Exploring different ways of writing, capturing moments in time.
Do I owe, you, my reader, and explanation of what I have written. Or do I allow you to make your own meaning. I choose the latter.
Forever Part of Us
She knelt onto the dry, grey earth and reached into the slender stalks of wheat. She caressed the dry, brittle stalk, reached its head, the full roughness of the grain protected by thin husks. Gently she reached her touch to the tips of the thin strands of its beard waving, sighing into the hot air that bruised her breath.
Her glance upwards, across the waves of gold, held her, mesmerized. Paused in time and space. That spaciousness that would soon lose its heads of life-giving grain, to become mere stalks, food for the sheep in the next-door paddock.
Upwards, her glance, into the haze of white above the waving golden heads. Sweeping left, right, the curve of the horizon a container of the promise of a good harvest. But that was not what she saw today. Today she saw the richer blue, as her eyes lifted above the horizon and she knew there, in that richness, her father’s spirit – at one with his handiwork, blended into the earth that held his footprint, that grew his last harvest.
Her soul ached as it reached upwards, ever upwards, like the stalks of grain, straining into the energy that the sun emblazoned into the caked, dry earth. The same earth that held him, forever, now, becoming part of the star dust, beneath its crust.
It was too hard, being in this place. She knew she must leave it all behind when it became hers. That place where his soul lived and breathed. Where life is sown into the soil, reaped, and sown again.
***
In an earlier post, I shared a photo of stalks of grain from the last crop. These are long gone now, due to a carefree pet’s playfulness.
Have you ever wondered how someone copes with the magnitude of grief? Of loss? Of another person moving on into the energetic world, leaving a bereft hole in the space and endless amount of time one wishes they’d fill? How do you find comfort in loss?
My grandfather comes to mind – not of my loss of him, that is a story for another day, but of his loss of his daughter. Perhaps there is something in my story about his loss that may resonate with, and in some way, help you or someone you know.
Grief is a journey of unknown duration
In 1969, Elizabeth Kubler Ross outlined a process, a graph, of the journey through grief. Much debated over the years, it is generally acknowledged that these five stages are recognisable, and recognised. However, they do not necessarily follow any order, and may occur over any length of time – including a lifetime.
In 2022, Healthcare Central published a discussion around the Kubler Ross’s five stages of grief, given the acronym, DABDA –
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
It is a path I discovered and found useful as I sought to negotiate my own losses, the first of which, as it happens, was my grandfather, five years before Kubler Ross published her insights.
My grandfather had no map for his grief
My grandfather’s lifetime preceded this publicly available knowledge that may have guided his journey through losses he experienced. (He was born in June 1897 in Midland, Western Australia and lived until 4 Feb 1965, aged 67 years.)
I recall a hymn, apparently his favourite. It is this, in all it’s archaic phrases, heavily doctrinal, and profoundly insightful words, that I believe he found solace when he tragically lost his little girl.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, It is well, it is well with my soul.
Refrain: It is well with my soul, it is well, it is well with my soul.
2. Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come, let this blest assurance control, that Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and hath shed his own blood for my soul. (Refrain)
3. My sin, oh, the bliss of this glorious thought! My sin, not in part but the whole, is nailed to the cross, and I bear it no more, praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul! (Refrain)
4. And, Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; the trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend, even so, it is well with my soul. (Refrain)
Not having anything more than a light recollection that this was his favourite, I would hazard a good guess as to why.
He was a staunch Methodist, a churchgoer, together with his wife, Nora. They brought their three children – should have been four – up ‘in the church’. This phrase means, they attended church every Sunday, as part of their life: they served the community with their Christian faith as the rock-bed of their beliefs. In short, he saw and lived his life through the lens of his Christian faith.
I am not sure where I read it, or grew to believe that the original words of the hymn were penned and inspired by a father who lost his wife and children on a sea voyage. My recollections are modified in Wikipedia, a summary of which follows –
Horatio Spafford, who penned the lines, was a business man and hymn writer. His financial difficulties took their toll on his life but it was in his role as an evangelist, he planned a trip to England from America. On that trip, he tragically lost all four daughters, and almost lost his wife as they travelled ahead of him on the sea voyage. When travelling to join his wife, he passed the spot where his daughters died, and as a result these words were penned. A deeply tragic story.
