I got the WhatsApp message as I walked up Causeway Head in the sunshine. I knew the contents, in my heart, before I even opened the message, mainly because there has been little communication between the sender and I for some time—a only recent attempt, from me, to reframe and work on the relationship. Slowly. Cautiously. Any message from them, wasn’t just going to be a light and fleeting ‘hello’. And there it was. A few simple sentences. A family friend - one who treated me as a daughter for many years - had passed away.
The news itself wasn’t a surprise. They’d been diagnosed with cancer, that cold and cruel and callous disease, a few years ago, and had miraculously held on and battled for some time. Right till the end, in hospital, they’d rallied with cheer and gratitude to the staff and care they received. But it seems they were tired, perhaps ready to let go of fighting, looking only for some peace and rest, which I so hope they found.
The day unfolded in a surreal manner. The weather was gorgeous—a rare heat and warmth and brightness in what seems to be such a wet and dismal July. It’s strange to be sad when the sun’s out—the same way that to have a cold in summer feels odd, out of place and unfair. I’d received the news as I’d stepped out of the tattoo studio to get food, plans discussed and agreed for a design to be added to my left leg. I walked a little in a daze, to get coffee and something sugary to eat, carrying out those ordinary, every day transactions, smiling and saying thank you, wondering at those layers and walls that keep and protect our feelings from spilling out and over. I turned and walked back down the street, sitting in the sunshine with a slab of banana bread and an overpriced iced black coffee. I was glad of the need for sunglasses, glad to sit and watch and hopefully melt into the noise of summer visitors; instead sought out by a well-meaning but persistent young German guy looking for donations while talking about spirituality and yoga. While the topic’s poignancy wasn’t lost on me, I didn’t have more than a few words to be able to offer, along with some change in my purse, in the hope of solace in space and quiet. Somehow I ended up with a neat, ribbon tied stack of books that I was told I should gift to someone, and the realisation that I’d been outside for some time—my tattoo appointment still to be completed. I walked back to the tattoo studio with a heavy bag, and a foggy mind.
The discomfort and noise of the tattoo were good distractions. Mindless conversation to take me away from the hot scratch going over and over my calf while my brain whirred with adrenaline in place of thoughts. To be tattooed is quite a vulnerable act; I boxed my mind away, allowing my body to take the lead, trusting the tattooist as I have before. The news came again, officially, in the form of a phone call, from his youngest grand-daughter, a few hours later, within seconds of stepping out of the studio, tattoo complete. Back in the sunshine, I cried down the phone, listening to her own sadness weep through the line.
Tomorrow, a week will have already passed. I’m not yet sure if there will be a funeral; I can’t quite work out whether they once mentioned that they didn’t want the fuss of such a thing, or if that’s something I’ve imagined. There is a part of me that knows the simple thing would be to ask, but part of me doesn’t want that acknowledgement, that finality to be stated. The mind is a funny and strange thing. In this last week I’ve taught yoga and gone to work and attended a friend’s wedding reception and carried out daily, normal tasks with a mixture of confidence and confusion. There’s been competence in my actions and yet moments of such slowness and strangeness—a loud quiet in those pockets of time I’ve found myself with nothing in particular to attend to. Waves of mourning and lightness. I’ve been able to smile and interact and laugh with people, and feel alone and separate too. I guess this is how grief goes.
Today, fully stopping, doing nothing other than a run to try and clear my head, I’ve felt truly sad. At least, this time, the weather is more sympathetic to my feelings, appropriate to the mood. I’ve cried leaving a voice note to one of my closest friends, recognising and valuing that friendship more in that moment, for the vulnerability I allow myself to feel with them. These last few days, I’ve felt myself retreat, closing up, unable to express myself, the pressure building up in my head. I’ve slept poorly. I’ve dreamt strange dreams. I’ve reminded myself I need to return to keeping a diary. To feel this all out in words. This, my wonderful boyfriend reminds me of often—even when I can’t speak, I always want to write—however hard it might be. To write is to be me; it’s at the core of who I am and how I process and figure things out. How well I might have done, in the days of letter writing, in place of today’s mindless notifications and quick-fire sends.
I’ve been feeling my way towards this post for a few days, but today, after a mizzly walk around my new allotment space, I knew it was time. The news of the allotment came yesterday afternoon, and the thought flitted through my mind then, returning this afternoon as I stood in the damp and grey, surrounded by vibrant green and quiet. Perhaps it was a nod from them. Maybe it’s just the accidental beauty of timing. This green space coming to me when I need it. The allotment marks a time when I look forward to growing a future together with a man who’s made me see so much more in myself than I ever thought possible. Someone who loves me for me; someone I love completely. I turned back to look at the alloment one last time before walking home, and a kestrel alighted from some hidden spot at the far end of the plot, gliding, silent and graceful across the whole allotment, stopping to sit above artichokes and alliums, nasturtiums and raised beds, glasshouses and support frames. A new perspective. I cried, feeling the magic of the moment. A silent thank you. And life goes on.