Finding Little Good Things
and keeping it short and sweet.
We interrupt this broadcast to announce plans to write a four-part series on marketing your creative work, and a new series, ‘Wrinklies on the Road’ about our van travelling has had to be put on hold. As I write this, ahead of me on the wall is a forest of post-it notes, and plot plans for the sequel to The Rewilding of Molly McFlynn that so many tell me they are waiting for. Despite being a good way in, I cannot face it. It feels huge, the task too great, the work needed to find an agent and publisher a mountain that I cannot begin to climb. This post will be short and sweet. I need things in small snatches, little good things as life has thrown another curve ball in my direction.
If you read my article, ‘The Presence of Absence’ you will know I am grieving my mum, who died two months ago. Only a few months ago I travelled up and down the country to be with her while she was in hospital suffering from hallucinations and delusions and sat with her in her nursing home, reading poetry to her as she passed and then was back on the tracks again for her funeral, for I live in Northumberland and my parents in Sussex where I grew up.
The Presence of Absence
Following the death of my mother, I want to write about the presence of absence, about how a person might stay with us even though they have passed, like indentations left in the sand by the power of the sea.
Following Mum’s death, some health issues slapped me around the back of my head involving biopsies and minor surgery in an intimate place which have led to a floodgate of past traumas and triggers opening, and as if this wasn’t enough to deal with, I got a call last Sunday to say my father had suffered a stroke and was in hospital in Sussex.
It was time to travel yet again from north to south back to the town of my birth and a place where the memories were not all sweet. Time to go back to the same hospital where Mum lay in the grip of a nasty form of dementia that had her seeing snakes and sacrifices, not knowing what I’d find when I got there. Time to catch the bus from the hospital and then walk to the bungalow where they lived, but this time to unlock the door and walk in without either of my parents being there. Time to sleep again in my mother’s bed, in the room where her beads still hang from the mirror and photos of my brother and me as children cover every available surface. It was all too much.
Just before I got the call about my Dad, I stumbled across a post by
which encourages us to slow down, pause and sink in and included a guided meditation around ‘little good things’, which hit home and which has been a massive help to me.
It got me thinking about how I might see something, snap a photo for Instagram and move on. When did I actually give the little good things five minutes of my time to really hone in, look, smell, listen and more importantly observe how they make me feel? The day after I got the call about my Dad, I went into the garden barefoot and walked on dew-damp grass that was surprisingly warm, springy and soft. I stood, rocked back and forth and held the grass in my thought for a couple of minutes and noticed how good it felt, feeling a calm in my chest, a warmth in my body. Little good things. I honed in on the butterflies on this yellow plant (do shout up if you know its name!) and watched them, really watched them and observed the warm glow that spread through my chest again - same place, same feeling! I hear it is called a glimmer.
As soon as I was able after the news of Dad’s stroke, I packed a bag and booked a ticket to travel back to Sussex. As my heart thudded in my chest with the dread of what was to come, I looked out of the train window in search of a little good thing, to focus my attention on to stop me shaking and crying. I observed the clouds that lay in gentle layers, soft in a sky of blue and as I watched, a rainbow appeared.
It was there for just a few moments and then was gone.
A little good thing, giving hope in the darkness.
Photo by VD Photography on Unsplash
Dad is still in hospital but is getting excellent care.
Thank you for reading.
I’d love to know what little good things you have found in your life of late. I would like very much to thank
for his meditations and to and the Heartleap community who have held me and given love and support as I travelled South.Next, I’d like to talk more about triggers and glimmers as a follow on from this post, but for now, I’m keeping it simple.
Little Good Things.
I hear you. I lost my mum in January, just 18 months after losing my wife of 48 years. Be kind to yourself and take as long as you need.
Your words caught me in the chest as I remembered my own mother's passing last year and the preceding years. In my mother's case, COVID had a lot to answer for, and she ended up in a nursing home as a direct result of the various lockdowns and ensuing isolation when none of us could visit her during her nine spells in the hospital, which eventually rendered her incapable of staying in her own home. She, too, would suffer nasty hallucinations where insects were crawling up the walls and across her bed, or she was being abducted and driven around Dublin city in search of home. The worst part was she developed a very horrible septic infection from scratching herself, which would not heal. It burrowed right down to her prosthetic knee replacement. That meant she was often in agony from the pain.
On one occasion, shortly before her death, when I was visiting her, I could hear her screaming down the corridor with the pain of it after the wound was dressed earlier in the day. As an observer, it was just as horrendous to witness as it was for her to deal with it. I was fortunate to be able to get over to Dublin in time before she passed away. I sat with her in her last few hours, holding her hand. She did not go peacefully. She fought it every step of the way.
Selfishly, for me, it was a relief. I couldn't bear how her mind went; she was in so much pain, and her quality of life was so poor despite the best efforts of the nursing home staff - I couldn't fault them. Carrying on finding the good things is such a good idea. I will have to remember that. And now you must deal with your Dad when you've barely had time to draw breath. My Dad died 21 years before my mother. He went quickly, which was a shock at the time, but in retrospect, he came off better than she did.