Taking what we have

During the many miles we have covered on this trip, we have been listening to music selected on my Spotify account. Some of the staple selections have been anything by Leo Sayer, Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet and the song I want at my funeral, I Lived, by One Reoublic. There also have been songs from the two musicals we saw on Broadway, Kinky Boots and Thw Lion King.

One of the songs from Kinky Boots that has struck a chord with me is ‘Take What You’ve Got’. It’s lyrics resonate because they remind me of the importance of not letting circumstances determine our outlook on life. One of the greatest legacies of being married to Celena was that she showed me not to let a health diagnosis, a hospital visit or even significant loss diminish our passion for life. We are creatures built for aspiration and hopefulness - we are most fully alive when we are giving expression to our dreams and stepping into possibility.

There is not a day on this trip when my family are not on my mind or tugging at my heart strings. I miss them but I sense them here with me, reminding me that:

“You've got to take what you've got
Even where your life is in knots
You take aim, take your shot
Sometimes you've gotta rewrite the plot
You've gotta take what you got.”

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When a whisper becomes a shout

The sun is yet to rise. I, however, have had no trouble doing just that. It’s not through choice - a restless night, in another hotel room, has led me downstairs to the lobby of the hotel we are staying at, in Burlington, Vermont. 

Yesterday, as we travelled in the car for the first time, I began reading a book about using your personal experiences as the basis for writing. It taps into something I have long felt, which is that our lives are stories waiting to be told. Each experience, every encounter comes to us as a chapter to be written, shared, read and interpreted. We are both author and avid reader - we write according to the lives we lead, we read in the sense that we absorb and respond to the unfolding pages of others. 

The author of the book I began yesterday is clear that writing is not an easy process. It is worthwhile, yes; but it is not something that occurs without the application of hard work and a degree of solitude. The writer has to be solitary because unless the writer knows him or herself, there is no authenticity in what has been written.

I have never doubted my capacity to put words together. It was why I studied print journalism as my original college degree. What I have yet to commit to, however, is the rigour of being a writer. It requires a self-discipline that I have either lacked or being unwilling to accept and embrace. 

Going through so many of Celena’s possession is revealing just how dedicated she was to the journey of writing. For her, writing was never about a destination - a book,  an article, a post. It was about wrestling with whatever demons or angels dwell inside all of us and then spilling the blood and anguish of that battleground onto a page. My wife knew she had to honour those inner thoughts and emotions, even if only to herself, and was not afraid of what emerged. She knew her inner voice and was not afraid to listen when it spoke. 

I need to take a leaf out of her unfinished manuscript and do the same. Whether it will be a whisper or a shout, only time will tell. Fortunately, as we begin our second week of holidays in the USA, that is something I have plenty of. 

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Turning the page is not the same as moving on

There is a lot about this trip that is unusual. It marks my first trip abroad with “guys only”. We are competing in our first-ever World Squash Masters. Finally, It is one of the longest periods I will be away from work and it is a trip being done purely for recreational purposes. 

Of course, it is also unusual, in a wrenching kind of way, in that I am returning to some of the places that came to mean so much to Celena and I during the latter stages of our life together: New York, Boston, Washington and Hawaii. But these are places that brought us only joy so the wrench is mingled with a feeling of anticipation and fondness. 

Those mixed emotions show that I haven’t really known how to approach this trip. It is still raw enough to know that our #tripofalifetime was drawing to an end, at this time last year, and we began, unknowingly, the journey towards November 27. 

It also is fair to say that I am not blind to the privilege that comes with being able to undertake global travel. The world is large and I have been very fortunate to be able to explore some parts of it, safely, and always with great excitement and anticipation. As such, I do not set out on this journey with anything less than gratitude.  

My travel choices have always been done with other people in mind: for my children who got to experiences only glimpses of what the world had to offer; for my wife, who had her sights set on destinations that had come to dominate her imagination and rise, Eiffel Tower-like, strong and tall in her dreams. There are also those trips where I have gone in a spirit of solidarity and compassion, to either reach out to others or to be embraced by their kindness and hospitality. 

When Roger and Tony first extended the hand of mate-ship, shortly after Celena’s passing, and invited me to join them, it was an awkward moment. I recall Roger being unsure of how to broach the topic with me; I, in turn, was unsure of how to respond. But I very quickly had a sense that it was something Celena would want me to do. It felt that in saying ‘yes’, I would be honouring her and the passion with which we lived our life together. 

I never drank coffee until after Celena died. One day, I just said ‘yes’, when someone invited me to join them for a cuppa. This trip was approached in the same spirit. I simply said ‘yes’.

There are people I have left behind who know what this trip means to me. I am grateful that in responding to the invitation to go, others have encouraged me, stood by me and assured me of their ongoing love, compassion and support. Saying ‘yes’ is always easier when you know that others have your back and want to help ensure your decision is a positive one. 

This is being written on the plane ride from Honolulu to New York. There are still more than two hours of our 10 hour flight to go. Time enough for me to finish this initial composition  and then put it aside: to rest, to read, to reflect. I have said ‘yes’ and I am here. 

Another chapter now begins. 

