Letting go of my mum’s house

It’s been hard without my mum this week. I started watching the new season of a series she loved and felt deeply sad that not only would I not receive the usual text from her after she had finished watching it, but she would not even get to enjoy it herself. The content of the first two episodes would have interested her immensely; the first involves a steam train and the second a psychic medium. She would have texted me the moment each one ended, full of excitement (an emotion she didn’t show often) and telling me how good it was and how much I’d like it once I got around to watching it myself. She always watched them on live TV; she was very old school.

And today I learned that her house is now occupied by a young mother and two children. Of course I never expected it to remain empty forever. That would be silly – and a waste. But I was unprepared for how hard it feels to know for sure that it is no longer her house, and I will never go there again.

My mum’s house was my base camp for no less than 27 years. I lived there for a year before I moved away to university, but I always came back there for visits, in the earlier days with my young son, then later with my little dog. I stayed at least two or three times a year, first sleeping downstairs whilst my son had my old bedroom, then later in my old room with my dog curled next to me. I had constant memories of how it used to look with one entire wall covered in bookcases – four of them – and the huge window overlooking the back garden where me and my mum would lay on sun-loungers in the summer months covering almost another wall. It was a lovely room, albeit hot in the summer. It was familiar; always there for me.

Its loss feels almost as painful as my mum herself, perhaps because the house was so much a part of her. She rarely went out so I only ever saw her at home, at least until she went to hospital last year in the lead up to the end. She was as much part of the walls and furniture as they were part of her; she was a hoarder who held onto everything that mattered to her. Photos hung on every wall, and she had ornaments and pots and pictures from countries she has been. She kept everything from my childhood that she hadn’t already given to me – old school books, my violin that I gave up at age 8, birthday cards I’d written to her when I was five years old and younger, and of course photo albums. I had already spent time this week examining some photos of ancestors from the early 1900s and earlier, wondering who some of them are, and wishing I could ask her. Often these things only come to light after a person has gone and then it’s too late to ask.

So the house has gone and with it the contents. Most of my mum’s more personal stuff is now with my sister or myself, some had to sadly to go charity as there was so much. I chose to give some away, knowing it will do good in another family. And now, likewise, my mum’s house has been given away, only it was never really her house at all, it just felt that way for a time. With every loss there is a letting go and an understanding that nothing ultimately belongs to us, it is only borrowed. Who my mum was (and hopefully still is) remains, even if we see the forms that she inhabited being stripped away, like winter, to make room for the new to grow.

I hope the little family of three will be happy in their new home. It is truly a home to cherish for its location, its condition, and its neighbours. As sad as I am to know that my mum’s connection to it is no more, I wish the new occupants all the love that a home can bring.

Whatever is in your way, IS the way

I was listening to a snippet of a talk by Eckhart Tolle earlier and this sentence spoken in his characteristically droll manner immediately grabbed my attention:

Whatever is in your way, IS the way.

How brilliant and so apt when I consider how many times in my life I’ve felt I’ve completely messed up, become lost, or fallen off the path completely (not even knowing what the so called ‘path’ is).  At my worst, I felt that God or Spirit or The Universe was disappointed in me, even angry. Of course, during my lucid moments I knew this was not true, but these fears arise from a deeply powerful and primal place in the human psyche.

Hearing Eckhart’s words reminded me that whatever obstacle we face becomes our teacher. It shows us the way forward if we open our hearts to it. Furthermore, a line from the TV show The X Files which has always stayed with me is:

There is no right or wrong, it’s just a path.

We can’t go wrong in the eyes of Spirit. We are always on the right path simply because there is no wrong one. Even ‘bad’ choices create more opportunities for growth. Consciousness is always evolving if we embrace the process and not berate ourselves for decisions we make with the best knowledge we have at the time.

I feel much peace in my heart tonight knowing I’m doing fine. Wishing you all peace too.

