Saying Goodbye

Months have passed. Pickle and I are sculpting a new way to live, to be joyful, to be grateful, to remember without breaking. We are finding a way to be something like family without my heart's Captain and Pickle's Dada. We are, as they say, moving on; tugged by time further and further from the last everything with Thomas. 

Soon it will be time to write about the curiosities and wonders of our new life, but first I want to share with you some of how we have been saying goodbye; unclenching our desperate monkey fists and walking away from the jar which holds the past. And to honour just a very few of the people who have helped me. And to thank all of you, sincerely, for your love and kindness. (You may wish to make a cup of tea at this point.)

The day after Thomas's death, one of his closest friends, Jason of England, held a memorial fire on his land. At such short notice, webs of all kinds called in an amazing amount of people. Our local cafe, where Thomas, Philippa and I have all worked, closed so all staff could attend.

In fine Chagford tradition, children of all ages came and stood solemn or ran wild as the mood and the wind took them and dogs circled each other for all the reasons dogs circle, then became pack for the day.

Tom Hirons held the space with a strength all the more admirable for the shaking. He, and his partner in smiles Rima Staines (who took these photos and those of the funeral), have consistently been solid ground for me when I have spun myself too thin to feel gravity.

We spoke sage truth, as we passed the herb bundle or as the moment stepped us forward.

We drank mead from this horn as we did at our wedding.

We found comfort in touch. Here, my mother is at my shoulder, my father in the foreground. Their ripping at their impotence to make this not so for me has come to naught and the pain of that runs deep. I cannot imagine being the parent of this woman at this moment. Her face shocks me, so much older than my own and etched with a raw grief I have since learned to smooth with a smile.

And then my turn. I spoke directly to Thomas. I told him that he had done enough. He had given the world and me more than can be said, plus the joy that is Pickle. He had created this circle of loving people, and a much, much wider one elsewhere. Enough. Nothing to stay for. I released him from me and asked him to go free.

There is an icicle in that moment. Sharp.

And I told Thomas, and I tell you now, that if I had foreknowledge of this story; if I knew that we would have only five years together, that Pickle would have less than two years to know her Dada, that when he died it would feel like this... 

every day like this...

I would choose this story. I would choose this man and this heart to give mine to. Five years exchanging love with such a heart is enough to last me a lifetime and I will pour all I have received from Thomas into the small and perfectly formed heart of our Pickle. I will make her life wonderful.

And then it rained. Hard. Unable to withstand it we fled inside Jason's barn and clustered like animals sensing danger, smelling death.

But all things pass.

Quite atypically for Dartmoor, the blue reasserted itself

and we crawled out with the sun.

Organising a funeral seemed so far beyond my capabilities, despite doing it with Philippa (Thomas's aunt, who co-raised him) and help from many people, but the day arrived nonetheless.

We gathered in our friend's beautiful yoga barn, hundreds of us dressed in forest colours, listening to the phenomenal harp music of Elizabeth Jane Baldry, clustering thickly around the leaf cocoon which held his body so much more tenderly than a coffin.

A few of us had words to say. We spoke of Thomas's kindness, of the child's life he had saved, of his sense of adventure and great skill at dreaming. We spoke of his enormous propensity for clutter in other people's lofts, of his knowledge and art and wisdom, and I, stuttering with shock, read this from my journal:

There was a girl – the usual mix of wise and numpty, with a streak of fierce and a wash of sorrow. She grew up and met a man. As it happens, a quite extraordinary man. Now, this man had a shaman’s heart. Since before his birth, the chances of it beating for much longer had always been small. At 10 days old he wouldn’t make 2 years. At 2 he wouldn’t make 5. At 5 he wouldn’t make puberty. At 15 his chances of having children were too tiny for doctors to consider.

So, when our woman met this man, he was already long in the habit of squeezing a decade of love into every year – every moment, when he could.

Of course, she fell in love. And in one of those strange quirks of fate, he fell in love with her too. And by ‘fell’, I mean they fell into another world entirely where just the existence of the other makes every grubby thing shinier and every shiny thing glow white hot. It was a very good thing.

