Inaction and desire....

I have it; my tutor's assessment. As with all courses, this is the worst bit. An unknown personality waiting in the dark ready to pick apart your work and suggest without limit; to stretch you, challenge and increase your knowledge and methods. It's also exciting. My toes curl when a tutor suggests cutting this or that and my reaction is always emotional, petulant and necessary. What parent would give up their dreams for a child without a fight/tantrum or at least raised voice. After five years my partner is beginning to see the pattern and understand it.....sort of.

The chant is usually "this is a good assessment."

I started work, correcting areas highlighted as drifting and cutting where, once Nina, my tutor, had pointed it out, were obvious. I read it through and agreed with her page notes. The analysis, her written assessment, is more challenging and having read it through twice I can see how a Level Three course differs from a Level Two. It feels as different as jogging does to marathon running....

I feel like I am warming up for a big race with the opponent as myself; my nature and resistance. I want this and fear it. The coach is Nina, with her advice, suggestion and knowledge. I shall return to the Assignment and work through it again (probably several times) before moving on to the next set of exercises and Second Assignment. So WHY am I doing this rather than working on it now? Not sure, not ready to...this is my inactive phase...when I leave my brain to absorb the Assessment and ready itself for what has to be done. Inactivity is as productive as action.

My desire for writing is growing, boosted by my employment. I promised myself that I would not be one of those people who placed his grievances with his employer here for all to see. Mainly because I have the long game to think about, mortgage, money and boredom (i.e. boredom for those reading this, after all there is only so much complaining anyone can take) but each time I get frustrated at being ignored, looked down on (I am a technician and not a Manager, a totally different breed in the modern Civil Service) or told yet again something so obvious that the object is a device to denigrate the one being told, I look to my writing.

It brings me Joy. It is here where I can do what I please. I can write anything I see, tell stories that might excite, shock, amuse or terrify. To move people the way I am moved by words.

If you took away my mortgage, living costs etc. - and told me that I could do only one thing for the rest of my life but I would never gain anything from it - I would write. Of course I include reading too......can't live without books.

Desire, real desire, that burning compulsion, can be dangerous and wonderful. So this is what this "bit" of writing is, my desire, despite the inaction, to bring words to form on a page and tell a story; might not be great or inspiring, but it's a story - sort of.

Need....

A terrible day, weather wise. Things are moving on and along with others we are considering Christmas and starting to hit our funds buying presents. It is hard to not walk around the shops without seeing gifts that the recently deceased Mo would've loved. The trick was that both Craig and I spoke immediately about it to each other; seeing something and almost enjoying the fact that she would have loved the silliness of this seasons tat or that joke present for a friends over-active dog. Remembering the joy she took in the little things seems to help as well as hurt.

Dorchester is our county town and is re-inventing itself with building work and changes in the shops; I like it. It feels relaxed and charming. There is space for everyone and with the abundance of trees, even when it is overcast and drizzling it has a calming effect. Where we live, Weymouth, is a very different matter...but that's a rant I shall enjoy in a later post.

We have noticed that since Mo's death we cannot fail to notice little old ladies; not exactly the Politically Correct term. But nevertheless they are diminuitve, not youthful and female. The ones that tug at our heart-strings are those that are infirm or in need of some care; but then any of them seem to pull at our emotions. Today, along a side street was a small, hunched, bespectacled lady moving towards a waiting taxi; the driver had brought the vehicle as close to the pedestrianised road as he could get it and he stood waiting, door open. She made her way towards him, up a steep incline, lifting and pushing her zimmer frame - wheels at the front - in painfully slow steps. I didn't turn to look into Craig's eyes as we passed. I didn't need to. The taxi driver looked down the street and as we got to him he smiled at us with emotion in every crease of his face and his lips pressed together. We looked back; she had barely taken two steps, during the time it took us to walk fifty yards.

We were three men watching this poor woman, head hung over, glasses perched on the end of her nose, stepping as best she could towards us. We were powerless. I wanted to pick her up, throw her over my shoulder and, taking up the zimmer in the other hand, carrying her to the taxi and out of the drizzle. The taxi driver's dilemma was clear. If he left his vehicle he couldn't make her walk any quicker and any encouragement could be seen as patronising; offering to take her handbag and lighten her passage could cause her distress. So with us passing by and him rooted to the spot we watched her struggle. It was awful and inspiring.

After shopping, posting a letter - the balance of Mo's funeral expenses and the collection from the service, plus a little more, for the Salvation Army, all to the funeral home - we came back onto the same street going in the opposite direction. The woman was ten feet closer, maybe more, with more than that to go; her steps were a little stronger now and her head was held a little higher but we could see that she strained every sinew. The driver stood in the same position, looking at her walk. You felt that he was not just waiting for her, to take her home, but was watching over her and it reminded me of something.

Whenever Mo came for dinner a certain amount of Rose` wine was drunk rendering me unable to take her home - two miles away. So we got into the habit of sending her home in a taxi paid for by us. My only proviso was that the driver did not drive away from her house until she was inside the doorway; my comment to Craig was always to tell them to "see her to the door...to the door!"

