Home, family, heart stuff...

  

We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.

Thornton Wilder

(1897-1975)

We gathered on these rocks, where he loved to spend time, as the sun shone on a perfect winter's day and shared our thoughts of Robert, and in that moment when we cast his ashes to the sea, I felt a part of me tear loose and plunge into the waves with him. My family has just become one vital part smaller. The core has been broken. I don’t really know how to process this. And I don't know that the impact of it has fully hit me yet. In fact, I am sure it hasn’t.

Perhaps because I live far away and so I’m used to not seeing him as often, in my heart it feels like he’s still here, doing his usual thing, separated from me now while I’m home by only a mountain range or a local phone call. I still keep expecting to see him walk through the door to join the rest of the family at this gathering; wanting to call him because I’m in town and we should meet up as we normally would. The closeness we shared was not measured by physical proximity or regular face-to-face interaction and so for moments, fractions of moments, as I wake up and at intervals during the day, it all feels normal, like he’s out there still. And then it washes over me again... the shock, the pain, the loss. The truth.

It's brutal.

I was not meant to outlive him. I am completely unprepared for this. I don’t know how to be in a world without him in it.

Rationally I know that this is part of a cycle of which we are all part. I know life goes on. I know from losses suffered in the past (although none quite as close as this) that the raw, unbearable hurt will ease with time and even though it never quite goes away, it becomes more manageable and less like repeated kicks in the solar plexus. I know that it becomes easier to bear. And I need it to be easier to bear because I cannot function normally in this state. But there's also a part of me that doesn't want it to dull. A part of me that wants to keep it, him, fresh and alive in my heart and mind as he still is now. Even if that means that the kicks keep coming. I don’t know how to reconcile this yet.

I like to think that my lovely brother has become pure positive energy, as all that remains of him is what we who love him carry in our hearts and in our memories – the best of who he was and how we feel about him, distilled. He leaves the world better because he lived in it and us, his family and friends, better for knowing him. That’s something remarkable and cannot be said for everyone who passes through our lives. That I was related to him was an accident of birth. That I liked and loved him was entirely because of the person he chose to be. I feel this way about many of my relatives and my sister and brothers especially. I’m fortunate to have had a history with Robert and I treasure it exactly as it is. I wish I’d been able to give him one last hug but otherwise I don’t want to go back and rewrite huge chunks of our story – imperfect as it might be in places, it’s ours. And if even I would like the chance to tweak the storyline, increase the days we spend together and fill the time with only good things, good times, do some things differently, there’s no going back. This I can bear and accept. It’s the missing of him now and in the future that I cannot yet face. The Robert-shaped space in my life feels huge and acceptance of never being in his physical presence again is still not quite within my grasp – my head understands it but my heart has not yet assimilated it. I feel cheated by the loss of time and experiences we might still have had together, the memories we won’t get to make from this point on. I feel lost at the thought of how our family works without him; I keep counting him in. I feel sad that the world is now without the special soul in substance that was uniquely his. I feel angry that he was taken  from us by an indiscriminate illness so soon, too soon. These are the things that kick me with a physical force beneath my ribs again and again and make me cry and cry with the hurt of it.

When I was writing a eulogy for Rob I considered including this quotation from the Roman, Seneca:

"In the presence of death, we must continue to sing the song of life. We must be able to accept death and go from its presence better able to bear our burdens and to lighten the load of others.

Out of our sorrows should come understanding. Through our sorrows, we join with all of those before who have had to suffer and all of those who will yet have to do so. 

Let us not be gripped by the fear of death. If another day be added to our lives, let us joyfully receive it, but let us not anxiously depend on our tomorrows. Though we grieve the deaths of our loved ones, we should accept them and hold on to our memories as precious gifts. Let us make the best of our loved ones while they are with us, and let us not bury our love with death.”

I just went with my own words in the end but I thought that this was a lovely piece and it’s those last thoughts especially that have stayed with me – “Let us make the best of our loved ones while they are with us, and let us not bury our love with death.”

I write about love in this space, where I allow my inner ramblings a voice, quite often, but it’s not something I take lightly. It’s a powerful and precious thing and I know not everyone is fortunate enough to experience it, which makes it something never to be taken for granted. I’m so lucky to love and to be loved and I intend to concentrate even more consciously on making the best of that and on expressing it, openly and without reservation, not necessarily in words but in ways that are unmistakeably loving. During this amazingly difficult fortnight the kindness of people and the importance of love and its expression, in all its various forms, have struck me deeply. In the midst of overwhelming sadness, my heart has been very conscious of its treasures, and those I care for and who care for me are first amongst them.

Thank you to you, lovely online friends and family, whose caring and support have been felt across the miles and through cyberspace and are so much appreciated. I have not yet managed to respond to each message but please know that your kind and thoughtful words have reached me, touched me, helped me. And I am grateful for them, for you.

I’m sitting here now, looking at that view above, as the sky turns soft pink and mellow apricot with the sunset. There’s a lavender haze over the water on the horizon and the lighthouse across the bay has just started to shine. The sea is calm and flat for the first time in days and in the water just to my right, a whale is lazily floating, blowing loudly, and occasionally waving its tail in the air (tomorrow I will share some pictures of the whales with you). I’m alone in the house. It’s peaceful. If places had souls and could be counted as family, this place would be part of mine. As it is, I just call it Home. Being here comforts me. It always has. I’ve been crying as I write this and my heart is full of sadness but there’s a sense of contentment too.

At this precise moment, I cannot think of anywhere I’d rather be.