the paw should they dare to approach her royal personage. They soon learned to stay out of reach, although Marley could never resist attacking a sleeping Tigger's tail.

We were all heartbroken the following year when it was discovered that Teasel had an inoperable tumour in her stomach and had to be put down.

Down to three cats, a clear class system evolved. Tigger was the Princess, the grand old lady who expected total respect and obedience. Bear and Marley grudgingly showed deference, giving grumpy Tig a wide berth.

Despite her diva-like demeanour, Tigger was always very affectionate to us and liked nothing better than to snuggle on a cosy lap. She especially adored T, who adored her back. When she developed health problems a couple of years ago and had to be given a tablet twice daily, she proved to be surprisingly good about taking the medication. Gradually as the years passed she slowed down, but still enjoyed cuddles, time in the garden every day and a healthy appetite.

Last Monday, after a normal start to the day (jumping up on the bed for a cuddle when the alarm went off, breakfast, walk in the garden) she suddenly developed breathing problems. By the time I got her to the vet she had deteriorated quite quickly. The vet tried injections and putting her in an oxygen tent, but it was no use. There was no improvement and when she became distressed by the inability to breathe the decision was made to put her down.

T came down after work on Tuesday and with many tears from both of us, we buried her in one of her favourite sunny spots under the hedge.

I am glad in a way that it happened quickly, with minimal suffering. But now it seems there is a piece missing. I mentally count one, two, three - no, only two cats now. Even though much of her time of late was spent sleeping, I feel the lack of her presence. Such a big personality leaves a big empty space when it goes.

RIP Tigger - survivor, Princess, big stripy purring machine, friend.

Things I Have Learned This Year

As the end of the year is fast approaching, I thought it may be wise to look back and take stock of what I have learned this year - which includes, amongst other things:

1. I really love knitting.


2. I can make a great risotto - except when I am trying to impress friends who are round for dinner, when it magically morphs into bland stodge.


3. Sometimes life is weirder than a soap opera.


4. I enjoy planning seasonal rituals.


5. True friends rally round in times of crisis - and sometimes you don't realise what a true friend someone is until then.


6. I may be the only woman in the world who can't stand Sex and the City.


7. Waterproof mascara is worth its weight in gold.


8. I can wire a plug.


9. How to play Chinese Chequers.


10. Goslings grow really fast!


11. Bruce Springsteen is just as wonderful live as I always imagined he was.
12. The weather is completely unpredictable.
13. Chocolate Tiffin could well be the most delicious foodstuff on the planet.
14. Things are never so good they can't turn bad.
15. Things are never so bad they can't get worse.
16. Things are never so bad they can't get better.

What have you learned this year?

A Little Loosening of the Pincers

As The Griffin pointed out in a comment on an earlier post of mine, we Cancerians tend to keep a pretty tenacious pincer-grip on things. In that post I was musing about uncharacteristically just letting go and going with the flow, being open to change and possibility. Then again, although I may have Sun, Venus and Mercury in Cancer (and Scorpio rising), they are offset to a certain extent by my Aries moon, so it is possible for me to be impulsive at times - at least in theory!

Maybe that's the reason, or maybe this is, or maybe it's all just part of my current process; whatever the reason, I am beginning to feel OK about letting go of the past, and perhaps more importantly also the future that I had imagined lay in store for me. I am realising it's OK not to necessarily know what's in store. In particular, Donald and Deborah's comments on the same earlier post made me see this time of uncertainty as a chance to reset my course, and to realise I am not a helpless victim of external forces. I have important choices to make, but I have the luxury of time to make them in - and if at the end of the day I find I don't like the road I'm on, then I'll choose another.

Perhaps the black pit of depression I fell into recently was the last stand of control-freak-Cancerian Moonroot refusing to let go. I'm not sure. Maybe in time I will have a clearer overview of my emotional journey during this period - for now it's enough to just ride the storm without drowning.

For the time being, I'm pretty sure that another reason for my new perspective is due to having spent the last few days helping my brother (who has also been going through some big life changes), move into his new home. I feel like he is where I hope to be in the not-too-distant future, making a new start in new surroundings. His new home is beautiful, and I felt an itch of excitement and envy at the prospect of making such a fresh start. I also felt the mixture of relief and poignancy as he shut and locked the door to his old home behind him for the last time.

T house-sat while I was away, and coming back I was a bit apprehensive. Every time I see him, when we part I experience loss and grief all over again. Having been so depressed only too recently I wasn't keen to find myself there again. Yet when T left, I felt only the mildest twinge of regret. He was here, and he's gone - and I'm OK. That is huge progress. It seems I am adjusting to and coping with my new circumstances after all.

Pincers hold tight and securely, but wielding them is also about knowing when to open and flex to allow for adjustment and change. I'm loosening mine so that I can get a better hold on my new life. It's good to find that after holding on tight for so long, they can still be flexible after all.

Struggling

Does grief get harder to deal with as we get older? I have been through bad, sad, dark times before, yet I am absolutely certain that I have never before experienced the depths of depression and despair that I have felt of late.

Perhaps it's so bad this time because divorcing T means not only losing my husband, but also my home, my lifestyle, and to a certain extent my sense of self. So I suppose it is no wonder at times I find myself floundering in hopelessness.

My theory is that the brain goes into a kind of numb shock at times of great distress or trauma. Feelings are to a large extent blotted out by this shock, as a means to keep the body functioning and surviving. The problem comes when a little time has passed and the numbness wears off, and the grief comes rushing back in. I have noticed a pattern of feeling better for a few days, feeling stronger and positive about the future - and then crashing back into despair as another wave of grief sends me reeling.

In the better times, I remind myself that this is all part of the process, all part of the healing. The grief is coming in because my mind thinks I'm ready to deal with it. I have to feel it and acknowledge it for it to begin to heal. Suppressing it is always a bad move - it will catch up with me sooner or later! In the bad times - well, if I can, I just tell myself to breathe through it, know that it will pass. If I can't even manage that, I just cry. A lot.

Since being back from Kevin & Ann's, I have been crying a lot. I think the contrast of spending time in a house full of friends, talking and not necessarily focusing on the divorce, and then coming back home to an empty house and reality was too much. Unfortunately, I didn't see it coming and the crash was jarring.

On a lighter note, the last couple of days have been better. My Tai Chi class seems to help immeasurably, and the sun has been shining the last couple of days too. So I am on enough of an even keel to think about writing this.

One of my faults is that I find it hard to ask for help. It's not that it hasn't been offered - I have had so many people offering help and support that I have been truly amazed. Even if I'm not reaching out for the help offered when I'm feeling down, just knowing that it is there is wonderfully comforting. So if anyone reading this has offered help of any kind, and I haven't responded - it has most definitely been appreciated. And when the struggle gets easier and I have more energy than just basic maintenance level - I will take you up on your offers of help, company, fun, food or whatever.

Thank you!