They always did and I always checked; she became known for it, with all the taxi drivers knowing that her two boys would be bloody annoyed if they left her fumbling with her keys on the doorstep and they never did.

Seeing that taxi driver, waiting, keeping an eye on this woman made me think about the little kindnesses. The uncomplaining driver would get no more for his trouble, might be late for his next fare but his patience without causing the poor woman any anxiety was a true kindness. Something that was given to Mo and something we need to thank the taxi firm for

Four am lightning bolt.

I have always been brought up to understand myself, look for the truth and think for myself....so why a Civil Servant I here you ask?

A moment of weakness that has lasted over twenty years...but that's another post.

Being an insomniac is not fun. I wake nine nights out of ten at four am or thereabouts. Most of the time I go back to sleep or at least slumber with my headphones on listening to Radio Seven or Four. It has always been thus for as long as I can remember. Trips to the Doctor, herbal remedies and relaxation tapes have helped but never for very long; lavender helps but this wears off quickly as well - there is something soothing about smelling like an old lady, staring at the ceiling for hours on end though.

Once, as a student at College, while enjoying six cups of coffee an evening revising like mad I went to a particularly enthusiastic Doctor for help; he prescribed a tablet, to be taken an hour before I "intended to sleep."

"Intended" - interesting word for an eighteen year old with too much to cram into his brain and an extreme coffee addiction. It worked though. The first night I took it at nine and barely made it into bed half an hour later. I slept for fourteen hours - without turning over and snoring like a throaty-buzz-saw. I woke to find my tongue as furry as a Persian cat and worried looks fixed on the faces of my Mum and Dad. They'd been trying to wake me for three hours! The tablets turned out to be tranqulisers - discovered after looking them up in the College Library - and they made a wonderful tinkling sound as I dropped them down the toilet.

The next night I slept for two hours, waking as usual at four. I cut my coffee intake, took long walks before bed every night and listened to the radio while I tried to get off to sleep. It took effect very slowly and my sleep patterns improved. But there was always the four am awakening.

Two months ago I woke as usual but this time I was uncomfortable. I got up leaving my partner to sleep. But instead of heading to my computer to write or to read the news I walked downstairs and sat on the sofa. I dropped off, the still coolness of the early morning prickling at my skin. As I jerked awake, struggling to quell anxiety and a jittering spasm in my arms a lightning bolt struck.

I was eight years old. I had been roused from the camp bed, where I slept in my grandparents living room during the summer holidays. I was up, sitting on the sofa climbing into jeans, vest, shirt and knitted jumper; then a hefty pair of socks and wellington boots, the rubber stiff and cold. By this time my Grandad had crept into the kitchen, boiled a kettle and come back into the room with a steaming cup of strong tea. We would sit together, in silence and enjoy the warming liquid.

We were going fishing. Walking three miles along silent streets, while cats stared at us from wall and pavement, to come to the Dorset coast at Sandsfoot Castle where he had his boat, pots and nets.

Sitting on the sofa, now aged forty-three, the time between Grandad's death and my last birthday being nearly thirty years and I had it. I looked down and saw the time - FOUR AM. We always got up at four, dressed, drank tea, sometimes at biscuits and then, at four thirty, we would slip through the front door leaving my Nan sleeping upstairs and head for the shore.

Four am - he had trained me so well that even now I wake to get up to go fishing with him. A few times I had dressed and then fallen asleep on the sofa, Grandad unable to wake me; eyes opening hours later, ashamed of myself and worried about him getting the prawns in without me. His silence on returning more devastating that a good telling off.

So there I sat, forty three, on my own sofa, ready and alert to go fishing. All this time and still waiting for a ghost.

It hasn't helped, this revelation. I woke this morning at four, listened to the radio for half an hour and then fell asleep until six. But at least I understand why I wake at four.

Singing through tears.....

Every funeral is different because the person being celebrated is different; it's as obvious as the differences in the mourners. But it is the unexpected that makes each one magical. That Uncle who turns up and reconnects with all his relatives after years in the wilderness, the two Aunts who sit talking to each other despite them both being totally deaf, the sons who as a final act carry their beloved mother's coffin, jaws set, unflinching and strong; as she intended.

I could write about the abundance of flowers, the humanist Minister, Leslie's, perfect reading about Mo's life, loves and laughter but it is the music in her life and her funeral. Maureen, Mo, was all about music; from singing in the clubs with her band in Dublin as a teenager, to supporting Ian - her husband, a bandsman in the army and a great sax player who played a Ronnie Scotts - to her love of the great of Opera and popular music.

But there was one magical moment that broke hearts during the service. There was a piece from Madam Butterfly played after talking about her life. In the gathering was Mo's eighty-four year old Italian Aunt, Pina; a handsome woman with a face used to smiling, abundant silver curls and slim figure. She had arrived with her two sons, from Cambridge, and struggled with her mobility scooter to get into the crematorium; but having got where she wanted to be she sat with tears streaming down her face, eyes shining and nodding to every truth of her niece's life.

Then the Puccini was played.

