Stone Hearted
On my path into the unknown, I am following my heart.
Hi. It’s been a while … the longest gap in my writing, since my first post in March. I wanted to write sooner, but my heart wasn’t in it. Instead of forcing myself into inauthenticity, because my ego wanted to keep its record intact, I decided to trust my pace. I could feel that I would write when I was ready, and so here I am.
Unexpectedly it was Gary Barlow on Desert Island Discs who prompted me to get back to my keyboard. In each episode of the long-standing BBC radio programme, a famous guest (the castaway) discusses their life story through the music they’d choose to have, if stranded on a desert island. Today I listened to Gary talk about his writer’s block, after Take That split up, because I am unavoidably a teen of the 90s. He concluded that his public failure taught him to trust his heart more than ever. And so I decided to share today that my heart has nothing to say.
I am muted by emotion. And that’s OK. Often, in the cultural grief narrative, when the bereaved are numb we’re told that it’s a bad thing. The blogs say, “feel it all” and the books advise, “listen to your body”. Well I know exactly what I’m feeling, my body is very clear. I am exhausted and I do not want to be exploited for my emotion. Therefore my heart will not speak.
Be Quiet
I want to be quiet here because in other areas of my life I am busy. Being active keeps my mind occupied and, while my brain is busy, my heart takes a rest. It means that my resolve gets to go elsewhere, getting sh*t done, with purpose and stoic force. To extend myself here requires me to be a volcano exuding lava; I have to dig deep to allow my softness far and wide. This process cools my edges, fusing my feelings into hard truths, which are sharp to walk on and abrasive to touch. My heart may be stone right now, but I’m not worried. Its heat is still there. My feelings are less close to the surface, for now, which is quite honestly a welcome relief.
We had a conversation last night, my heart and I. Recently I’ve been struggling to sleep well, which is common for grievers but not for me. For me it’s a symptom of being overactive. My busy mind likes to wake at 4am to get its thinking done, even if that means planning stocking fillers or strategising my weekend logistics. It’s never the important stuff that wakes me. I can tell myself to go back to sleep, but it doesn’t work. Instead last night, I asked myself, “What’s wrong?” in the gentle, open way that Mark might have done from the pillow next to me. My quiet heart replied, “I’m so very tired.” I know my love, I know how that feels.
Sea Change
Listening to other people’s stories is restful, because it takes me out of my own and into something else. It’s the same reason that I enjoy a good fiction book and getting away seems to always help us heal a little bit. A change in scenery gives us space to breathe. Away from the pressures of our usual routine our hearts are allowed to soften, and then they reveal what they really feel.
Getting away or taking a rest is rarely comfortable for me now; I’ve accepted that to become comfortable with discomfort I have to give into it. Sadness will build, children will emote, tensions will rise, something or someone will break, and I will have to deal with it. That’s just the way it is.
In October we spent a week in St Ives, Cornwall. The golden sand, turquoise ocean and bracing winds brought a welcome freshness to our world. We swam in the sea everyday, despite it being about 15°C (59°F) on that part of the Atlantic coastline. The water temperature and waves made me feel alive, they were a companion to my feelings. My children felt it too, they joined me in the waves on most days, always without wetsuits. The water felt sufficiently strong and invigorating to viscerally match and meet us. I loved it.
One afternoon I ran into the waves, encouraging my son to follow me, as he stood wisely on the beach shaking his head. I turned my back to the waves, to face him on the sand, intending to show him how much fun I was having. The tide was strong, quickly swelling water above my waist, so I took one step back to keep my balance. I held my hands above my head, waving and gleefully shouting at him, “Come on, I’ll look after you.” And then a giant wave came to suddenly knock me over. It forced me entirely under the water, grazing my knees across the pebbly shoreline, to deliver me face down like a beached whale, at my son’s feet.
I can still feel the force of that wave on my back as I write this. It was an awesome whole-body encounter with something more powerful than I have words for. The next day I was frightened to go into the waves. Knowing what it had done to me made the sea feel intimidating. I was still brushing sand out of my hair. But it was our last day in St Ives, I didn’t want my son to see that I was frightened, and I didn’t want to leave on bad terms with the ocean. So I carefully walked into the waves again, and asked the sea to forgive me. “We need to talk,” I shouted into the Atlantic, “I’m sorry I didn’t respect you yesterday, please look after me today.”
I knew I looked like a mad person, but my son was happier knowing that I was safe. My ego was made smaller and more comfortable by that wave. On the long drive home, I wondered what the ocean had been trying to tell me. I heard my heart reply immediately and clearly, “Come on, you’re alive.” The ocean wanted me to stop feeling sorry for myself.
The Stone
But the one I built my life with is gone. That’s the stone hard truth of it. We chose to build our lives together, like rocks melded from minerals. We have children together, we grew our careers together, we committed ourselves to each other. We wanted to do it all and we were willing to give whatever it took, without harming each other. Now I must do those things alone everyday, with only myself to protect me.
We are me; I am the we. It’s an identity change which is happening at a geological pace. It will not be hurried, instructed or directed in its efforts. Like the ocean, my grief will not be told when to be calm. I can feel sorry for my great loss but it doesn’t change anything. I get to live with it, come what may.
When I asked Mark about our relationship towards the very end, he said, “The thing I think about, most of all, is the death of our partnership. Us is my life. I can’t explain Us to anyone. The way we are together. You and me are part of a three. We are three, each of us is two, and together we are one.” We were one, one life, one purpose. I am that, still.
Grief endures because love remains. Mark is my primary person; I think of him in everything and before myself, even though he’s not physically here. It’s how I live into his legacy. In each small action I live for him. It brings me hope and lightens my load, which helps me to heal. In my loss I get to honour him, because I am here and he is not, so doing anything and only things which have meaning is good for me.
I am alive, I get to do this for us. With our love I am healthier, more whole and entirely exhausted, occasionally. Living for two is consuming. The residual reality of our bond silts up my heart, blocking my flow. The intense desire to live for him gives me a stone cold resilience within, which I will not make wrong.
Sometimes I just need to stop feeling, and do the doing. Like Mark said from his hospice bed, “Just do what’s in front of you. You can only do what you can do.” I know he trusts me implicitly and so I carry onwards, content in being numb and getting it done.
Strong Back, Soft Heart
While Mark was ill, I often thought of the concept “strong back, soft heart”, which is a phrase I first heard used by Dr Brené Brown. She uses it to describe the balance between inner strength and outer vulnerability. For me it represents the resilience, courage and firm boundaries I’ve needed over the last year. While retaining an open, compassionate and vulnerable reality inside of myself, I am strong. This is the backbone to being both brave and tender hearted. And so although I may not always want to write about it, today I am remembering what it takes to do this. Despite the risk of landing flat on my face. I am carefully carrying onwards, into the ocean of whatever’s next, with my precious stone heart.