My love for ladybirds

I don’t know why but the sight of ladybirds (or ladybugs depending on where you live!) always makes me feel happy. It may be their red colour, their gentle presence, their association with spring and childhood adventures, or their inherent symbolism of love and luck. Whatever it is, my heart leaps with joy whenever I see one. I even prefer them to the majestic grace of butterflies that bring such beauty to my outside lawn in the summer. Maybe the ladybird expresses a vulnerability that connects with my inner being, the part of me that wants to hide in the tall grasses and trees and surrender to the wildness of my own nature. It reminds me that spirituality is as much physical as it is ethereal, that I need to be grounded before I can embrace true groundlessness and freedom. Its red and black shell clearly visible as it sits calmly on a grass stem, undeterred by my presence, it expresses the innocent beauty of being. Maybe its radiant red colour connects with my deeper wisdom that we are each a tiny yet incredible spark of heart-filled grace on this Earth.

No solid ground

There is no solid ground in this world. The moment you think you’ve found some, it falls away again. Even our physical bodies deteriorate, erode and dissolve.

All that remains is within. Not our thoughts or emotions, not even our memories, but the experience of being here in this moment, taking it all in, the joys and the sorrows.

It is knowing that we’re all the same in essence, no better or worse than anyone else. Even when the world seems to prove otherwise.

When everything around us is destroyed, there is the unescapable wisdom that we won’t be. Not now, not ever.

The problem of being too honest

Recently I wrote something for an organisation that I’m involved with which was very personal but aligned with its purpose. However, since writing it I sense an awkwardness in people combined with a lack of feedback on the article. Even worse, several weeks later it hasn’t yet been published. This has saddened me and got me thinking about how little people sometimes want to hear how it REALLY is for others. My article was genuine, honest, a portrayal for how it was for me caring with a disabled child for many years, but maybe it was too raw for its intended audience. I thought people could potentially relate and benefit from my story, but I forgot that the corporate world doesn’t always appreciate too much honesty. It is too open, too risky. There is an expectation that one should tone their experiences down.

This is part of the reason I struggle with other people. I am very open about my emotions and life experiences; in particular what I have learnt from them. I have no qualms about discussing the details of my private life; indeed I write immensely bout it on my blog. But I guess many people are not as in touch with their emotions as I am, and too much intensity makes them uncomfortable. I’m not as identified with my life as I used to be; I see it as a series of events that happened over time which do not define who I am, because who I am transcends any emotion or experience. I should know it is different for those who are deeply involved in very painful or even traumatic circumstances, as indeed I was, and may be struggling to cope. I thought my experiences may give them some hope, but it seems this can only be if I filter my voice through the expectations of the organisation. This is nearly always the case unless one is lucky enough to work for themselves.

This is what makes me want to pick up a tent, my dog and cat, several duvets, clothes and my phone (of course!) and live in a forest somewhere. If only I had the ability to grow my own food and provide enough shelter for my daily living needs. But sadly it is not possible. I can only feel grateful for this blog and the few people with whom I can be truly honest and maybe even help along the way.

The birth of Spring

On a visit to my local beach yesterday, the chilly swish of the wind and the soothing sight of the enlivened my soul. It had been too long. Although I live a short bus ride from the seafront, I rarely go unless I’m in the centre of town (which, sad to say, I rarely go to either). Naturally, it is freezing in the winter months, but with the right perspective, it can be truly invigorating.

Now it is heading into spring, I am so grateful that the cold months are passing and new life is being born everywhere. As I stared at the ocean, the tide in retreat in preparation for its return, I was reminded that the birth of life starts here; like our mother’s womb, it nourishes, feeds and transforms through its life cycle as sea, river, lake, rain and of course the oxygen that we breathe.

I am never more joyful than I am this time of year when the darkness of winter is over and the light once more returns, bathing my heart and soul in the Divinity which is always there but somehow so harder to touch in the winter. The beautiful spring flowers – daisies in particular as they are my favourites, but the daffodils, dandelions, primroses, the blossom on the trees – they each reflect my heart expanding to take in the beauty and colour of the season.

