Another Fine Day in Dreamland

 

A lot of people, when they lose someone, encounter them again in dreams or visions or words spoken in their ear when unexpected; a touch, a warm rush of air, a knowing that they are present although they are gone. This is not the situation with me. I have very, very rarely in my lifetime encountered a lost one in a dream and I have never simply felt their presence. But last night the clouds parted for a moment.

I’ve been feeling beset by grief again. It came up late one night — very late — and I said to it, I’m sorry, this is not the right time for you. 

Never say that to your grief.

So my grief retreated and I went to sleep and the next day and the day after that and the day after that I had a weight inside me that drained my energy and made it very difficult to go through the motions of the day. It took me a while to realise that this was my rejected grief, which retreated when commanded but simply stood behind the curtain and found its way into my consciousness in the only way it could.

Yesterday morning I had a co-counselling session with a friend of mine. Co-counselling is a slightly more elaborate form of peer counselling, where two people or three people or a whole group of people take turns as counsellor and as client. In my time as client I spoke of the many things that have been coming up that I am grateful for and happy about. Maybe halfway through I finally said, "You know, I think I may be getting a little depressed and I think it’s because of this grief that I told to go away." My friend said, "Well, do you want to talk about it now?"

So I started to talk. About Vic, of course. I just  told her how the grief was hitting me and why. I talked about having known him almost all my life, so that every part of me, every stage and condition of me, has known and loved him. And that I have loved every time of him, from the baby with the bright yellow hair that seem to be catching the sun and illuminating his beautiful face. His smile, which came so soon and so easily and so often and which again lit his entire face and lit my heart with love. I said that we all loved him, all of the family. We just loved him. So much.

I began to cry, much as my eyes are threatening to do now. Talking about my love for Vic, talking about how beautiful and wonderful and loveable he was allowed me a few moments of feeling my grief directly, in a gentle way, and allowing those tears and those sobs the attention and the expression that they need.

When I was sleeping early this morning I dreamt that I was in my physio office and they were moving things around me and I was puzzled by what was going on. Until I remembered that they’re moving down the hall to a larger location. I said, "Oh, are you moving this weekend?" And suddenly I noticed one of the people who was moving the equipment. He was a young man in his early twenties. He was looking at me as he manoeuvred the equipment to take it down the hall. His whole body was relaxed and his face was lit up with a lovely, humorous smile — just like the one you see in the picture above. To my astonishment, it was Victor. He was here, he was alive, and I thought, "Oh, my God. He’s actually feeling well enough that they’re letting him help with the move." I was so happy.

That was my whole dream. There was no conversation between us. There were no hugs, or tears, just awareness. Contact. Love and the joy of being alive, and being well enough to move.

What a wonderful gift.

Image: Victor James Arnott with our mother, Lorraine Arnott. Photo by the author, circa 1980 something.

Grieving A Brother

 

"I say not this to them that be wise, for they wot it well; but I say it to you that be simple, for ease and comfort: for we are all one in comfort."

 Julian of Norwich, Chapter IX

 

In the numbness of grief, snatches of thought bring me back to my sadness. These words of Abbess Julian remind me of the comfort I felt in the days leading up to Vic Arnott's memorial service, and on the day itself, that the love and sorrow that I was awash in were equally shared by the others who loved him most, particularly his son, and my sisters and brothers and our mum, but also the many young people whose lives he touched.

This is my cri de coeur. With all its errors and inconsistencies.

Thank you, love that persists despite all obstacles, all failures, all flarings of rage and blame, that you carry me through the darkest hours of life. Thank you, brother, for your existence, for your comforting effect on my scorched soul and heart.

Let every word I write for you be a leaf fallen on a quiet stream. Let it move smoothly along the flow, leaving, let go by my sad fingertips, and may those silent, skimming leaves be prayers of acquiescence, of acceptance turned to joy, some day, some distant day. May the sun's eye glance on them as they travel, catch on snags and windfall, enter the waters again and journey on. May each word, each leaf, each prayer be reflected back to you, brother, your soul a butterfly, moving on, moving on.

I am steeped in sadness unfathomable. I am sorrow, resting on this bank. My beloved brother gone, gone, gone.

May I find my sisters resting on this bank. There, one behind that screen of osier, and one below, stretched out on that rock, and my brothers and our mother and his son — so many voices leave their own words dropping into this stream, rising on soft spray into the air, disappearing into the sky as they are sipped up by the sun.

This comfort is incomplete. It is a beautiful raft, but it cannot bring you back. We live with our chests torn open, Victor, by your loss. Like storm-blasted trees with ribs and heart laid bare. We will live this way, forever, until time softens us again.

I wonder if you ever had the slightest inkling how much you were loved.