“It Is Well With My Soul”, also known as “When Peace, Like A River”, is a hymn penned by hymnist Horatio Spafford and composed by Philip Bliss. First published in Gospel Hymns No. 2 by Ira Sankey and Bliss (1876), it is possibly the most influential and enduring in the Bliss repertoire and is often taken as a choral model, appearing in hymnals of a wide variety of Christian fellowships.[a]
When sorrows like sea billows roll
In my imagination, I see the prospect of my grandfather’s version of coping: he may well have found resonance in this hymn. Harold, my maternal grandfather, lost a daughter, the youngest and last of his four children, at barely 18 months old. Even though I cannot imagine the loss, the words, “when sorrows like sea billows roll” resonate with me for my grandfather after the loss of his little girl. She died from an inoperable hole in the heart.
Captured moments
As a parent, I know the fear of the possibility, whether one’s child is a baby, or is a grown adult, I know how the fear of prospect of loss tore at my heart at the times they arose. Losing a child, at any stage in life, is traumatic.
Rewinding time
If I could go back in time, I would ask my grandfather, how did you cope? How did you manage losing a brother-in-law while your wife grieved the loss, while she carried the child who became my mother? How did you manage, barely four years later, losing your fourth baby, only eighteen months old?
I cannot though.
Furthermore, in his generation, emotions were not freely expressed. As loving as he was, in my recollections, he may have been a closed book when it came to talking about matters of the heart. Hence, I imagine an outlet in the words of this hymn, sung from the depths of one’s soul, giving a measure of release.
All is not lost
Spafford’s hymn creates a positivity. I can understand the hymn in the context of the Christian teachings that are integrated into my upbringing. That of faith in God, of belief in Christ’s redemption and how these beliefs can bring comfort. Also, the belief that, in the long run, there is the day of resurrection – when all souls go to be with God and it is then that he (Spafford) will be reunited with his loved ones. I read and grasp how he longs for the day when he will join his loved ones, when the trumpet sounds for him.
Emotional freedom
Today there is greater freedom amongst men to express their emotions openly. The road is long to full acceptance by society in general, and by men themselves, but it is happening.
It would seem that, for Spafford and possibly for my grandfather, grief was something he/they lived with every day. It shows that, for some, there is no ‘finality’ of grief. There may be an acceptance of the loss, and with it, a capacity to move forward. And that is okay.
My way forward
Today, my beliefs are simply that we move from the human form to being purely energetic: that reconnection as pure energy is what happens after death. In having lost my parents and grandparents, I can and do connect with them now. It does not short-circuit resolution of the emotional loss, but it does bring immeasurable comfort.
That is how I find comfort in loss.
Faith Jeanette with her brother
NB: Please check out this link for further insights on coping with grief, should you feel you need it, or know of someone you love who may find it helpful.
Recently we had a dry-ish sort of day, the sort of day that invites you to jump in your car and go explore the countryside.
Not ones for too great a distance for a day trip, we head to a nearby water fall – Noble Falls. With the idea in mind that, after exploring the tumbling waters, lunch at the tavern across the road would be ideal.
Short drive or long?
We drive the half hour – yes – a short ‘day trip’ indeed, and discover that there has been enough rain in recent weeks for the falls to be running.
My memory flashes to our trip to Canada several years ago, and again, more recently, where the sight of rushing rivers, debris ridden, gushing beneath bridges and down the rocky mountainsides literally took my breath away! I had never seen so much fresh running water in one place in my life! You can read about my trips and why I travel, here.
River near Lake Louise in Canada
It is still a strong memory, of the powerful, gushing water washing over rocky beds and fallen tree trunks. Of leaf litter and smaller branches tumbling. Of the sheer volume of water!
