Tag Archives: death

Scraping Off The Barnacles

Grey_whales_43_face_barnacles.560x496It’s my three month anniversary. Three months ago I retired from my work in radio. Only now have I the capacity to think beyond bed, couch, TV, reading. I’ve finally learnt how to say no. (My first month of retirement was crammed with doing writing favours for people for free because I couldn’t say no.) Now my life is a blank canvas. I get to decide what I do, every day. Such freedom.

I’ve been decluttering. Scraping off the barnacles. Defoliating. It feels wonderful to shed things, stuff, excess. None of it is needed. I’d make a great minimalist. I like light and space. Time to breathe and heal. Much easier to do without being crushed by possessions and memorabilia. Out it goes. People assume I’ve read Mari Kondo’s books. I haven’t. I worked this stuff out for myself. It makes perfect energetic sense. I still have way too much stuff but I go gently, scraping off the layers of barnacles bit by bit. The more I let go the easier it becomes.

I still find it amazing, a miracle, that I don’t have to work for a living. That The Hubby and I have a small but sufficient income without having to do a thing. We’re both still revelling in it. It highlights how enslaved most of us are, working at jobs we don’t enjoy to buy stuff we don’t need in the hope it will make us feel better.  Sure I’d like a house with an extra bedroom and yes I’d love a Mustang but….I’d rather be free.

So the way I see this year unfolding is a gentle stepping into lightness and healing and the gaining of true energy – not that anxious, nervy, overexcited, avaricious energy that I’ve spent so much of my time dwelling in. That energy made me sick.  It will be an interesting path. I’m becoming aware of how much tension I hold in my body, it’s alarming. My jaw went out the other week because I’m always clenching it. My biggest challenge will be re-entering the writing world without drowning in the morass of anxiety.

I’ve had a break from writing and wondered if I’d ever want to do it again at all. I’ve put off doing the next draft of my latest novel and redoing the synopsis because I know what awaits me if it gets accepted for publication. Edits, deadlines, fear and anxiety. I’m so enjoying being free and I have so little energy still that the mere thought exhausts me.

However I had writing group recently and as I haven’t written anything new for ages I thought I’d just bang something out. And guess what? I really enjoyed it. It was fun. And then my mind started coming up with possible scenarios and plot lines and I remembered what I love about writing – that stepping into another world, other lives, where anything is possible. The power of the imagination is glorious and energising.

So that’s me. A work in progress. And if I never write another book that’s ok too. If I spend my time growing veggies and sewing (& I’ve taught myself to knit) all is well. The Hubby and I have plans to travel the world housesitting – inspired by a couple who are doing just that. We have to wait until The Dog dies before we can up sticks and she’s remarkably healthy for an old girl. We love her so that’s ok. All things in time.

I’ve been so ambitious in the past and it just made me resentful. There are other ways of living. I’m keen to explore them.

In the end what does it matter. We all die. I’d like to enjoy my life before then and not leave too much clutter behind for people to have to sort through 🙂

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Kill Your Darlings Part 4

I’ve finished the last draft of my next book. Not all the words I’ve written have made it into the next round. Instead of being in the book I’m turning my darlings into blog posts. Seems I can’t kill them after all.

You can bury me anywhere because I won’t be there

Mary statueYears later, after my brother died, his wife battled grief and guilt and the despair of two young daughters who no longer had a father. Among her many concerns was that she had no idea what to do with his ashes. Her youngest daughter needed a place to lay flowers for her daddy, but my sister-in-law was too exhausted by the last years of his life and his inevitable but cruel ending to arrange it. I asked if I could help. My brother had always been the bastion of family history; doing things as they should be done, upholding traditions.

I knew our grandfather’s ashes were in the war veterans’ section of the city cemetery and was pretty sure our grandmother’s and aunt’s ashes were somewhere in the same cemetery. If there was room with them I was sure that was what my brother would have wanted, surrounded by those he felt a kinship with and a shared sense of propriety and purpose. I made an appointment at the cemetery office. They were able to find Granny but there was no record of our aunt.

I was given a map and made my way to the rose garden. One slice of a circular bed was given to our grandmother but she was on her own. I could have sworn our aunt was supposed to be there with her.

I visited my mother and asked her. Poor old Mum, brittle and thin, the disease dissolving her substance like acid. Her face fell. “I’m sorry darling. I never picked up her ashes. I was so devastated after your father died, dealing with all that needed to be done. When my sister died I couldn’t face doing it all over again.”

I rang the Hobart Cemetery again. They searched through their records. They kept unclaimed ashes for a while, in some kind of archive, but eventually they were disposed of.

“Disposed of where?” I asked.

A sheepish young man told me they were scattered out the back of the office, in a small group of trees. My aunt’s ashes were mixed with those of strangers, fertilising the trees.

I told my mother. And also told her that I was arranging to have a plaque made for Aunty Deirdre to be placed in the same rose bed as Granny. Her ashes wouldn’t be there but at least she’d have some kind of memorial. I intended to pay for it myself, even after I discovered that tiny plinths and small plaques are very expensive.  Mum wouldn’t let me pay. It was the least she could do to assuage the guilt she had felt for all these years. Once my aunt’s plaque was organised we could go ahead with my brother’s.

And as for my Mum, what did she want? Her death was getting closer every day.

“Nothing darling. It doesn’t matter what you do with my ashes. I’ll be elsewhere.” She smiled, her thin face lighting up with hope and peace. She was on the way to getting her promotion.

Swan Song

Some dreams are rather obscure; you wake up confused and baffled, shaking your head to rattle the dream loose from your mind. Other dreams are like faint stars in the evening sky; you think you catch a glimpse of them as you wake but when you try to examine them closely they disappear. Then there are the dreams that remain clear and stay with you for the rest of the day or perhaps the rest of your life. Dreams take you to another dimension where anything is possible.

Some people like lucid dreaming. They train themselves to recognise that they’re dreaming and then direct the dream. Most of us try too hard to control everything in our waking hours, the thought of controlling everything in my dreams as well is just too exhausting. And why would I want to control the outcome of something that can be deeper, more profound and ultimately more interesting and fun than anything I could come up with.

Recently I woke with a dream still clinging to my mind and there’s no way I want to shake this one out of my head. It’s a dream I’ll take with me to the grave, literally. In this dream I was sitting in a café with some friends. I was dying, although I felt perfectly well. I’d been diagnosed with a terminal illness and my friends and I were discussing the fact.

“You know you get to sing a song just before you die,” one of my friends said.

“Really?” It was the first I’d ever heard of it.

“Yes,” she said. “The Angel of Death comes around and gets you to pick out a song.”

And wouldn’t you know it, right at that moment the Angel of Death dropped in to
the café for a visit. She wasn’t wearing black or carrying a scythe, she had long wavy Pre-Raphaelite hair with flowing robes to match and was carrying several songbooks.

“Can I choose any song I like?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.”

So out of all the songs in the universe what did I choose? Take It Easy by the Eagles. During the dream I became quite nervous. I didn’t even know all the words to Take It Easy. Then I was told that I had to sing it a capella in the beer garden of the local pub. At the last moment I changed my mind and sang a song I remembered from my childhood. I used to love delving into my dad’s LPs and Nat King Cole was a particular favourite. So the song I chose to sing before I died, while the patrons of the pub danced slowly around me, was Nature Boy.

“The greatest thing, you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.”

The next day I told The Hubby about the dream. I sang Nature Boy to him and asked him to play it at my funeral, whenever that may be. But until that day we’ll probably do what we did that afternoon; drive down the road with the Eagles blaring and both of us singing along with glee and gusto, “Take it easy, take it easy, don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy.”