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Solace is an act of sharing

A fortnight has passed. The shock is starting to wear off and it is now sinking in that you are no longer around. Last night, I used the juicer/blender for the first time. It was the one purchased with the voucher from my employers a couple of Christmases ago and which was always one of your many contributions to our menu and my eating regime. The oranges and pineapple I mixed in together tasted bitter, even though I had bought them fresh from the nearby Farmhouse, earlier that day.

 

This is how it is and this is how it will be. When Brodie died, I said that it was as if the colours on the world became duller and the volume on our music, our laughter, our capacity to enjoy life was muted. His death impacted on my sight and sound - your's is playing havoc with my taste and smell. Food, which was such a prominent part of our life, despite your inability to actually sample it, is lacking. I eat because I need to but I have not really enjoyed a meal in the same way you and I did, whether we were eating out or dining in front of an episode of a DVD or TV show of our choice.

 

A friend sent me a newsletter recently and it contained an article that articulated something of what I am feeling, two weeks on from your death. It also addresses the question that I am regularly asking myself about why I persist with these reflections. What does pouring my heart out onto a page actually achieve, for me and for others? 

 

Here is an extract from the article, kindly shared with me by Sue Thomas:

Gary died at the beginning of Advent, so this season holds some particular sorrows. Yet I have learned that Advent is a season custom-made for experiencing how Christ meets us in the places that are most shadowed, most hopeless, most uncertain, most fearful. The trappings that have become associated with this season can make it difficult for us to see this. Yet beyond and beneath those trappings is the wondrous truth that lies at the heart of Advent and Christmas: that the Word became flesh and comes to us still as life, as light, as fierce love that does not abandon us in the darkest times.

The gifts of this season are beautifully and powerfully personal, but they are never just for us alone. The Word comes to us and takes flesh in us for the life of the world. After Gary's death, when those words came to tell me Solace is your job now, I knew this was not an invitation to seek solace only for my own self. Solace is not solitary: when it comes, it is for sharing."

 

I write to share. I write because it gives me comfort to know that someone, out there, may derive some peace, or contentment or be less angry or bitter about what has happened. You were never any of those things in your life and I would hate for the world to be burdened with those qualities in your death.

 

I write for me and for others, but I also write for you. You were my muse in life and now, you and Amber and Brodie will be my inspiration from the next life. I feel connected to you when I write and I pray others will feel connected to you when they read what I have written.

 

The author I quoted above mentions that "the Word became flesh and comes to us still as life." In my writing, I am giving flesh to words and there is a sense that I can continue on with the journey of life. This is a truth for me in this Advent season - my solace too must be shared.  

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Finding meaning in the gaps

The memory brought forth by the Facebook algorithm for today (Tuesday, December 5) was a picture of my son, Brodie interacting with a toy version of the Big Red Car. In the foreground, were all his Mr Men figures, spread across the bed. His hair was ruffled and he was dressed in pyjamas that featured children carrying flags with numbers on them. It is a photo of a child at play, a story unfolding as he directs his cast of many.

 

I went to post the picture, with something pithy as an editorial piece earlier this afternoon. There was a moment between when I was interacting with some people and then I was heading off to the shops – not a huge moment, or a large gap of time, but enough for there to be a space in what I was doing. It was a gap – a gap in time, a gap in my thought process, a gap in my behaviour.

I reached for the phone and immediately went to fill that gap, by writing and posting something to social media.

This is how grief is: you have this constant sense of a gap, a realisation that something that once was there now isn’t. Not the absence of the loved one - that is a profound missing in its own right. And I miss Celena. Terribly. Achingly.

The gap I am referring to is the one borne out of established habits no longer helping; of realising that what once worked can no longer be applied; your values, your principles, the entire fabric of what made you who you are has to be…remade.

When I realised what I was doing – looking to occupy my time and thinking, by posting a picture and some words – I was able to achieve a victory of sorts. I stopped myself. I put the phone away and I focused on that short walk to the shops.

As the day has unfolded, I have been able to articulate to a friend some of what I am now writing about here. I know there will be many more moments, in the days, weeks, months and years ahead when I look to try and fill all these gaps I sense opening up around me. It will be tempting to fall back on that which I know in order to ensure those fissures in time, energy and thinking do not become large enough for me to fall into them completely.

Celena was always very intentional about her writing. She didn’t put pen to paper unless she was particularly moved. Her poetry, her novel writing, her cross stitching and all her craft, was always undertaken with an air of deliberation and never on a whim. This piece was penned with that same sense of deliberation because I avoided acting on a whim.

Writers fill pages with prose and craft stories that nestle snugly between two book covers. They bring into being something that was not there before. They fill a gap we never even knew existed.

I began by referring to the picture of Brodie and the story that was unfolding before him on the bed. Perhaps he was reminding me of my gift as a story teller and Celena is urging me to think before acting, to pause before penning. Maybe, in this season of loss and yearning, I am meant to find meaning for myself in my writing?

It is one answer that fills one gap. For now, it will do.

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The power of one little word

During our trip to Timor, I attempted to learn different Tetum expressions. These mainly focused on greetings, a note of thanks, and, to the bemusement and perhaps horror of our group, asking people "are you married?" (It was an ideal 

ice-breaker, I found.)