Being a local tourist
Back to Nobel Falls, off Toodyay Road, north of Perth. A small tumbling stream by comparison. Yet it is evidence of rain having fallen this winter. It is still a dry season, by comparison. And farmers, further along the road, in the adjacent wheat belts will have dry-seeded long before now.
A dry vista, by comparison. Noble Falls 2024
A tourist’s memory lane
Back home, I touch the remnant broken stalk of wheat from the last crop my father grew nearly 25 years ago. (Thanks to our kitty cat who played with vase full and left one tiny piece for a keepsake! Yes, I am a sentimentalist, to a point!) My main point here is, it reminds me of the challenge of farming, of late rains or rain-less seasons, the hope for a crop that yields enough per acre (back then), (hectare now) to cover costs and make enough money to support the family.
The complete vase of wheat stalks – a good crop, from 1998! One lonely broken stalk remains today as a tribute to the memory of the crop. Already signs of cat play in the one bent stalk! Jam tree sticks added as there were many on our property.
.
Feeding a nation and more
I only talk about a tiny corner of the bigger picture: that of ‘feeding a nation’ which my grandfather proudly contributed to. My memory recalls a visit with him at his home in our country town where he proudly stated his role and contribution.
I take a brief look even further back, to the land his father, my great grandfather, pioneered to become part of the history that has made wheat production one of the key exports of the nation.
According to statista,Australia is known for its vast agricultural land and diverse range of crops…Wheat, barley, and canola are the three winter crops most frequently cultivated in Australia, (now) with wheat contributing the most to the total yield.
It is no comfort to read that 2024 is projected to yield less than the previous yearly incremental increase that meant good yields for over a decade.
Childhood links
As a child, I was naively unaware of the uncertainties of how much the weather impacted our daily lives and potential income. Of my two brothers, my younger brother undertook the scope of work involved in continuing the family legacy. Not an easy task. Much of the land is now either sold, or leased.
All of these thoughts tumbled forth after a simple visit to a running stream of water!
Back to the Falls
Fellow picknickers – it is school holidays – play in the water. Children throw sticks into the creek of water and watch them tumble over the rock. We take photos at the wonder of some running water and leave.
Images from a previous visit to Noble Falls, with my granddaughter, flash through my mind.
Time to eat
We try the tavern across the road. It is closed. Despite billboards and Facebook ads of Open 7 days a week, shutters are down, the car park is empty. We won’t be enjoying a meal here, as we had on a previous visit, with our granddaughter.
We enjoyed a meal at the tavern on a previous visit a few years ago.
A great meal at a local bakery
We bite the bullet, and head back home. On the way we discover the delicious range of baked goods, fresh bagels and coffee at the Gidgegannup Bakery. We bask in the warmth of the sun on the screened verandah outside. The food is delicious, the café is busy with people waiting patiently to be served. The staff are efficient and greet each customer with a smile. We have discovered another local place we can haunt in the future. If it were summer, children could play in the safe, fenced space where outdoor tables invite – if it were summer!
We head home, light the fire and sit in the warmth of past and freshly created memories.
Are you a back yard tourist?
Where is your favourite coffee shop to grab a bite to eat and enjoy a great brew – a local place you love to support? Let me know in the comments below.
Songwoman by Ilka Tampke raises the question of connectedness to Mother Earth. In her extensive exploration of the meaning of an individual’s and a people’s ties to their land, I recall distinctive experiences of my own.
First, however, I would hasten to add, that a sense of ‘belonging to place’ is often and usually espoused in reference to indigenous peoples and less frequently in reference to non-indigenous communities or peoples. It is nevertheless, an experience I own.
Songwoman provoked recollection of three distinct occasions; each highlighted what I’ve always known within self. I believe this sense of knowing, of visceral connection and connectedness flows in and through all living things.
Ilke Tampke reads a passage from Songwoman
It is first remembered
… as the all-consuming, intensely powerful sense of wholeness, of being at one with the earth, the sky, the crops, the trees, the dry stream bed, the expanses of granite rock – the whole of the natural world around me. Tangible energy, call it spirit or source (or whatever one wants) infused and melded all.
