Building muscle memory in your heart

Grief is a process as unique as each individual who loses someone. There will always be a need for patience. It takes time to assimilate death. The loss is too final, too immense. The emotions are like powerful waves that must be weathered.  Don't rely on outward appearances. People swallow down loss in a variety of ways. It can be those who feel that the most, show it less. Often those with the most regrets and guilt are the ones throwing themselves into the grave whereas the quietness of a long time carer can mask an ocean of heart stopping grief. Don't tell them stuff like “it's for the best”, “he had his day”, “You couldn't have done more”, “I am shocked by what happened”. We either turn to verbal diarrhoea at such times or find it impossible to say anything and avoid the bereaved like lepers from an alien zone.  Find a better and more moderate path.

When Mandela was in prison and received the shocking news that his son had been killed in a car accident, he lay on his back in his prison bunk felled by the news. His close friend came and sat beside the bed, saying nothing but holding his hand through the long dark hours. Knowing that nothing can be done to fix what has happened, one realises words will not suffice. Where there is love you must offer your presence and find ways to let that love show. In the most barren and stark conditions that seed of love must be sown and shown. Expect anger, pain and blame. Weather the storm. Those emotions are better out than in. Bare your share in respect to those who have lost so much and in honour of those who have passed on. Such tests assail the very soul. Find whatever nobility you can muster to hold the breech between what the bereaved cannot bear and what they must. Give yourself time to master such skills. Summoning the courage to step up when every part of you wants to run is vital. Whatever strength you find will build muscle memory in your own heart. Don't avoid it. Death comes to us all. Prepare yourself to be worthy of a good death. Both your own and those you lose along the way. 

PS I like this poem, below, by Maya Angelou on the topic.

When I Think Of Death

When I think of death, and of late the idea has come with alarming frequency, I seem at peace with the idea that a day will dawn when I will no longer be among those living in this valley of strange humors.
I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else.
I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return.
Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake.
I answer the heroic question 'Death, where is thy sting? ' with ' it is here in my heart and mind and memories.'

Rain and resilience

First day back in Malta after six weeks in the UK. The heat feels such a shock. Even as I stepped out of the plane at 9 in the evening the temperature was incredible. You tend to forget when staying in the UK that in these southern climes it is the hot sweaty nights that surprise you.  Mind you, it is rich of me to complain so quickly, as in Northern Ireland we have had probably the worst summer ever. In fact, it is more truthful to say that summer was all but cancelled with constant windy rainy weather. 

Every morning in Northern Ireland when the TV weather forecast began my mother would snort in a mixture of both outrage and laughter at the bleak predictions. You could tell the weather forecaster was scraping the bottom of the barrel when he suggested there may be a chance of a tiny bit of sunshine for a brief period mid-morning. There wasn’t, but you know he had to think of something else to say other than, “it's going to be another piss poor day again today”. Coming from the intense heat in Malta in July, I was initially overjoyed with the cool crisp days in Northern Ireland. I waxed lyrical about the greenness of everything and the joy of needing a quilt at night. But after a month of dismal weather and no sign of a blue sky I was beginning to tire of indoor living. 

You can dress for Irish weathers. My aunt dons an all-weather outfit and walks come hail or snow every day. But not all of us have her determination.  When I open the door and it's lashing down, grey clouds being whisked with a vicious wind - my willpower wilts. Not all are as chicken as me! I regularly spotted women wearing their summer gear, tank tops, short skirts and sandals walking along streets sodden with rain.  It was as if they’d decided, 

“I bought my summer outfits, it is August and I'm wearing them - dam it! After all, it will be 12 months until there is a possibility of another summer. Goodness knows what size I’ll be then! What fashion changes might take place?” 

There was a sort of brave resilience about them.  Rather like the family on the beach in Portrush. They all wore anoraks over their swimsuits as they dug in the sand on the beach in driving relentless rain. You have to admire their tenacity. 

I've walked to my favourite cafe here in Malta. It was blissful to step into the air conditioning from the blistering heat. I only arrived yesterday, so I am still examining the clear blue sky with an air of UK expectancy. Surely it will rain soon? Do I have my umbrella? 

I've just read the Malta Times, filled with angst against politicians and their corruption. I suspect if you open the newspaper in many countries the language and climate will be different, but some problems seem universal. Time to head off home back along the coast hugging any shade I can find.

Desperation, perspiration, information and inspiration,

Exams are tortuous.  We have all been there, paper before us, the clock ticking.  The terrifying sound of others asking for more writing paper, while you stare mesmerised by your single blank sheet. There are the rare few of us who, from this dire situation, conjure up magic.  To those that pull that off, I salute you.  For example, the high school student who when asked to write a concise expressive essay on stubbornness, put pen to paper and wrote,
"No!"
But there are the even more creative that aught to be remembered.  This student was really putting his back into solving this equation and then at a certain point found an expressive way to sum up his despair.  Just love that little man hanging on the last integral sign.

Of course, the artists among us have a real opportunity to vent their frustration eloquently.  After all, they have the three basic necessities, a paper, pencil and hours of time!  Here's one who obviously decided this subject was not for him.

Then, there are those who use quirky dry humour to answer what defeats them otherwise, as Peter so brilliantly accomplished here.

I just have to admire their tenacity and application, instead of putting their head down in despair, from somewhere within a revolt occurred.  In the scariest of all places they found an answer.  Mind you, I cannot believe this student actually got an A+ for the following response!

Just occasionally, in this education system that is so questionable, sausage factory filling and exam driven, a question can elicit a response that makes the whole dire business worthwhile.  Here, was a student determined to fight back!

Finally, exams are a metaphor for life in many ways.  Our response to them both usually requires the same attitude.  This last one summarises it all nicely.  So, if you too are facing tests remember this useful guidance.