One line a day

Today is new notebook day. 

I love new notebook day. All of those blank pages, all of the possibilites, the stories yet unwritten. A new notebook holds promise for the future and the opportunity to start afresh. There are no mistakes in a new notebook.

Though today is the first day of writing in my book, I've actually had it for a while. It was a present from my friend Bryony. I remember her bringing it to me in my new workshop space last year. When I look at it, it conjures memories: the smell of fresh paint and colourful prints, the yellow chest of treasures over in the corner of the room, sitting with my friend drinking tea - simple pleasures that seem so far away. I'm not sure when she gave it to me but I know it was before: before the difficult family events of this year, before my book launch, before the virus.

A year ago today, I was sitting on a stage talking about the book of this blog with another dear friend, Rosie. Numbers in the audience were dwindling as rumours of a virus spread and later, in the pub, we sat alone and knew that things were going to change. 

It was five years ago today that Paul died.  And everything changed.

I never expected to write those words: five years ago. I don't know what I expected to happen but not that. Perhaps I thought that his death was the end of my story. At the time I didn't want to believe that life would go on and I certainly didn't want to hear about silver linings. A life without him seemed inconceivable. Now, sometimes, it seems inconceivable that he, that we, were there at all. My life, my story has continued regardless. Grief isn't dimished, they say, but new life grows around and from loss. Though we don't want it to happen, it happens nonetheless. If there has to be trauma, it's just as well that post-traumatic growth follows. If there must be clouds, I'm grateful now for their silver linings.

As I open up my notebook, the world is opening up again too. My children are returning to school. Rosie and I are planning a meeting to think about re-opening the workshop space. Anxiety rises as the rain falls and the writers in my Zoom workshop feel on edge again, minds scattered, thoughts adrift. We are all of us buffeted by storms, drowning in loss. Today I am full to the brim but low on words. My writers talk of writing as an anchor and a life raft. We share stories and feel ourselves righted, as we always do, held up by writing and by each other. 

My eldest is feeling anxious too as we sit chatting over our last home ed lunch. School is looming and new and familiar challenges litter the landscape like ice bergs. 'Things will always keep changing,' I say, 'for better and for worse. It is the only thing we can be certain of.'

I close my new notebook. 

One line a day it says on the front. 

I think of Paul and the words he used to say: Keep buggering on.

This is how life unfolds, this is how books get written, this is how things change.

This is how I survive. 

                                    

If you'd like to read the book that launched a year ago, Dear Blacksmith can be bought here.

Marking time

Clouds - sent to me by Paul, 3 years ago today

'When you think about it, tomorrow only exists today,' said my son this morning. 'Because tomorrow, tomorrow will be today. So, really, tomorrow doesn't exist at all.' He's a wise soul for eight. His words reminded me that the only way to live is in the present, today. And at the same time, he reminded me that today, my particular tomorrow is the third anniversary of Paul's death, a death which sometimes feels like it happened yesterday and sometimes like it was many, many moons ago. Time, like language, like grief, is a tricky customer.

It is hard to know sometimes how to mark the passing of time, especially in this digital age, especially if, like me, you've blogged to death about loss. If I don't write on the anniversary of my love's death, will people think I've forgotten and moved on? If I do, will they think that I'm stuck, depressed, a broken record, a tiresome bore? Who knows? Who cares? Not me. Not much. Well, maybe a bit.

'I don't put her photo up on Facebook on her birthday anymore,' said a widowed friend the other day. I nodded. I understood. It's been five years for him and he has a new partner. He's not sure it's respectful to her. I disagree but I understand. Everyone is different. 'I still put flowers on her bench though,' he said. 'But I don't tell anyone.' I nodded again. Again, I understood. Time passes. Grief changes. There is no rulebook. 

At this time, three years ago, Paul was still alive. As far as either of us knew, he and we had years ahead of us. We were chatting on Messenger, exchanging poems and photographs, making plans for the future. It was a pretty deep conversation really when I think about it. That's not unusual for me. It wasn't unusual for us. It wasn't unusual for Paul either, though probably he's mostly remembered for his humour, his wit, his kindness and his warmth. When he died, a friend on Facebook said, 'he could appear daft but he was as deep as the sea.' He could. He was. 

I was telling him to make the most of his potential, to not be afraid to shine bright. And I was also telling him about a TED talk I'd just watched which was all about living in the present and how this is better for our mental health. 'That makes sense to me,' Paul said. 'Longer term thinking is more vague and uncertain, more likely to lead to anxious thinking.' Twenty-four hours later he was dead.

And when he died, his loss reverberated through his community. And when he died, it was like my heart had been torn from my chest and like my whole body was vibrating with the shock. It doesn't feel like that anymore. Thank God, it doesn't feel like that anymore. Time passes. Grief changes.