Grief gave voice to this experience. At the time of my father’s passing, I walked on the land he’d farmed, the land on which I’d spent most of my childhood. I didn’t ‘look for’ him or this experience. It presented itself to me as I crossed a dry creek bed and walked the dirt track between two halves of a paddock sown with wheat. The blue sky domed over the whole, and I was swallowed in it, like Ailia, I imagine, within her serpent.
My father’s earthly presence had gone, yet his spirit was there, infused in all. Not to diminish what I experienced, I wonder, as I write this, if the land had belonged to generations of the same family, would it, could it, have been any more powerful. Like the Albion tribes, like indigenous communities claim.
My second claim …
to knowing a connectedness with ‘place’ is that which I know wherever I have ‘put down roots’. As our mere acre in Perth’s foothills blooms, as my feet walk on native and cultivated grass, as I spend time with family on the land that my home stand on, I feel a sense of ‘place’. It is shallower than my connection with the land of my childhood, yet it is equally tangible.
And a thirdly, feeling connectedness …
… where I’ve lived in cities surrounded by stone pavements, cement walkways, brick-walled buildings, these do not give rise in me to a sense of place that is mine. It is there, on a different level, like Ailia, perhaps, in Rome. For me, a city is a place of disconnection – noise, lack of touching raw earth with my feet, my hands, my senses. There’s a different smell – like London on a sticky, humid day, fetid with human sweat and endeavour. Perhaps those who’ve grown within such communities know a different way of being connected to place. It eluded me, except for brief moments – touching earth in a potted plant, or finding blades of grass with bare feet walking through a park.
I’ve no doubt that the sense of connectedness to inner self that is trendily promoted in retreats into the bush, forest escapes, and so on, is all to do with this sense of being connected within self from one’s core to that which we are essentially part of. It is about belonging to the unseen world.
Dressing the part
KSP Dinner with author, Ilk Tampke
I enjoyed an evening at the local writing space, Katherine Susannah Prichard Writers’ Centre, in Glen Forrest, Perth. It was a few years ago that we dressed the part, to gain a sense of the period in which the novel is set.
I enjoyed Ailia’s journey as she grew into Songwoman. I enjoyed learning more about early Britain, during the time of the Roman invasions. It is my heritage. I hear the story whisper. My Place. It is in my bones. It is my song, too.
Is that too bold a thing to state? I think not. Tampke has created a persona which, in the absence of oral tradition, gives history a voice, and so perpetuates connectedness, that sense of belonging, in written form. She gives a fresh voice to our song and reminds us of who we are.
Another book I have responded to can be read here.
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Once again, I’ve been busy sorting through ‘stuff’ in order to de-clutter or re-use items.
A few years ago, I assisted my mother de-clutter her home. Of course, being a hoarder, a collector, or any other synonym you wish to use, means you’d understand if I said it was a huge task. We had many laughs and a few tears in the process of ‘letting go’ of her precious collection of every other sort of re-usable –
paper
cardboard
old letters
envelopes
paper bags
plastic bags
packaging wrap
Being a ‘skinflint’
Perhaps my mother was an environmentalist in her own way, as she happily reused bags and wrappers, over and over. This led to an embarrassing situation for me.
In the 1970s, I remember being called a ‘skinflint’ when I washed, hung out and dried, plastic bags. This was in keeping with what I’d witnessed my mother doing as, like her, I saw no purpose in discarding a re-usable item.
I was shamed by my peer’s remark about my row of neatly pegged bags on my verandah line, ready to be reused for work lunches. I began to be less scrupulous and discarded the sandwich bags and other pieces of plastic until, after many years, I realised I had become what I considered, rather wasteful. A growing sense of guilt arose if I did not use that plastic bag or wrapper more than once. Even so, soiled items were discarded, not washed and reused.
It is quite different now with environmental concerns. I avoid plastic as much as possible.Images found on a google search are enough to encourage alternatives to using plastic.