There was one word that, when I heard it early in our trip, I found myself unable to grasp its full meaning, I needed to sit with it, sound it out in my head, repeat it to myself, to fully absorb the power of this solitary, Tetum word. 

Before I share the word with you, I want to digress slightly and share some notes I took down while visiting a museum dedicated to commemorating the Timorese journey towards independence. These notes are offered without comment and editorialising; they say enough without my foreigner's perspective being added to the mix. 

One display shared this: "In 1974, Timor Leste had 653,211 inhabitants. In 1978, that figure had dropped to 498,433. This means that Timor Leste had lost more than 23% of its population in the first four years of Indonesian occupation."

On another display, I read this: "In July 1979, an Indonesian census reveals that more than one-quarter of the population has died as a result of the war and starvation. The Catholic Church estimates that more than one-third of the East Timorese population has been wiped out."

In a part of the exhibition entitled simply "Shackles of Tears", the wall carried these words: "It is estimated that by the end of 1979, more than 300,000 people were detained in concentration camps. Many [people] were abandoned along the roads without food or medicine and were repeatedly controlled or interrogated by the invading forces. Whole villages were evacuated."

These are the quotes I noted down. I share them with you now so you can understand why I needed to wrap my head around the significance of one, simple, but profound, Tetum word: Chega.

To the Timorese, Chega is how a country is able to go on after losing what the quotes above estimate to be between one quarter and one-third of its population. Chega is what you say when you see your family, friends or fellow villagers detained in concentration camps. It is the word you scream when the thought of revenge or the desire for retribution becomes so pervading that you cannot function. It is what a Timorese mother tells her children when they see their Fretilin father taken to prison or what a priest tells his congregation when they come to him for inspiration and comfort. 

Chega.

Chega.

Chega.

The word, it seems, is variously translated as "no more", "finish", "to draw a line." Another interpretation is it means "never again." 

It was the word settled upon when, after the conflict was over, the invading forces had departed and a reconciliation process was begun, that the word was uttered. Chega. Never again. We will not let this come to define us. No more. We are drawing a line in the sand and we will move forward together, from this moment.

I have come to love the word Chega. It has an air of resolve and determination about it. It speaks of truth borne out of struggle, of hope emerging from despair. It is a language all of its own. 

Consider introducing Chega into your own vocabulary: It can be the word you use when you ruefully stare down at the scales and wonder why the weight keeps piling on. Never again. No more.

It can be the word to draw upon when you realise that a personal  relationship is taking more than it is offering or when you are no longer passionate about the job you hold. Never again. No more.

Chega: it is a word the Timorese have used, not to forget the past, but to shape their future. They know that holding on to transgressions only weighs a nation down and that bitterness and hatred cripples one's ability to grow and transform. 

Of all the words I will take away from my time in Timor, this is the one I pray I will always remember. 

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Going for a spin on the dance floor at home

I am at my desk. It butts up against a wall, with a window, that looks directly onto the fence separating our small townhouse from the neighbour's. A tall hedge peers over the top, its branches watching intently as my fingers hover above the keyboard.

To my right is our TV. Celena has come home after her shift at the library and chosen a playlist from one of the many options on Apple TV. A song by Sia has just finished. Beyond the tv is a narrow window, bisceted by cream slats. Through that window, I can see the six, spinning colours of a whirly-gig. They rotate in the late afternoon breeze - red, green, purple, yellow, orange and blue - dancing to the music of Sean Mendes. "I know I can treat you better than he can..."

At my left, alongside the open laptop, is a pile of books, some writing journals, a set of headphones, a Bible. Disrupting the scene is an open train timetable, listing the many journeys to and from our local station at Wellington Point, to destinations in Brisbane and beyond.

This insight into domesticity is shared because, for too long, I have been unable to appreciate what it means to be home. Last weekend, I was in Hervey Bay for work. Tomorrow, I will be on the road, speaking at several Masses in different locations. My week is filled with appointments, extra-curricular activities such as squash and networking and the commute to and from a place of employment that is fulfilling, but also demanding. This is not a complaint - it is the lot of many of us, as we look to navigate across the waves of work, family and social responsibility, in the ocean of life.

Sometimes, we - or maybe I should avoid the collective pronoun and start to acknowledge the truth for what it is - I need to stop and realise that no amount of running around is going to provide the peace and tranquility I am looking for inside. We - sorry, I - can expend so much energy beyond these windows that I forget that, maybe, just maybe, whatever I'm looking for is here in this room?

In a few hours, some friends will gather for a business meeting. I won't be joining them. Part of me feels a bit sad that won't be the case. But another part of me is glad that I can realise that I don't want to explore the world beyond the windows tonight. I want to watch as the sun sets and those spinning colours fade to black. I want to sip a beer and dance with my wife, to her chosen playlist. 

Enjoy your night folks! Regardless of whether you are outside your house, visiting someone else in their's, or staying put, like us, the world, unlike that whirly gig, will keep spinning. The time to step outside the door will come soon enough.  

 

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