He was 27 when they married in a cloud on a hill and soon their wonderful daughter was born, true of heart and loud of lung. He was the very first to kiss her and even those who knew him well marveled at the new depths of love he found. Another very good thing.

The three of them spoke of their love many times a day. Notes were left in hidey places, gifts bought for no reason but the giving and they had a fine time laughing and singing and dancing and reading and drawing together.

He was 30 when his shaman’s heart faltered, panicked and stopped. He was at home, his wife at his side, his belly full of pizza. Only minutes before, his sleepy daughter had been dreamfeeding between her parents as they held hands in the darkness.

So now our woman is a widow at 33 – tragic. And a single mum – tough.

So, love her, help her (trust me, she needs it) but don’t be too sorry for her. She was chosen to be the wife of this amazing man, to join her heart with his, and she has many happy years to spend with their daughter.

She is still the luckiest girl in the world.

And then, six at a time, his father at the front all the way, the strongest of us carried Thomas up the long, long road to the top of the hill, to the peak opposite where we married.

There is a good reason for the phrase 'a dead weight'. Thomas was 6' 4" (very tall in metric) and broad of shoulder. Several times the bearers stopped and we took the opportunity for the Morris men and women to honour Thomas in the way he loved (right outside he church).

When the slowest had caught their breath, on we processed, bearing fire and birds created the day before to symbolise Thomas's wish for a, sadly illegal, sky burial.

Friends were waiting at the burial site to smudge us (for many of our relatives, the second time they had been smudged - the first being our wedding) and greet us with a fire. Thomas always needs a fire.

To uphold another Chagford tradition, we forsook all tradition and Jason read a text Thomas had sent him from hospital, about death and fear and bodily entropy, but all expressed in that Thomas way I cannot emulate; only point to

and Rima played as many notes as her heart could express, each one a tear.

Some special and personal things were put into the grave with Thomas. I gave him the Dydd Santes Dwynwen card I had written to give him on the day he died. (Santes Dwynwen is the Welsh equivalent of Saint Valentine and felt like our own Valentine's Day. It is incredible that he died that day.) And I gave into his keeping the little box of moss and soft things he had created to hold Pickle's umbilical cord.

One by slow and weeping one we crept to the brink and let a handful of earth cover a little more of our Thomas. Pickle, who had been sleeping in her buggy since we were halfway up the hill, woke with perfect timing to add the littlest handful of earth to the grave of her Dada. That memory is seared on my heart. 

And, as we had herded up, so we trickled down, back to the barn for an afternoon of memory gathering (we are making a book for Pickle), music, tears and the usual banquet of shared food. And more Morris dancing.

We have planted trees with Thomas now, oak and hawthorn. And, in a field near the town, a mulberry.

And on Lunar Beltane, we had a tremendous fire in honour of Thomas, built with skill by Peter Montanez. Pete had asked Thomas to light this year's Beltane fire, so I lit it (with his dad, sister and oldest friend) in his stead.

Drummers called up the energy

and it burned

and it burned

and it burned.

Here it is in action:

https://vimeo.com/41698739 

June 3rd was Thomas's birthday, so we returned to his grave site and guess what? We lit a fire. Here is his dad, Bill, adding wood; my parents to the right and Thomas's uncle Simon (the Great) trying to look like he knows how to break sticks despite living in Richmond in the background.

We were a much smaller group, just those who couldn't let his birthday pass without holding out a hand to the others.

Pickle helped fetch wood,

we cooked delicious stews

and while Pickle was contentedly sitting in a wheelbarrow with a fast-disappearing bowl of food, I took a quiet moment to visit Thomas's oak

and hawthorn

and the mound where his body lies.

I always say that I love this land wide land of moor and wood and water and ancient rock, but this particular piece of land will always be the best seat on Dartmoor for me.

If your tea is still warm, or you have warmth enough without, Rima has written a most beautiful, most true, most heartful tale of The Elf with the Upside-Down Heart.