Crafty creations with my granddaughter
Pieces of paper and cardboard boxes
Over the years I’ve followed in my mother’s footsteps and collected scrap paper for all sorts of purposes:
Envelopes, backs of fliers, scraps of paper and thin card of any shape or size are all re-usable for a note, a shopping list, a household memo to self or someone else, or any such purpose.
Stamps are cut or torn from the corners of envelopes – preferably with the full postmark – and given to the CWA (Country Women’s Association) as a fundraiser.
Boxes of all shapes and sizes are kept. I honestly cannot believe the range and sizes stashed for ‘future use’. For sometime, with storage an issue, I seldom kept boxes, except for craft projects. ‘Getting crafty’ is one way to use up the stockpile. More recently boxes of all shapes and sizes have serve as storage for memorabilia.
Stamps in good condition are preferred, not with sticky tape added!
Have you ever ironed paper?
Oh please, we’d inwardly sigh nearly every Christmas and birthday as we obliged our mother by carefully lifting sticky tape and not tearing the paper so it was re-useable!
Perhaps you can imagine my mother’s horror when her grandchildren ripped open gifts, impatient for what was inside. Imagine her laughter too, when she noted joy in the eyes of the recipients of a gift they would have much fun with. The discarded paper was rifled through, cut into smaller pieces and used again. We’d use it to cover school books, or to make scrapbooks.
I remember learning how to iron paper, so the creases were less apparent! However, as the years marched on, tears in cheap wrapping paper gift paper made it challenging to remove tape without damaging it. So of course, we didn’t bother. (Now, tears appear as you bundle the gift into it!)
Quality paper is a delight to use, though, and I adore wrapping paper that is patterned on both sides. However, re-used gift wrap was our norm. Every crumple and crinkle added character to our gifts, especially the ones we couldn’t iron out!
Cards – birthday and Christmas
Cards were used and reused in several ways. After noting who a card was from, and with the Christmas List updated, the fun part of cutting swirly shapes began.
First, we cut around the printed message inside the card, (so long as the writer’s message left sufficient space), and carefully cut a shape around the image on the front of the card. We now had two gift tags from each card, ready for next year’s gifts. Today we have crafty scissors with creative cutting edges that give the tags extra character.
How did we use these?
Apart from covering boxes, we added them to the front of an exercise book which was covered in brown paper. Once covered, the cards added, the student’s name, subject and grade (school year) were written onto the front. We would then cover the whole book with plastic or contact. What a mini craft in itself, long gone now! Somewhere, I still have my very first dressmaking book covered in this fashion.
Recycling Xmas cards
Is it de-cluttering or reusing, recycling, reducing?
In this day and age where the mantra re-use, recycle, reduce is almost falling on deaf ears, I guess I am proud of my mother’s spendthrift ways. She was both ahead of her time and a product of her time. Born in the 1930’s, she grew up through the depression years in Australia and knew what it meant to have to save every last piece of almost anything, to get by. In her time she was right on target.
A Blank Page?
As for paper re-use, today, I have a drawer full for grandchildren to draw on and to practice their cutting out skills, as well for writing our own lists and notes. In my mother’s footsteps I collate my collection from a lesser range than that listed above. However, there’s still the occasional item via snail mail; or packaging that is re-usable.
An empty box?
Gift wrapping paper and cards are perfect for covering cardboard boxes in bright decorative colours. I file my inherited stash of birthday and Christmas cards in shoe boxes covered with the fronts of old cards, giving each box my own unique touch.
Decluttering or recycling?
It is a bit of both. The process of de-cluttering requires using some of those stored bags and boxes. Labels are printed on card and paper. Actually re-using the items is a slower, less immediate way of de-cluttering, yet it is in-keeping with an ethic that has its place today.
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Image: Stanley Mill, Scotland, an historic mill I visited in 2017. My ancestors lived and worked in cotton mills in Manchester, England. I enjoyed seeing the machines and reading about the life of mill workers, albeit this mill is in Scotland!