But, three years on, his loss reverberates through me still. His loss is threaded through my very being. He and the loss of him, are part of who I am now. Not everyone can understand this. I was dating someone recently who didn't want to read my blog. 'I'm interested in who you are now,' he said. He wanted to spend time with me in the present, not to hear about my past. I wanted to spend time with him in the present too but he was concerned about the logistical future of a long-distance relationship, a future which seemed unimportant to me. Because, for me, there's no point in thinking about a tomorrow that might not exist. Because for me, life is all about making the most of every opportunity for joy. My past has informed the person I've become.

My past includes him now. The timing, and other things, weren't right. Love, like language, like time, like grief, is a tricky customer. But when that barely-even-a-relationship ended, I fell into a pit of grief again and it was like my heart had been ripped out again and all of those feelings of loss were deep enough to drown in. I was vibrating again. 'Do you think you're depressed?' asked a friend, with concern. 'No,' I replied. 'It's grief. It just makes loss unbearable now.' At least I am able to recognise it now and, excruciating though it is, at least I know how to navigate it. I had to stop and tread water. I had to cry and give in to sadness but I didn't drown. I can swim on. I can live alongside grief. I have to live alongside grief. This is just the way life is. For now. Who knows what grief will turn into tomorrow?

I read something online today: 'Yesterday is heavy. Put it down,' it said. And I get that, I really do. And I wish I could. But if I put it down isn't that a bit like forgetting? Besides, sometimes, with grief, out of nowhere, yesterday is today again. Whether I acknowledge it on Facebook or not, the repercussions of Paul's loss go on.

When I started writing, it was today and Paul's anniversary was tomorrow. As I finish, tomorrow has become today and it is three years today since he died. His loss flows with the blood in my veins, his love still beats in my heart, his memory lives in my mind. Because of him, I know what love is. Because of what I went through, I feel loss more acutely and I see everything more vividly knowing that at any moment it could be gone. I don't know what tomorrow will bring but, like everyone, I have hopes for it anyway, I plan for it anyway. But mostly, I live for today, taking notice of everything that's here, being grateful for all that I still have and, sometimes, allowing myself to be sad for what I've lost. Because I lost a lot. I lost a man who loved me and who I loved passionately. A man who was both daft and deep as the sea. I lost Blacksmith Paul. Today, especially, I remember him.

Home is where the heart is

I learned a new word recently. I am a writer and so I love words, sometimes almost more than people. Words help to make sense of my innermost feelings. The blank page listens when there's no-one else around. Generally speaking, words don't let me down.

I love the precision of language, the way that, as a writer, if I choose the right words I can convey the exact sensation of feathers on skin, or sunlight over the ocean. Less is more, we say. Why use ten words when one will do? 

The English language is vast and intricate and yet still, sometimes, we say 'there are no words'. In grief, I've learned that sometimes this is the best thing to say. Less is more. There are no words of comfort adequate for something as big as the disappearance of a parent or a lover or a child. 'Grief' is not big enough. 'Loss' is not strong enough. 'Sadness' only goes so far.

And sometimes we have to look to another language for the word we need. The Eskimos, some say, have fifty words for snow. The Americans, allegedly, have fifteen words for sandwich. The Greeks, we're told, had six words for love. And the Welsh? The Welsh have one word which, for me, sums up the pervasive, eternal experience of profound loss. Hiraeth. A word which has no precise translation but a word which means a longing for a place to which we cannot return, a yearning for home.

And yet I am home. I am sitting here in my favourite chair by the fire in the house that I share with my two children, my family. I live in Sheffield. I've pretty much always lived in Sheffield. If you ask me where my home is, I don't have to falter. It is here, nestled amongst the green parks and trees, at the confluence of rivers that fed the steel industry, between the seven hills. It is here that I belong. In truth, I'm not sure that I'd live anywhere else. Maybe for love. Only for love. And yet, for the last three years, I've been homesick, filled every day with longing, desperate to return to something, somewhere, to a place that had no name. Hiraeth.

For me, that place is the place where parents and grandparents congregated around Christmas trees and days when my mother's voice was just at the end of the phone. It is the time when I had someone to love who really loved me. Before he died. Before she died. Before anyone died. The place that I long to return to is a place of innocence. It is a place where, sometimes, it could feel that everything was ok. It is a place of completeness, wholeness. It was a time when nothing really awful had yet happened and when I couldn't imagine how awful things could get.

These days I try to live in the moment. I work hard to count my blessings. I focus on the sensation of feathers on skin, of sunlight on the ocean. I strive to find the beauty in the little things, to cherish what remains. But the longing will never leave me. And every time I love someone, it is tinged with the knowledge of the loss that will come. And every time I lose someone, I fall deep down into a well of pre-existing sadness. And I know that it will always be here. This sadness. This longing. This yearning for a place to which I cannot return. At least I have a word for it. And I love words, sometimes more than people. Hiraeth.