Terri Windling has discussed Thomas's many talents and contributions to folklore and mythic arts In Memorium.
Rachel has written a lovely piece For Thomas and one about his journey into the Earth.

and our good friend from everywhere, Manjree Khajanchi, has written a poetic Eulogy: For T.H.

Thank you for staying with me. Next time we meet I shall fold back the corner of my widow's cloak and show you some of the secret things beneath which make me giggle and breathe a little deeper.

He is gone.

This man:

this, most wonderful, loving man, is dead. This girl, safe against her Dada's heart, has lost her father. These typing hands will never hold my husband's again. He is gone.

I thought I would wait until I knew what to say. That day may not come and I find myself averse to hesitation of all kinds. Life is now, and that may be all. Life is now, and it is beautiful.

The pounding silence of NO THOMAS reverberates through every nerve, every minute. I think I have calmed, then in an unguarded moment I am folded by pain. So often it comes silently, even tearlessly. Tears can only encompass so much.

Or something beautiful happens and the tears flow until I wonder if they will ever stop. The days after Thomas died there was a rainbow every morning. I've never known that happen before. And then snow, on the hill where we married.

The beauty brings solace, but not enough to smooth the spike of, 'He would have loved this.' My consolation is that his corneas live on. Two people saw the snow in his stead. Two people can see their loved ones in his stead.

Some things keep moving on. Pickle learns new tricks daily. For all Thomas's devoted parenting, he missed hearing her say thanks (well, 'shanks') by a couple of days. And he never heard her say 'I love you', at least, not in words.

We're still out stomping. In fact, there's more running now, which feels right. The sun warms us and the wind inspires us. I look at this land and am flooded with gratitude. Nowhere else could I be the warrior Mama I need to be.

And not just the land. The florist gives Pickle her fallen blooms and buds. The newsagent wouldn't accept payment for chocolate. The Courtyard Cafe closed for Thomas's memorial. I had to put the word out that there was no more room in my freezer for soup. Every day, flowers, food, cards, money even, little toys for Pickle, arrived on our doorstep. So many offers of help, childcare particularly, but I couldn't bear to part Pickle from her Mama. I still can't for long. My neighbours have been amazing. My family have been endlessly loving. My friends have been everything I could wish for. Gratitude just doesn't cover it. This land, this community, have made happiness possible for me and my girl. We still have great times. Dozens of people have stopped me in the street to say, 'I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't know Thomas well, but he seemed such a kind man...' and I am thinking, 'I am so sorry for your loss. I had five years with him. He was 1 in 8 billion and you've missed your chance.'

Pickle's birthday was one of the hardest days of my life, but not for her. Surrounded by grandparental love all weekend and swamped in presents, she had a lovely time. Her Gappy (who raised Thomas alternate weeks with his dad and has always been his staunchest supporter) and I took turns to make salty tea in the kitchen while the other faked delight as she opened yet another gift.

Pickle herself is the colour in my future. She shapes my days and nights, gives everything purpose and hope. I am working so hard to save her, but in reality it is quite the other way around.

I will tell something of the celebrations another day, when I have the pictures and my keyboard has dried off.
A thousand thanks to you who have sent love to me. Miles matter little to hearts - death has no hold on love, so geography doesn't stand a chance.

I am grateful it is spring. As I say goodbye to my beautiful little family as it was,

something new and wonderful is always beginning,

and we just keep on swinging.

Postscript: If your tea is still warm, or you have warmth enough without, Rima has written a most beautiful, most true, most heartful tale of The Elf with the Upside-Down Heart.

Terri Windling has discussed Thomas's many talents and contributions to folklore and mythic arts In Memorium.
Rachel has written a lovely piece For Thomas and one about his journey into the Earth.

and our good friend from everywhere, Manjree Khajanchi, has written a poetic Eulogy: For T.H.

In spate

Dartmoor has been in spate recently, as have I. Beautiful, holy, filthy, cleansing water has poured from us and we are better for it. We have what we need to grow. Our usual roads have become flooded, or blocked by fallen trees, decades old, which cannot withstand this day. It is sad to see them go, but what can we do but chainsaw them up and get things moving again?

