Grief 7 – Muted Joy
Sunlight, time, home, the days of spring will come
My doctor said I was not superwoman and should expect a physical as well as mental reaction to all that had happened. She then sent me off for blood tests and an electrocardiogram. She gave me the names of two good therapists if I needed this kind of support, but I think the language barrier would render this mute. She is one smart doctor because when I knew for sure I had no heart or lung problems, that ME wasn’t sneaking back after more than twenty years, I could physically push my body and get the exercise and fresh air I needed. And this would help me heal.
She also joked and said she prescribed a holiday along with some large doses of Vit D. Martin had also mentioned going on holiday, but it seemed too weird to want to leave home when home is what I’d craved, what we’d craved when in the UK. Home was our sanity and sanctuary, our safe place, except it didn’t keep us safe from more grief and maybe some of the dark sticky sadness was hanging around the corners with the spiderwebs.
Martin watched the weather reports closely and found a small place for us to rent for a week and it was only a four and a half hours car drive away in the south of France where sunshine and 20 degrees was promised. We could take our bikes, cycle a little, walk a little, explore a different place and relax a lot. So, this is what we did and as the warm lazy days passed, I could see the tension and grief leaving Martin and he could see his happy, bouncy, wife returning. Not in full but returning.
It was a good week and I felt joy again. It was muted but there, especially when we explored canyons of orange and red ochre, (some of that ochre is in the art above) cycled along the top of a gorge in silent nature, encountered a small black pig, and wandered hilltop villages oozing in history. We pushed our bodies and they responded with a few aches and tiredness, but we rested and recovered quickly. Our fitness was coming back and that made us both smile.
The week came to an end. I’d discovered I could paint buildings in quick watercolour sketches, and I’d discovered I could move forward. Not the same person as I was before, but then we never are. Each day we are different, and there is true hope that pure delight in the little things will return to this excitable soul of mine.
As the spring weather was true to form and colder wetter weeks were coming to the south of France it was easier to leave the warmth behind and head home.
Home feels more like our safe place now, leaving it for a while was a good idea, coming back feels like I’d imagined it would before. It wraps its old stone walls around us and promises it will take care of us.
I am stronger this time and know I can cope with whatever is thrown my way. The dark and sad times have shown me how strong I am, even though I felt weak giving into the spiral of hatred of myself. I can move on now, knowing I’ve been there and come back.
Since coming home this second time, we’ve had happy news more than sad : my mum has a new home better suited to her needs, quieter and close to my sister; new life arrives, and another is on its way into my ever-growing extended family ; the garden is full of life and edibles, I have garden soup cooking in the fire as I write this; and although not everything is perfect, Martin and I are doing just fine.
There are sad moments; a tear rolling down the cheek when reading a poem I wrote for my dad, a poem that evokes happy memories and yet it makes me cry; a gut-wrenching twist when photos and moments cannot be shared with those who are no longer in the world, daft moments, we watched a film and I cried when it finished although it wasn’t sad, I cried because it was the perfect film for Gwen and she will never see it now; a pang for what might have been, but they all pass, and they mean I am no longer numb. That’s a good thing.
I look back at my art journal and see how far I have come. I’ve used words and creativity to express my travel along the grief road, found my own way.
I haven’t totally accepted my darker side, but I understand where it came from and it’s not dragging me down anymore.
I’m learning to just be here for those who need me rather than bulldozer in with solutions. What’s interesting is that as I have reread poems that I am compiling into a book, this theme is there, staring me in the face from my subconscious. I’m hoping this time I will listen to myself, that I have truly learnt.
NO MORE
I shout into the skies,
Red angry words,
Blue sad words,
No more waiting,
No more sadness
My soul is full,
So full it has cracks,
And is leaking,
My heart is sore from loss,
Sore from borrowed loss,
Borrowed from the news that may not come,
I cannot keep these thoughts away,
There are too many,
Thick and fast,
Let this fierce blustery wind today blow,
Blow hard,
Blow tomorrows worries away,
Except, some are today’s pain,
Pain for loved ones,
Pain for me,
Aching for what might not be,
Barriers down,
Other’s pain seeps in,
Blinding,
I have no magic wand,
I fail to help,
Fail to save,
I borrow sunlight,
Wrap it around me,
I can’t help if I cannot see,
I breath,
I listen,
I accept,
I am here,
And that is all I can be.
(September 2022)
I am happy more than sad now and feel muted joy and pleasure.I don’t know if this is my last grief post, there are a few more pages in my art journal. I may fill them as more joy and happiness, awe and wonder returns, but I don’t know if they need words. I shall see.
Thank you for reading my grief journey, my confessions, and my confusing emotions.
You have been my silent therapists.
Knowing you were there helped.
I appreciate you.
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