Coming Home

I'm home! Back from my adventure in Morocco. Home... what a lovely word that is: the 'ho' opens its arms to you and the 'mm' encloses you within them!

I wonder what makes a place feel like home. The red rocky soil of Morocco through which I have been travelling, is definitely not home; it did not grow me, but then neither did the lush, moist, green lands of Devon where I now live. I grew up in East Anglia and yet, once I could think such things, I never felt I belonged there.

After a few days on a long, challenging, exhilarating, circular walk in the High Atlas Mountains with a group of brilliant women, I headed off on my own to another part of the mountains and stayed put for 6 nights. My view was dominated by the snow capped majesty of Mount Toubkal at 4,167m. My room was the epitome of cosiness, the big bed soft and heavy, reminiscent of the feather bed I used to sleep in at my grandmother's house. Each night I lit candles and Abdul made me a fire as I had no electricity for warmth or light. I snuggled on floor cushions, read, wrote, watched the fire crackle and went to bed warm and toasty. Even when storms were raging and the wind was rocking my room I was content and comfortable. But could I be at home there? No.

My friend River

For 57 years I lived elsewhere to where I live currently; why does this cottage and this village feel like home? When I moved here I knew almost nobody, just a couple of women in a nearby town. My first friend was the river. Once I'd adjusted to its ancient moorland nature, so different to the steep Scottish rivers I was used to, its bed scattered with granite boulders and pebbles, its banks shallow and accessible, I grew to love it. It became familiar, companionable, it had a song which changed with the seasons and the weather. In full spate it was awe inspiring, in the warm dry summer it invited paddling.

Little by little and in no small part due to walking the dog – people stop and chat to you when you have a waggy tailed companion – I found friends accumulating and the community here opening its arms to me. During my late husband's illness, people in the village and beyond came to walk the dog, a few of my friends became carers, my lovely neighbour and friend would regularly leave vegetables from her allotment on my back door step, or flowers. When he died, we walked through the village with his coffin to the community centre; traffic stopped and villagers stood silent and respectfully. If they had a cap they doffed it.

“It's about life”

In Marrakech I hired a guide for an afternoon. I asked him about their practices when someone dies and how they take care of those who grieve. The dead are washed, shrouded and placed in a foetal position facing Mecca on the same day on which they have died. And mourners?

“It's about life. You carry on living.” In the mountains we had passed graveyards, graves marked with a simple stone dug up from the earth, two stones if the grave was that of a woman. The two stones stop the kind-hearted woman from going back to her relatives to comfort them, our Amazigh (Berber) guide told us.

“We have a big party”, she said, “to try to make the family happy.” But her own mother is dying and she is finding it unbearable.

The return

And then I return to my village and the horse chestnuts are in full leaf, white wood anemones and the first wild garlic flowers have joined the bright yellow celandines and paler primroses. There are even some bluebells in sunny spots. I stroke the moss which covers the old beech tree I love.

“Hello”, I say, “I'm glad to see you”. Me. Dog. River. Tree. A family. I am sensitive to this land. I can feel it, let it support my feet and nourish my soul. It can make me smile, not because it has 4,000m of grandeur but because...because I belong. How many decades have I lived before I could say that about somewhere? Perhaps this is one of the gifts of travelling – to return and, to quote TS Eliot,

“.. to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time”.

Belonging

So that now I am returned and with a sense of belonging, can I listen with new ears to the song of this land, to its ancient knowing, to its rhythm and rhyme? Can I accept the invitation to be not a tourist but a traveller?

As I write this it is Easter; or, to call it by the name of a much older tradition in these lands than Christianity, Ostara, from which we have the word 'oestrus' and the meaning 'fertility'. I find it interesting that the date of Easter is still, like many of the seasonal festivals of old, determined by the moon: it is celebrated on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the Spring Equinox (fixed as 21^st March rather than astronomically). In the past the spring festival of Ostara was a festival of fertility and the remnants remain: rabbits (originally hares) and eggs- the ancient traditions hidden in plain sight.

What roots, what threads, can I hear if I listen? What knowing do I carry within me? How did my ancestors bury their dead, honour their lives, trust the cycle of all things? And suddenly it feels as if I am a tiny and temporary, but necessary part of a vast continuum of life, of the cycling and recycling of material which makes up my body, with the opportunity to know life. “It's about life”, he said. While I live my one small life in my one unique body, can I come to know what it truly means to be Home?

With my love

Nickie

PS Thank you to everyone who sent good wishes for my wellbeing, when I had been feeling so poorly. Yes, I recovered sufficiently to go and felt better and better as I walked.

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A Poem

Here is a poem I wrote while I was in the mountains.

The Taste of Grief

Today, grief tastes of birdsong,
smells of snow from the towering mountains,
flows as a river of meltwater tears.
It surprises in flurrying petals,
white cherry blossom swirling in bouts of breeze.

Grief rests in the steadfast rhythm of breath,
an in-woven texture,
an underpinning chord,
season by season sighing through the valley.

This blog is free to everyone so please feel welcome to share it

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NEWS

NEW GROUP

STOP PRESS: ONE SPACE REMAINING

I am running a CREATIVE PRACTICE GROUP for people dealing with LOSS Maximum groups size will be 4 people. We will use writing, chalk, nature and other media, as the means to consider and share our feelings, challenges and understanding of the process of loss.

4 sessions of 1 1/2 hours, at fortnightly intervals, £15 - £25 per session payable in advance. Beginning mid-May. This may become an ongoing group, bookable in 4- session blocks.

Please contact me if you think the space remaining is your’s.

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DYING MATTERS WEEK

Here is a summary of all the things I am involved in during Dying Matters Week which is 5th -11th May. There is information about all these events on my website

1. TUESDAY MAY 6TH - NEWTON ABBOT LIBRARY AND WOODS - 2-4PM FREE OF CHARGE

The Nature of Loss - finding solace for our loss through immersing ourselves in nature. With Emma Capper. Here is the link to the eventbrite ticket

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2. WEDNESDAY MAY 7TH - IVYBRIDGE VICTORIA PARK AND LONG TIMBER WOODS - 11AM - 4PM £15 - £25 ACCORDING TO MEANS

   Walking with Loss, Together - finding solace for our loss through engaging in creative invitations in nature and sharing with one another. With Emma Capper .

   More information and link to booking on the website, or find the booking form here.

   

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3. THURSDAY MAY 8TH - BUCKFASTLEIGH, M.I.C CENTRE - 2-3.30PM FREE OF CHARGE

   Funerals: Creating our own Culture - with Sarah Bax of Heart & Soul Funerals

   Together we will think about how we might choose to honour our lives and all that we have loved in life. You can turn up on the day or to book go to Eventbrite here

   

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4. SATURDAY MAY 10TH - TOTNES, BIRDWOOD HOUSE - 12.30 - 5PM

   A series of events hosted by Dying with Grace. I will be holding a gentle space where grief can be honoured. I will also be leading my choir to sing songs for solace, after the Death Cafe. Free of charge. Please just come, booking not required.

   

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Buy me a coffee

I gift these blogs to you and I am very, very grateful to the many of you who have been gifting me coffees. Being gifted feels very different to being paid. Neither you nor I are obliged to one another, we choose an act of generosity. Thank you so much.

For those of you who would like to gift me regularly or every now and again, please know that every cup of coffee (£5) matters to me and I appreciate each one. You can do so here if you would like to at any time.

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