Twenty-one years ago, in the year 2000, Marjorie Snelgrove, had one of her poems published in Ballads of Our Lives. At that point in her life she was 74, just a few months older than I am now. Like many in our family, she had dabbled in poetry and other forms of writing most of her life – just for the sheer pleasure of it. In today’s world, she would most certainly have had a blog. In any case, I believe she was very proud to have her contribution accepted alongside those of hundreds of other amateur poets.
Today my mother would have turned 95, so I am going to post her poem on my blog.
Generally, a certain strength and calm comes from getting things off one’s chest, or more specifically, getting things out. While some might scream, or shout out their grief, I’m more of a silent expresser, so I’ll use my words and tell you about my week.
I got regular reminders of how my friend with dementia struggles daily to come to terms with her new restrictions. These include not being allowed to go for a walk outside; not having the option to wash her own clothes; not even being able to make a cup of tea. And most of all, “There is nothingto do!” I feel heart-broken that there is nothing that I can do for her.
I learned of the unexpected death of Alan, my much-admired and greatly-appreciated podcast friend. Since December only, he was a daily source of information, inspiration and hope. How can someone I’ve never met leave such an emptiness and sadness?
I learned of a family member’s newest health concerns. We both continue to feel confidence in her approach, but of course, we still worry and wonder, … what if?
I learned that a long-time friend of the family has died.
I have daily reminders of the terrible and desperate state of the world, and worry about the ever-increasing downward spiral.
So I write, hoping to cast out some of my grief, some of the toxins to my system.
I speak to friends who will listen and let me ramble on. I tell them that I love them.
I weep hot tears in the forest, quietly, and feel them running down my cold cheeks. Strangely, I am compelled to provoke this response by listening to the music that so endeared me to my podcast friend from the beginning. Somehow this brings me peace.
I blow my nose often.
And I spit.
And, with these various outpourings, I get things out. Some are probably exosomes.