An eerie hailstorm hovered on the horizon when Pickle and I emerged for our morning walk. I faltered, but she would not turn from the wind, opening her mouth wide to be filled with its power. We walked out, she in the moment of  skittish leaves and rolling bins, me with one eye on the new world of colour creeping closer.

Just as we got to the bottom of our hill, home almost within sight, the heavens heaved and crystals of burning cold ice whirled round us, whisking inside sleeves and forcing eyes shut. Even Pickle wanted to be carried, her head under my wing, the sky suddenly less friendly than she can remember. And I, so full of anxiety projected onto this massive cloud a moment before, felt a honeyed relief. The ice had come, it had stung us like a swarm of Narnian bees, but I could shelter my girl and keep walking up the hill. I could get us home safe. I can't tell you how much I want to get us all home safe.

And we have had days of light too. More than we dare expect of such a season. We drove to the centre of the moor for pub grub and, more importantly, this view:

I could stand there all day. A moment before I took this a herd of ponies galloped across the road and swirled in eddies below me, the wind flowing through them from mane to tail.

Standing here reminds me of being in the same spot, feeling the same awe and gratitude for this space, this gluttonous quantity of healthy land, when behind me I heard the rustle of a map and a man say, 'This is definitely the place, but why's it a viewpoint? There's nothing here.' I wonder how often I fail to appreciate unsignposted wonders.

Light has come in other ways too, from our friends locally, far away, and through the big eye of this interweb creature. Those of you who read this post will understand how touched I was to receive this:

It will be treasured. These days will be treasured. I may be scared, but I am awake, and the world is full of love.

Gruel Sky

The gruel sky hangs dark and low.
I am cowed.
One vulnerable ribbon,
pulsing in the winds,
shines blue.
In that blue
a buzzard
luxuriates
on a winter thermal.
I can breathe, for now.

Stomping out the fear

My husband, too ill to move, signals for a kiss from his bed.

Our daughter races ahead of me and wins the prize.

Losing never felt so good.


Another small stones month. I'll write one whenever I'm here, but that won't be much. Thomas is leaking energy daily, and with it strength and colour. Pickle is volcanic with energy - many walks a day, ever increasing, and phenomenal rages when thwarted. She feels our fear too, and wisely takes our feet, hers and mine, to stomp it across fields, leave it in little piles under trees, scatter it on the fierce winds which whip round us every night or into the newly thunderous streams. Sometimes she just stops and roars. So do I. Sometimes she just stops and cries. So do I. Sometimes she just wants her mum to carry her. So do I. But I am the mum. That's feeling heavy right now; heavy with responsibility and with privilege and black hole-heavy with love.

Our future is unknown; could hold anything, just like yours. 2012, the Age of Kali Ma, Mayan prophecies, squabbling consultants wielding power they cannot hold, the greatest heart I know struggling to tick-boom like it needs to... whatever. It's cold and wet and windy and muddy and dark outside and we've got some stomping to do.

Looking for a uniquely personal gift?

Of course you are. So am I. I've come up with a solution by making personalised name plaques for people. In the process, I've created a new problem of trying to squeeze in the odd bit of blogging and, you know, life, around creating them, but they're so much fun I'm kind of addicted.

I liked this one so much at the halfway point, I almost stopped there. What kept me going was looking at it with a child's eyes (Jasmine is 10) and deciding I would have preferred the full-on colour explosion when I was that age.

I've got a few more to do for people I know, but I'm also hoping to take commissions. I've been sketching for a new oils project for a couple of months, but now I've got embroiled in the fun of my brush pens again. Somehow it feels less like 'proper' art than using an actual brush and paints, so I let myself be freer.

I think I would have been proud to have an original work of art with my name on it when I was a kid. I've got a vision of making these for adults, too - weddings, housewarmings, birthdays, whatever - but I feel I can go a bit crazier with the colours for the children's ones, so they're the ones I'll enjoy making the most.

They're up on Etsy, possibly too late for Christmas, but this is when they have arrived and maybe they'll catch someone's eye.

I'll leave you with my song of the week - literally, the song I'm replaying endlessly. My family have been tolerant thus far.