The Time-Machine of Grief
Change, the action of moving forward, does not always bid the past farewell. Perhaps this is because some things, like grief, just don’t have an expiration date.
From the Blog
Change, the action of moving forward, does not always bid the past farewell. Perhaps this is because some things, like grief, just don’t have an expiration date.
3am. It’s become his hour. Doesn’t matter that we’ve just moved house. That we, his parents, are weeks behind on sleep. That the corridor looks different. Sounds different. No more creaky floorboards, but a whole lot more mileage between his room and ours. Maybe that’s the point. This kid with mussed-up bed hair that makes him look so cool and so young all at once, he climbs out of his ‘down-bed’ that he shares with his sister, and trips his way over toys and bedding to the light. And his high, distinct three year old voice calls it out loud and clear: ‘Mam-ma’.
This morning the kids found a baby bird hiding under one of the outdoor chairs in the garden. Though wild, it acted tame, even allowing the kids to pat and stroke its little back, all the time keeping its soft wings held close to its side. ‘Lets call it princess,’ suggested W (princesses being the in thing in the garden lately). Thankfully, they decided on Benny. It soon became apparent why little Benny bird was so quietly and complacently settled under the seat.
“Isn’t it cool that we all live in the same house!” O. (aged 4) So, we’ve been living in a college residential property for over six months now, sharing a big, old, beautiful house with four other young families, our kids spilling out each day to play on a shared front lawn, our daily lives spilling over into one another’s as we learn what it is to live in a community.
Yesterday the night came early. Everyone inside, cheeks brushed red from play. Late June. Time is passing. This new year already mid-way through. I know the house now. It’s pleasures, and idiocyncracies. I know how to walk in the night hours to avoid the weak floorboards. How the light looks at dawn, as it filters through the stain glass windows of the doorway.
In the late afternoon at our place a breeze comes through the garden, touching every living thing, including us, with tenderness. Dinner time is almost here. The intense sun has run its course for the day. No need for anymore sunscreen, and hats can finally be abandoned – if desired. We inhabit the garden freely.
Tonight feels like a writing-in night. All the windows and doors in our house are flung wide open to receive the southerly breeze, like weary arms eagerly awaiting an embrace from a long-lost friend. I am sitting at my desk by the large front windows, and for once my commercial-strength floor fan sits silent in front of me, while my keyboard alone taps a semi-rhythmic beat.
‘And that’s why I like living in community,’ she said. ‘We share each other’s lives.’ This sage thought came from a near-stranger, now friend, who I met just today, who offered me and my two small companions generous kindness as she saw us struggling in the lunch line, who sat with us afterwards as E and W played on the college lawn, and who, to the less than quiet background noise of children’s excited play-voices, opened her heart like a bird unfolding its wings.
There’s no way that one word alone can sum up the experience of moving house. It should have four or five names, at least, to begin to reflect the massive creature that it is, with all its many arms and heads, and the way it takes hold of your life for a few intense weeks, gets in your face, wraps around you, and threatens to entangle you.
Perhaps it is only fitting that for my first entry in this space I begin with a reflection on the fact that I have absolutely no idea where this year is going. We’ve just wrapped up December 2014, untangled our feet from stray tinsel ends, picked up (hopefully) the last remaining fragment of torn paper and sticky tape from the carpet, and we are driving headlong into January 2015, complete with new diaries, new schedules and new hopes.
Change, the action of moving forward, does not always bid the past farewell. Perhaps this is because some things, like grief, just don’t have an expiration date.
3am. It’s become his hour. Doesn’t matter that we’ve just moved house. That we, his parents, are weeks behind on sleep. That the corridor looks different. Sounds different. No more creaky floorboards, but a whole lot more mileage between his room and ours. Maybe that’s the point. This kid with mussed-up bed hair that makes him look so cool and so young all at once, he climbs out of his ‘down-bed’ that he shares with his sister, and trips his way over toys and bedding to the light. And his high, distinct three year old voice calls it out loud and clear: ‘Mam-ma’.
This morning the kids found a baby bird hiding under one of the outdoor chairs in the garden. Though wild, it acted tame, even allowing the kids to pat and stroke its little back, all the time keeping its soft wings held close to its side. ‘Lets call it princess,’ suggested W (princesses being the in thing in the garden lately). Thankfully, they decided on Benny. It soon became apparent why little Benny bird was so quietly and complacently settled under the seat.
“Isn’t it cool that we all live in the same house!” O. (aged 4) So, we’ve been living in a college residential property for over six months now, sharing a big, old, beautiful house with four other young families, our kids spilling out each day to play on a shared front lawn, our daily lives spilling over into one another’s as we learn what it is to live in a community.
Yesterday the night came early. Everyone inside, cheeks brushed red from play. Late June. Time is passing. This new year already mid-way through. I know the house now. It’s pleasures, and idiocyncracies. I know how to walk in the night hours to avoid the weak floorboards. How the light looks at dawn, as it filters through the stain glass windows of the doorway.
In the late afternoon at our place a breeze comes through the garden, touching every living thing, including us, with tenderness. Dinner time is almost here. The intense sun has run its course for the day. No need for anymore sunscreen, and hats can finally be abandoned – if desired. We inhabit the garden freely.
Tonight feels like a writing-in night. All the windows and doors in our house are flung wide open to receive the southerly breeze, like weary arms eagerly awaiting an embrace from a long-lost friend. I am sitting at my desk by the large front windows, and for once my commercial-strength floor fan sits silent in front of me, while my keyboard alone taps a semi-rhythmic beat.
‘And that’s why I like living in community,’ she said. ‘We share each other’s lives.’ This sage thought came from a near-stranger, now friend, who I met just today, who offered me and my two small companions generous kindness as she saw us struggling in the lunch line, who sat with us afterwards as E and W played on the college lawn, and who, to the less than quiet background noise of children’s excited play-voices, opened her heart like a bird unfolding its wings.
There’s no way that one word alone can sum up the experience of moving house. It should have four or five names, at least, to begin to reflect the massive creature that it is, with all its many arms and heads, and the way it takes hold of your life for a few intense weeks, gets in your face, wraps around you, and threatens to entangle you.
Perhaps it is only fitting that for my first entry in this space I begin with a reflection on the fact that I have absolutely no idea where this year is going. We’ve just wrapped up December 2014, untangled our feet from stray tinsel ends, picked up (hopefully) the last remaining fragment of torn paper and sticky tape from the carpet, and we are driving headlong into January 2015, complete with new diaries, new schedules and new hopes.
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