Time Meant Nothing
Weeping Went Unnoticed
Hi there lovely Newsletter Family!
Here is today’s open letter to Doug. It’s a bit of a raw one today so just thought I’d give you the heads up before you dive in. Please know I am okay. If I’ve written something like this and published it, it means I’m coming out the other side of it. And even when I’m in the thick of it I’m sort of still okay. It’s just the way grief is. Some waves are dumpers. Some waves are gentler. I put my hand up if I need help from being swallowed by the depths.
Have a beautiful Sunday. And remember if you are reading in email to click on the heading in the body and like magic you’ll be taken through to the website where you can like, comment and share if you feel called to.
Thanks for being here.
Love Sandra. Xx
The grass was soft.
The evening mild.
Translucent leaves waved sleepily to fading light.
The grand canopy shielded me from the world, holding space for thoughts and feelings as they rose, while carefully filtering and softening their fall.
I wanted to stay right there, in that moment, cocooned in the shelter of the healing powers of the trees.
Time meant nothing. Weeping went unnoticed. Lying under trees was a normal sight here. Though I suspect not all park goers lying on the grass, gazing at the canopies of trees had just watched their soulmate die the night before.
This space had held me on another day, at another time.
The day that marked the beginning of the end. Although I think we already knew before we heard the words “I’m sorry. There’s nothing more we can do”.
Now I was here again, at the end of our life together as I knew it. At the beginning of my life without you and yet, with you touching every part with your absence.
One week prior to the day I’d sat on the park bench near this tree that we’d past many times on our way to treatment as we strolled through the park. The Golden Elm grove was a wonderous place infused with calm, beckoning immersion.
A whir of a small tractor slashing the grass a reminder of times gone by on the farm.
Young noisy minor birds calling to be fed reminiscent of the cheeky family that lived in our backyard on the property playing in the willow tree.
Dogs chasing balls tails a wagging, noses to the ground intently following possum scents and then racing back to their person, often dropping suddenly and rolling in something equally as aroma pleasing along the way.
Two white Scottish Hyland Terriers explored close by. One of my favourite breeds. Definitely not one of yours.
I’d seen them here many times in the past three weeks. Their person wasn’t very friendly. I thought if you were there with me, you’d have had fun defrosting the old fella. Then next time we’d have crossed paths he’d greet you like a long-lost pal. A skill you were born with that never ceased to amuse me.
There were phone calls to be made that particular day.
Calls of forewarning. The same words to say to many with no deviation on the story. The path set in stone.
Instead of making the calls straight away, I sat on the bench amongst the Golden Elm trees and recorded the scene before me. I let the breeze play wistfully with my hair and caress my face like a soothing hand.
I didn’t know if I was hungry or if I wanted to throw up. All I knew was that in that moment I didn’t want to leave the bubble of this space and pocket in time.
A school bell rang in the distance like a sign it was time to step out, take a breath, and step in to what was to be.
There was never going to be a right spot, a right time, the right words, the right tone to make those phone calls. All I could do was ask the peace, calm and grounding I found in that moment to hold me through the next little while.
My thoughts shifted again, back to my body beneath the tree
I certainly didn’t feel like I belonged to it.
I didn’t understand how I could feel so at peace and so devastated at the same time. Maybe it was shock. Maybe I was numb.
But I remember making a conscious decision to just go with it because in amongst it all I felt your peace and your sense of freedom wash over me and I wasn’t about to lay there questioning both your sadness and your euphoria in the breath of the breeze.
Leaving us was always going to epitomise the phrase “Bitter Sweet” for you.
I wish I could say that “Visions of sugar-plums” were dancing in my head with Christmas fast approaching Doug, but that’s not the case.
Rather, it’s been visions of your last days on rinse and repeat. I’ve mentioned to you before that I’m afraid I’ll forget significant things but this week I wish the not so pleasant reminders would just bugger off for a while.
So today I’m taking myself to the local park and I’ll lay under a big tree in the soft grass. Although I know I can never experience again the bubble I experienced the day after you died while lying under the elm tree in Fawkner Park, I can be still and breathe and appreciate many things.
And maybe… just maybe… you’ll float by on a breeze… play wistfully with my hair and soothingly touch my cheek before drifting away to continue running free.
All my love,
Megan Devine says “We help each other by sharing the truth about our experiences”.
Thank you for being here and sharing in my truth. Sandra Xx