I dedicate my entry today to my late husband Nicholas who tragically and unexpectedly departed this world, and mine, 30th August 2004, two days before our 4th wedding anniversary. Since Nicholas’s death I have never allowed myself to build up to a day of mourning just because a date or an anniversary suggests you should. The pain of bereavement will hit you when you are least expecting it, so do not offer it an invitation or beckon it in with open arms. Today is a happy day.
Because of the untimely and unexpected death of my husband I was left with an overwhelming feeling of anger and guilt. My car became my personal space and an instrument of torture, every time I journeyed alone I would scream, shout, cry and blame the world for how I was feeling. I began to dread getting into the car alone, but I needed to get out of the house and would during the first arduous phase of my bereavement regularly visit my sister and her husband. It was during one such visit that my brother-in-law lent me a book, The Smoke Jumper - Nicholas Evans (the author’s name a pure coincidence), I remember little of the book as I remember little of many things at this time, except for a poem within the book which I will always remember as it provided me with some solace. I kept a copy of it and would read it when grief attempted to fall upon me:
If I be the first to die,
Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving.
There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life,
The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored,
The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing,
The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch,
The knowing,
Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade,
Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand
And the mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are.
What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the woods where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you,
Be still.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart.
I am not gone but merely walk within you.
In August 2007 whilst travelling to Lancashire alone in my car the pain of bereavement struck me again, I cried the kind of cry that comes from the depth of your stomach, I screamed as I had not screamed since the early months following Nicholas’s death, then slowly and calmly I felt something lift away from me and it was as if Nicholas was letting me go and saying,
Because of the untimely and unexpected death of my husband I was left with an overwhelming feeling of anger and guilt. My car became my personal space and an instrument of torture, every time I journeyed alone I would scream, shout, cry and blame the world for how I was feeling. I began to dread getting into the car alone, but I needed to get out of the house and would during the first arduous phase of my bereavement regularly visit my sister and her husband. It was during one such visit that my brother-in-law lent me a book, The Smoke Jumper - Nicholas Evans (the author’s name a pure coincidence), I remember little of the book as I remember little of many things at this time, except for a poem within the book which I will always remember as it provided me with some solace. I kept a copy of it and would read it when grief attempted to fall upon me:
If I be the first to die,
Let grief not blacken long your sky.
Be bold yet modest in your grieving.
There is a change but not a leaving.
For just as death is part of life,
The dead live on forever in the living.
And all the gathered riches of our journey,
The moments shared, the mysteries explored,
The steady layering of intimacy stored,
The things that made us laugh or weep or sing,
The joy of sunlit snow or first unfurling of the spring,
The wordless language of look and touch,
The knowing,
Each giving and each taking,
These are not flowers that fade,
Nor trees that fall and crumble,
Nor are they stone,
For even stone cannot the wind and rain withstand
And the mighty mountain peaks in time reduce to sand.
What we were, we are.
What we had, we have.
A conjoined past imperishably present.
So when you walk the woods where once we walked together
And scan in vain the dappled bank beside you for my shadow,
Or pause where we always did upon the hill to gaze across the land,
And spotting something, reach by habit for my hand,
And finding none, feel sorrow start to steal upon you,
Be still.
Close your eyes.
Breathe.
Listen for my footfall in your heart.
I am not gone but merely walk within you.
In August 2007 whilst travelling to Lancashire alone in my car the pain of bereavement struck me again, I cried the kind of cry that comes from the depth of your stomach, I screamed as I had not screamed since the early months following Nicholas’s death, then slowly and calmly I felt something lift away from me and it was as if Nicholas was letting me go and saying,
"Goodbye Julie, live your life and let me go."
I know exactly where I was on that journey when he said goodbye, and I will always remember the place.
Thank you Nicholas for the time we shared and for the unconditional love you gave to me during our brief but precious time together.
Today I can remember you with peace and love in my heart and a smile on my face.
2 comments:
How wonderful. You write so clearly and so well. The process of grief is so frequently dismissed as time limited. It gradually unfolds within us all and the residual effects enhance our selves. Lovely!
Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I read this and felt inner calm, peace, joy and celebration, all at the same time. What sang to me was your emotional growth. Your a flower finding the sunshine again and your journey fills me with wonder and inspiration. A meaningful milestone and a truly beautiful dedication to someone who was truly beautiful x x
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