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At this busy time of the year, I wish you a happy and safe festive season.
Over the years I’ve become increasingly aware of multifaceted celebrations that arise from personal beliefs. This was especially highlighted in the short period of time I spent living in the London several years ago.
Angel Wings, Islington, London. A beautiful sight when I first arrived.
Traditional notions
It came to light with a bang, literally, when London’s horizons sparkled with fireworks that celebrated Diwali and Eid. Many celebrations flashed across the sky for about a month around about October and November. They lit up tiny apartment backyards as close as my neighbour’s and those in the far distance.
I also learnt how strange particular customs are to some. I distinctly recall how amazed one student was in a south London school. He exclaimed, It can’t be Christmas if it doesn’t snow! I’d just shared about how we celebrated in Western Australia in our blistering heat.
Another child asked what would happen if Santa wasn’t real. He was struggling with whole notion of the jolly character. Would he get any presents? So much of what I’d been raised with and took for granted was utterly new to some students.
Festival-mania
With festivals so commonplace in our city now – whether they are religious or not – there is an ongoing and heightened hype to be on the bandwagon of selling and buying. Selling to celebrate. Buying to celebrate.
I know I am not alone in ruing the commercialized demise of the simplicity of celebrating one’s beliefs, whatever they may be.
With the tradition of family getting together, and exchanging gifts that are supposedly meant to represent the gift of life given by the central figure of the Christian tradition, I see less joy and more stress in so many people’s eyes as they comply with current expectations to give as they pile their shopping trolleys high.
Festive Fun at Hyde Park
So what do I celebrate at this time of the year?
(i) I celebrate family
As a family we choose to celebrate this traditional festive time throughout the year. If we see a little something another might like and if it is affordable, we may buy the gift and give it to the person next time we see them – no expectations though. I hear fervent traditionalists decry the notion, yet I know it means we focus on the spirit of love throughout the year and let the commercialism slide away.
At this time of the year we make a point of catching up with those we haven’t seen recently. We give a little something – often a long held hug – if we haven’t seen each other for some time.
For those who cannot travel to join us on tradition’s designated days we make a point of catching up throughout the year, as often as possible and we remind each other how much we are loved.
If visits are not possible for whatever reason, we keep in touch through the ever-convenient channels open to us these day via social media. This is my last recourse but in some instances it’s the only way we can be in touch to let a family member or friend know we are thinking of them.
From London snow to Australian heat – social media closes the distance
(ii) I celebrate friendships
In the bustle and flurry of everyday life I seek to slow down and remember those whose paths have crossed my life. The festive season is a good opportunity to send that note of thanks or to simply say ‘hi’ and let that person know I am thinking about them. Some may slip through the net and I can only hope they are the ones I’ve been in touch with throughout the year.
(iii) I celebrate as I take stock
-not of the contents of supermarket shelves but of how fortunate I am to have family and friends who I love in my life. I am grateful for another year with family and friends and for the opportunities that come my way. I celebrate my journey in life.
As I quietly celebrate this festive season
I wish you good health and happiness
peace of heart and mind
much joy
throughout the year to come
and the next one
and the next …
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For many years, way too many, I stagnated in dealing with difficulties. Stuck in a place of unhappiness and increasing frustration, it took a shake-up that rocked me to my core.
I knew I had and still do have much to to be grateful for. I simply needed to find a way forward that resonated with who I am. I wanted to “be good for something…” as Marcus Aurelius’s said: Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live and it is in your power.” I wrote about it here.
Moving forward
In a year of deep inner transformation, in which I learnt a great deal about self-care, I wrapped it up with a deepening sense of who I am through attending a retreat and travelling across a country I fell in love with on my first visit, nearly 20 years ago.
Travelling
I travelled across Canada by train. In so doing, I ticked three items on my bucket list, to –
(I) travel across Canada
(ii) see Niagara Falls
(iii) visit Anne of Green Gables’ cottage.
An adrenaline rush, feeling the spray of the Falls was a once-in-a lifetime opportunity. I’d repeat it in a heart beat!