Everything goes through cycles; the moon and the tides are the epitome of that. I wish the spring – and the anticipation of summer – would never end, but if I remember my favourite quote by Albert Camus, there is an invincible summer within us all. As we gaze upon nature in its upcoming glory, this reflection of our true selves is a wonderful gift.

Mindfully mindful

This is a short post to say I haven’t disappeared! There has been so much going on in my life that I haven’t been able to turn my attention to this blog but I plan to write a proper post soon. For now lets just say I had an exciting trip to Germany to meet a pen pal for the first time, followed by a sick dog on my return (she has now recovered) then the inquest into my mum’s death which has perhaps unsurprisingly been adjourned for two months. My mind has been full….not mindful (although that is the goal, no matter how full my mind is!). It’s rather a cliche to say life has been up and down, but it really has. A recent dream showed me cycling up a hill while being pelted with plastic bottles, then meditating at the top as the world swirled around me. The dream showed me peace in the midst of everything.  If only in my waking life it felt so easy.

More soon..

The moment I woke

For a few seconds after I opened my eyes this morning, I felt light and free. Everything felt…okay. There was nothing inherently wrong.

Then my mind kicked in. I remembered that I had felt depressed yesterday. The memory crushed me like a truck. My body became heavy, sick, geared up for insurmountable challenges.

I realised the difference very quickly, but I could not – and still can’t – ‘undo’ the impact of that thought this morning. It had set the wheels in motion and I am trapped beneath them, letting them run me over repeatedly.

All I can do is watch and know this state of mind is not reality. It is not me. My mind and body are having a tough time just now. Adding pressure to feel better isn’t really going to work. It is how it is at the moment.

I am visiting my son later which is better for me than sitting at home at my laptop. Maybe that will help, maybe it won’t, but I will keep moving through the day and remembering that this too will pass.

And that moment upon waking is a gift to hold (not cling) onto.

Missed my mum today

Again, it’s the small but intensely personal things that hurt.

I don’t watch a lot of TV but I went on BBC Iplayer for a change to see if there were any good shows on and I noticed the new season of Death in Paradise was out. Once again, as with another show Vera,  I was hit with the immediate realisation that my mum would have told me. Not only that, she would have watched it and told me what she thought of it. She always watched it as soon as it was available whereas I tend to watch it in my own time. So, she would text me as soon as she had finished it, normally to tell me how much I would enjoy the episode.

I sat to watch some of episode one, but all I could think about was that my mum would’ve watched it and been interested in what was going on, especially as a main character was the focus. I felt such a deep sense of sadness that she wasn’t able to watch it. I guess our TV shows were a significant way in which we really connected and now I really feel the loss. As we lived quite a distance apart and I saw her maybe 3-4 times a year plus emotionally we weren’t that close, the ways we did connect were priceless in ways I didn’t realise when she was alive.

I texted my sister while I was watching it to try and explain how I was feeling. My sister responded with reassurance that ‘mum brought you to the programme…she is always around.’ I couldn’t help but think ‘but you can’t know that.’ Her soul has gone…but what do we really know about how much of the person remains?

After only watching about 15 minutes or so I took for my dog for a walk. It was evening and I found myself crying quietly as we went through the streets, missing my mum. A man passed by, smiled and said hello, clearly not realising I was sad. I felt grateful for the acknowledgement; a reminder that I’m connected to the universe, that we’re all walking the same path in a multitude of ways, and even with such a profound loss, I will be okay.

No match for a crow

While walking my dog earlier I had to smile when I saw a cat hiding ready to pounce on a carrion crow. The crow clearly knew the cat was there, crouched at the side of a curb trying its best to be invisible, but carried on merrily picking up bits of crumb and other delicacies on the pavement. Once the crow got just a little bit closer the cat seized its chance and pounced but the crow was too clever for it and flew straight onto the estate agent’s sign where it continued to torment it by looking down and making noise. It was a very funny scene and I wish I could have stayed longer but my dog was pulling me away. The cat was certainly no match for a crow.