As the vocal soared and took all our hearts to places only angelic voices can, another joined them. Underneath, below the high tones came Aunt Pina's; strong, proud, passionate and in fluent Italian. She sang for her Mo and broke every heart in the place with a display of unashamed love and pride to celebrate a beautiful, special woman. It was her own tribute, in a away only she could do.

It was a privilege to know my partner's Mum, to laugh with her, care for her and to look after her on her final journey.

Words are sometimes useless and we struggle for a grasp on how we feel or how we should react. But at that moment when our English reserve made us bow our heads to cry there was one among us who turned her face up and sang for us all. To witness that was also such a privilege.

Not come far....

We have been preparing for my partner's Mum's funeral; talking to the funeral home, the Humanist Minister and dealing with officialdom. Everyone has been kind and understanding. The disconnection of her from bank accounts, pensions and other day to day realities of existence is strangely mundane - done with sensitivity - BUT in a processed, matter-of-fact way; efficient and cold.

As we sat in the funeral home with Helen, a trusted funeral director who helped when Mo's husband, Ian, passed away, I was thinking about the process. Helen was tender and understanding; her suggestions were gentle, considered and guiding. This is no job for her it is a calling and her genuine care shines through her stillness, expression and careful phrasing.

We'd brought clothes for Mo to be dressed in; Craig insisting that she should be cremated wearing her favourite dress shoes. I favoured a pair of pink slippers she used whenever she came to our house for dinner. She would step through the door, slide onto one of our sofas so she could change into them; we wanted her to be as comfortable in our home as she was in her own. We decided that the slippers should be placed in the coffin with her, next to her feet.

Helen suggested that she should be comfortable and the dress shoes should be placed next to her feet and she should be wearing her slippers. Craig, after a moments thought, agreed.

From a objective point of view this is no different to the grave goods in a Saxon burial, a bowl for food for the afterlife, a knife, bow and a pillow for the head. Our senses tell us that the great spirit that was the person we loved has gone, departed as magically as it was called into flesh. We know that this form is a shell. But then we want that shell washed, combed, dressed and to arrive in the afterlife in comfortable foot-wear.

We have printed off photos of Mo laughing at a Christmas party, cuddling Craig, singing and dancing with friends, for mourners to take away with them at the funeral; we have picked out a passage from her most loved comedy author, a reading of the Irish blessing - something she was especially fond of and spoken to the Minister of her life, loves, trials and her final illness.

I know that a funeral is for the living not for the deceased; I know this. BUT why does it give me a warm feeling, a "right" feeling that she should go wearing her favourite satin red blouse, dark trousers, a Rememberance Poppy and pink slippers?

We have not come far from the windswept hillsides, with the ground prepared, the pit lined with stones and rushes, a straw-stuffed pillow and, after the bowl, beads and more is placed inside, the shell is lowered and then strewn with scented flowers and covered with earth. Stories would be told about battles, great adventures and sons and daughters brought to adulthood; a celebration of their part in the circle of life.

We may not pile earth in great mounds or erect huge monoliths to stand against weather and time but we are the same. Attached to the flesh and, though the spark is gone, wishing those we have loved and lost to go into the next adventure with something familiar, useful and comfortable......

A Promise Given Freely....

Few of us live our lives for the moment or grab every opportunity with both hands and dance with it until our feet fall off. When we meet someone who has lived like that, without holding back, strutting every inch of their zest for life and pouring forth their talents without fear, they shine.

My partner's Mum, Maureen "Mo" McKenzie, was one of these people. Modest but not frightened of raising her voice to let the world know she was happy or to sing at a family party recalling her days in Dublin when she was a nightclub singer; spirited in how she looked after her late husband, cared for her son, created a loving, supportive home and gave all around her the desire to enjoy life as it is rather than how we would wish it and with that wish in our mouths become bitter with the gap between the two.

In the early hours of Monday morning I was privileged to be sitting at her bedside with my partner and our friend Nina when this magnificent woman passed peacefully away. She simply closed her eyes and went to sleep, without distress and without pain.

In the moments before, we told her about how much we loved her, how she was safe, Craig was safe and loved and that she could sleep.

I also made her a solemn promise; silently and between just her and myself. She had read something I had written some time ago - unfinished - and loved it so much that she gave me a hard time on numerous occasions about "getting on with it".

Mo was a voracious reader. The piece was written a long time ago and, although a day doesn't go by when I do not think about it, I put it aside with the nebulous promise that the "Project" element of my degree would see it revived and worked on. Mo pointed her finger at me, three chapters still in her hand, and told me that it needed to be done - "get it down and off to someone."

At that moment, next to her bed, my hand resting on her shoulder, Craig holding her hand, I made a promise that I would return to that piece and work on it to my best. She closed her eyes and slipped away in her sleep; succumbing to cancer with quiet, dignified strength.

We are in the phase or organising her funeral and telling officialdom about the passing of this great lady. My partner is taking an hour to play his violin - something his Mum would always quiz me about whenever we played cards or sat and ate a meal together. "Is he practising?" "When's he playing next?" etc She was desperate for him to take his talents and use them, strut them and shine with them. And he will - I shall make sure of that.

As for my talents, I am, as always unsure - but I will keep my promise and trust this marvellous woman - Magnificent, Mighty Mo McKenzie.