It all started as a fairly ordinary morning. J had just left for Arabic classes. The Lozenge was in the sitting room - lying on his tummy in his pants, busy 'planting carrots' with the ice cream scoop and the tin opener; and Rashimi was strutting around - tummy out, nappy rustling, causing any trouble he could, which included ripping two spindly African wooden figures off the wall - nails and all. Carrot planting and vandalism then morphed into an impromptu disco and I found myself dancing around to Bare Necessities, still in my pyjamas, with the boys. It was still only 8am. After a relatively long hour with semi naked boys, the Glammy arrived and whisked them off to a day of swimming in her club.
I was just getting my kit together to go and interview an elderly Palestinian lady, Widad, who has spent most of her life collecting dresses and artefacts from Palestine and all over the Arab world. Then my phone rang, and I knew when I saw it was Mum, what this meant.
Robert, my cousin, had lost his battle with cancer. He was 32. Although we had been preparing, I suddenly didn't feel prepared at all. I sat for a while, alone, and came across this poem in a book by someone called Patricia Mitchell, which for me, sums up some of his spirit - though not all of it of course - as he was inimitable. (I've changed it to a 'he' from the original):
Horses he loved, laughter and the sun,
All beauty, wide spaces and the open air.
The trust of all dumb living things he won.
And never knew the luck too good to share.
And though he may not ride this way again,
His spirit rides onward yet,
Freed from all chance of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn or forget.
Then I went to meet the lady. But I felt very far from home as I walked down the hot pavement in this foreign place - so helpless to be of any use to any of my extensive family, who are going through this sadness all those miles away.
Then I walked under a lilac bush and the familiar smell of its heavy blooms reminded me of the connection to the world I knew, and to the Cotswolds where my aunt and uncle and many relatives would be gathering to support each other. We are all under the same sky, we walk the same earth and our joy and our pain unites us all as human beings. This was the connection I needed and I walked a little more gladly towards the Palestinian lady's house.
I rang the buzzer to her large house, with yet more lilac and honeysuckle around her doorway, and although I never mentioned my sadness to her, I was indeed in very safe hands. And if anyone can associate with loss, it's someone from Palestine.
I was just getting my kit together to go and interview an elderly Palestinian lady, Widad, who has spent most of her life collecting dresses and artefacts from Palestine and all over the Arab world. Then my phone rang, and I knew when I saw it was Mum, what this meant.
Robert, my cousin, had lost his battle with cancer. He was 32. Although we had been preparing, I suddenly didn't feel prepared at all. I sat for a while, alone, and came across this poem in a book by someone called Patricia Mitchell, which for me, sums up some of his spirit - though not all of it of course - as he was inimitable. (I've changed it to a 'he' from the original):
Horses he loved, laughter and the sun,
All beauty, wide spaces and the open air.
The trust of all dumb living things he won.
And never knew the luck too good to share.
And though he may not ride this way again,
His spirit rides onward yet,
Freed from all chance of weariness or pain,
Forbidding us to mourn or forget.
Then I went to meet the lady. But I felt very far from home as I walked down the hot pavement in this foreign place - so helpless to be of any use to any of my extensive family, who are going through this sadness all those miles away.
Then I walked under a lilac bush and the familiar smell of its heavy blooms reminded me of the connection to the world I knew, and to the Cotswolds where my aunt and uncle and many relatives would be gathering to support each other. We are all under the same sky, we walk the same earth and our joy and our pain unites us all as human beings. This was the connection I needed and I walked a little more gladly towards the Palestinian lady's house.
I rang the buzzer to her large house, with yet more lilac and honeysuckle around her doorway, and although I never mentioned my sadness to her, I was indeed in very safe hands. And if anyone can associate with loss, it's someone from Palestine.
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