My purpose in travel
How does a trip contribute to moving forward, to achieving one’s purpose in life, to being good for something?
Travelling solo threw me onto my inner resources, providing numerous opportunities to deal with change positively.
Not having travelled overseas for several years, I spent a lot of time navigating the many changes to how to do almost everything in a post-pandemic world! Booking tickets, hotels, train trips, airfares, finding a brilliant agent* in Canada, cancelling and re-booking was a steep learning curve. Problem solving was key!
Eckhart Tolle at Becoming a Teacher of Presence
Thrown into the mix of bucket list items was an opportunity to attend an Eckhart Tolle retreat at Lake Louise. A beautiful experience that left an indelible print on my soul, that carried me forward in the following months.
Accustomed to sharing past journeys with a travel companion, I developed a renewed sense of confidence and resilience as I resolved to make my experience memorable.
Pluses of travelling solo
It surprised me to realise how many people I encountered thought it brave to travel alone. I always felt safe! I enjoyed the freedom! Yes, there were times I’d love to have shared the moment with a companion, like when I was feeling the intense spray of the Niagara Falls.
In travel I find my soul. The journey within is of equal measure in importance to the outer journey. One reflects the other. I discover an inner capacity to deal with life’s challenges. that carries over into daily life. Travel is a journey into discovering more of who I am – and therefore, more of whom I can bring to others.
Photography and travel
My love for amateur photography means I have hundreds, maybe a thousand or more images of my train trip, of things that caught my eye. I enjoyed ‘being present” / ‘in the moment’ appreciating beauty wherever I found myself, whether in the country or in a major city. I now have four albums of images to recall places I enjoyed seeing. Above all, I found ways to maintain a greater sense of peace and confidence which I now harness in solving issues that arise.
Anne and Diana chatted to visitors at Anne of Green Gables house on Prince Edward Island.
I had the good fortune to hold a lengthy discussion with a neighbor recently who quoted this phrase by Marcus Aurelius:
“Do not act as if you had ten thousand years to throw away. Death stands at your elbow. Be good for something while you live and it is in your power.”
How does one make one’s life count?
Simple expressions of one’s values are sometimes overlooked. The privilege of being a grandmother, for example; and wind that back to the privilege of having two children, two daughters, raising them to be good citizens, good parents to their own children. Obvious and natural ways to ‘be good for something’.
Being good for something starts within
Fulfillment within the family structure may be sufficient for some, in that it brings joy, fulfillment and a deep sense of calm and peace for many. Yet, being good for that ‘something’ that one can do beyond the immediate family is often a yearning within.
Being good to one’s own self first is a prerequisite to expressing a ‘greater’ life purpose should one feel called to do something that reaches beyond the family.
Being good to self involves self care in all its nuances. Without a firm footing of self knowledge it is often difficult to choose an appropriate way of serving others that truly resonates with who one is. This is a journey, though, and learning who one is and giving expression to that person often evolves along life’s path.
How does one express that something that is beyond one’s immediate self or family?
Being good for something may well be expressed in what is called a greater sense of purpose, an act of service to others. The expression of that may change during one’s lifetime, as it has in mine.
– a position in the workplace, outside home such as
– a chosen profession;
– serving one’s country;
– being creative – sharing one’s wisdom through writing or the arts.
The list is endless, especially if looked upon as embracing any aspect of life.
From the harried days of all that my chosen profession of teaching involved, I now find that something in –
Slowing down in life, sufficiently to smell the roses;
Enjoying a child’s laughter in all its innocence;
Being present in conversation with anyone I am talking with – that is, not being distracted by surrounding noise such as the chainsaw in the neighbour’s backyard!
Silencing mind chatter
Ignoring my phone, except for actual calls or messages
Having a tea-party with my granddaughter;
Confiding over coffee with a good friend.
What about a greater sense of purpose than such trivia you ask?
