A line ... a journey

So, it’s done. I‘ve taken the ashes of which I wrote in my last blog and I’ve sprinkled them into the waters off Scotland’s west coast, in one of the most tranquil places I know. I described last week how light those ashes were, and that was so evident when I sprinkled them because, instead of them pouring down from their container, they rather billowed out because the air mingled with them and they didn’t have sufficient gravity to drop downwards. No: instead they were susceptible to every breath of wind so that as I shook my container they seemed to take off, as if flying, and they were blown into the water. Where they had all landed, they formed a trail of white ash; a line that appeared to be a gash across the dark water. I felt it represented the wound across my own soul that’s as violent as a gash. I thought that it represented visually the journeying that I have done in order to reach this point when I could let go of the memories and let them go… out to sea; out of sight; out with the mercy of God carrying my previously-heavy burden that had been made lighter last week when I had burned my box.

Some people might call this ‘closure’. I could not disagree more.

This was not closure for me. I’ve had ‘closure’ for decades. The whole ghastly story has lain behind a door that I have closed every time anything reminded me of the events I wanted never to have occurred. My mind has been so closed that (I realised last week) I had not even grieved my loss. I don’t think I have felt anything. The door was so firmly closed, there was no space for feelings. All I did was close down the least little reminder.

In creating my little ceremonies, first of burning the box and subsequently scattering the ashes, I opened that door. I can only have revived memories of the little life that (by the way) were associated with exquisite pain emotionally. I didn’t face what was happening. I had pushed it into a drawer to hide the evidence. It terrified me. So it was only now, more than forty years later, that I experienced the first feelings of grief. It surprised me. Even up to the morning of going to the coast I had filled my mind with excitement about where I was going until I was positively shocked when we were about to depart and, alone in my room, I picked up the little container and discovered tears rolling down my cheeks. What was going on, I wondered to myself?

I was opening myself to grief. There is a time to mourn, and that time had caught up with me. I had denied it, delayed it, postponed it, tried to avoid it – but it finally caught up with me.

Shaking the ashes into the Atlantic did not bring closure. It heralded a beginning. That line of ash drew a picture trailing out to sea. It traced the line of my journey. I have a long way still to go. But one thing that’s important is that, when I had finished the sprinkling of those ashes, my hands were open. Fantasies about closure had finally come to an end.

Oh, and there’s one more event to tell. As I sat on the rock watching the tide pull the ashes away from the shore, a tiny white feather fluttered down to my open hands. Extraordinary. It was exactly parallel with the white feather that I’d seen when I had burned the box a few days previously. I cannot help but wonder all the more whether they signify the presence of angels.

Heaviness transformed to become LIGHT!

Yesterday I was surprised by relief.

‘Relief’ because something heavy was transformed into something light.

‘Surprised’ because I haven’t felt relief such as yesterday’s for a long time. At present my journey is, and for some years it has been, through hard, HARD territory. Private things; but it’s been extremely tough. It’s been bloody.

I was ‘surprised by relief’ because I had not known what I might feel. I had not actually looked ahead to feelings. I don’t think I had dared. I was in a sea of fear. I had, consequently, thought only about Doings, and I’d left out the feelings. But yesterday I had wanted to DO something to help the grief (or some of it) over  … (and I am about to write of something that’s always been totally private and unspoken: it’s odd to write about it now. But I’ll take a deep breath and say) … out of the sea of grief. The little corner that I thought I could maybe (maybe) DO something is over a pregnancy that I had lost, many, many years ago. It has always been so private, this pregnancy, and so has the loss. In fact it was more than private: it was secret, which is different from private. Secrecy had caused me to lock it away, and it’s taken a lot of hard work for me even to realise that there WAS a key to the lock, and even more hard work to discover that the key was in my possession.

And so I took this key that suggested that maybe I could DO something. But the Something I had concocted sounded a bit odd, and I was a bit bewildered. I wasn’t sure what would happen. Yesterday had therefore loomed as a day containing a large measure of fear. Yet somewhere in my mind there must have been a quiet hope for relief. My problem was that that somewhere hadn’t reached my consciousness.

Earlier this year I had come across a little box; a rather beautiful one whose purple velvet lid was the colour of mourning, which was very apt. I knew immediately that I could use it to represent a box to hold my memory of what I had lost; what I might have liked to have laid in a velvety place; a place that I could consider precious. That was nicer than what had happened, which was a rushed hiding away of a bloody mess; a mass of blood: a disposal full of fear and loneliness and utter dismay. By contrast, for yesterday I planned a very simple little ceremony when two friends came and we put this box on the BBQ and, after burning it, we gathered the ashes. This was Step One. Very simple. Step Two will be to scatter the ashes in a place that is special, and tranquil, and nice. For me, that could only be on the west coast of northern Scotland, which – for me – offers a sense of ‘home’. There, my soul can be at peace. I would like these ashes to be at peace, representing what I would have wanted for what I lost many decades ago. Rather wonderfully, I am being taken to the Highlands tomorrow. Hopefully, I might get to the north-west coast and these ashes could come with me and not return with me but stay in their own tranquil place.

I must finish describing yesterday before I rush ahead to next week.

Yesterday had loomed as so dauntingly difficult, even though I was convinced that doing Something would be good. In fact, the day was beautifully simple and simply beautiful. And the very important message that has stayed with me is that the box (which had been fairly heavy) was transformed. It was changed to ash (which is light).

Something heavy became something light… so light that with only a puff of wind, it began to be blown away.

That fact is a metaphor that I find very helpful.

PS. During the burning, a white feather came and landed on the grate above the fire. Someone once told me that white feathers suggested that angels are present and, although I don’t know what I think of angels, d’you know I found myself thinking, Gosh, this feather is SO tiny… it seemed to represent a very tiny angel.

Tears are very cleansing…