As for a greater sense of purpose that rattles around within, asking to be identified and expressed, what is that? What replaces the profession that one no longer finds fulfilling,or has outgrown? what is it ‘beyond family’ that I could embrace, that would impact a greater number of people, perhaps in one instance. How can the present moment be filled to embrace many (people) rather than one at a time, or just a few?
Not all of us are ‘called’ to a ‘greater’ purpose – for, in my view, there is no greater nor less than! What is, is. (This point could be debated, depending on how one looks at it.)
Sometimes though, there is a knowing, an inner notion that there is more, that one can reach more people, that is sparked within. One knows that there is an opportunity to do more and that the something (more) is within one’s power.
As I explore this awareness, this sense of knowing, this notion, I realize I am fulfilling it. It is within my power to write. And what I write is being published, and it is therefore reaching more people than just one.
Why write? Why is that my ‘more’?
I’ve a love for words, their nuances, the fun of language. For many years I played with learning other languages, though now I can only boast a mere word or two. In keeping with my post in the link below, I have now recommenced writing, and hope to uphold that which I began several years ago. I hope too, that my goal in sharing aspects of my life in my writing will resonate with those who need to hear the messages contained within.
I invite you to leave a comment below about your chosen ‘something’ that you hope or know will leave a mark on this world. (If the comment box isn’t visible, please click on the title of this blog.)
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Check out aspects of my early background here: https://louiseallan.com/2017/07/10/susan-dunn-my-reading-and-writing-life/
It’s been over a year since my grand-kids stayed overnight. Gosh! How they have grown and changed! First of all, my now almost 6-year-old grandson is so much more vocal, keen to know about this and that, and really takes in the new experiences being offered, even on the trip between his home in suburbia and the house in the hills. Amongst the many things se shared, he soaked by learning about vineyards and the origins of wine; white painted fences around paddocks that contained horses and the beautiful Australian Banksias both in the bush and median strips.
Keen to explore the acre on which the hills home is built, our grandson runs happily between spaces, exploring where the fishpond was last time he was here, discovering only one laying hen, the companion having died some time ago, and now only two birds in the aviary.
Her Destiny was to become part of our household. Lovingly renamed Dusty.
Other discoveries include the new two-year old kitten-like cat, the addition to the household after our two previous went to cat heaven within a short space of time only a few months prior to his visit. “Destiny”, her cat-haven name soon became Dusty, as for some reason a two-syllable name is much easier to call! Our grandson remembers Dusty’s predecessors, Smooch and Pixie. It seems as though they smile from cat-heaven as they watch their playful newcomer and our grandson in the space they once shared.
A cosy place shared by Pixie and Smooch.
Given the passing of three family pets, the subject of grave sites and death arose quite naturally. It’s no mean fete, however, to navigate the topic of death and burial with a young child. I take my hat off to our grandson’s father who plans a visit to a cemetery to see the sites of family members who served in the war. In my mind, and not intended as approval, but rather as simply a great way to ease into a difficult topic, this will build on a foundation already begun in the passing of my grandson’s great grandmother. It will, perhaps, lead to an understanding of where one is ‘laid to rest’ or buried, should that be the chosen destination of one who passes on.
Maui, so named because he barely uttered a real meow, and we’d just returned from a holiday that included the island.
Do you think there is a need in our society to be more open?
The whole concept of death and dying needs to be addressed in our society, in my view. As my grandchildren deal with the notion of their own grandmother ‘being old’, ‘having wings’ (arms that lack muscle strength!) and being unable to keep pace with their energy, I am comfortable with discussions that open the doorway to increased understanding. At some point, it may, indeed it very probably will, become relevant to introduce the notion that not only the older generation are the ones who die, that death may call one ‘home’ at any age. But that concept is yet to be introduced: the day for such a discussion has not quite arrived.
Not guilty! Hmm!
Your thoughts?
When do you think it is a ‘good’ time to open discussions with a child about death and dying?
How would you or have you gone about it?
I invite you to share your thoughts in the comments below.
(If the comments box is not visible, please click on the blog post title and it will appear at the end of the post.)
