Reassurance from Beyond

Migrated from LiveJournal / Dreamwidth


It's not unusual for me to get my messages from Spirit in the form of song lyrics – though it sometimes takes a  while to realise it's a message when a few lines repeat over and over in my brain. It could just be an ear-worm.

Yesterday, even though I knew very well what the date was, and it was much on my mind, it didn't occur to me to attach any significance to this chorus I kept 'hearing' all day, over and over and over:

So fare thee well, my own true love.
We'll meet another day, another time.
It's not the leaving that's grieving me,
but my true love who's bound to stay behind.

Then this morning it finally hit me. Of course!

Yesterday was the sixth anniversary of my husband Andrew's death.

(And yes, I have received plenty of indication that he's happy and busy, working with the angels; as well as plenty of indication that he still keeps a close eye on me.)

JORELL by Andrew Wade, re-published as an e-book

The fairies need Tim's help. Their home in the old-growth forest is in danger of being logged for timber. Can Tim convince his father, the manager of a sawmill, to stop old-growth logging in the forest, and save the fairies? But Tim also needs the fairies' help. He desperately wants his father and classmates to believe his story about Jorell being a real-life fairy. Can Jorell help Tim be believed?

Andrew's environmental story for children, also loved by adult readers, has just become an e-book. It is something he wanted to do with JORELL, shortly before he died, but we ran out of time. I'm glad to finally make it happen.

I tell people that the story is fiction but at least two of the fairies (Jorell herself, and a being called Lady Fairy) are real.

I have vivid memories of Andrew, when we lived under a local mountain called The Pinnacle, going outside to sit under a particular tree to meditate, tune in, and connect with the nature spirits (fairies). Then he would come back inside, sit at his computer and the words would pour.

The cover artist, Tom Giffin, suggested a different cover design from the paperback. My favourite book designers, Delaina and Kristin of Content X Design, worked with that suggestion to realise it professionally. 

I published it on Smashwords which makes it available in all the various ebook formats.

It's just in time for Christmas, and a steal at $2.99 USD!

It Seems I've Turned a Corner

Migrated from LiveJournal / Dreamwidth

Mind you, I've thought that before. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say I've completed another stage.

But something's shifted.

I've moved more fully into acceptance, even embracing, of being alone. I like my life and my lifestyle. I like my home, and somehow I seem to fill it now without any need for company — other than my dear old black cat, who has adapted too. We are very content with each other, and have evolved new routines that suit our new circumstances.

I have a nice balance between my lovely, solitary, introverted activities at home — reading and writing, mostly — and socialising with my friends outside the home (and sometimes in it, too).

It's also nice that I live in a small town, where I've been for 20-odd years, so it's hard to walk down the street without seeing at least one or two people I know. That might involve a chat, a hug, or just a smile in passing. Whatever, it sure doesn't let one feel isolated or unloved! And walking into some shops and cafés, similarly, means encountering people I know as friends.

I have no family here, and sometimes think that when I am older, perhaps I should move closer to them. But while I'm still able to be independent, this is a good place for me.

I was quite sick recently, for  a number of weeks, first with shingles then flu as well. I had to miss the market which augments my income — after missing several previous ones for other reasons. I asked my medical intuitive friend (who facetiously calls himself Da Wizard) if the Universe was sending me a message about not doing the markets any more.

He thought about it, then said, 'No, it doesn't seem to be permanent; but you need a rest right now. There's some more development ahead for you, more gifts to come in — but you're not quite ready yet. You haven't got over wanting Andrew to still be with you.'

(I knew that last bit was true. I think I discouraged Mr J, whom I believed was the great new male friend predicted for me. He told a story about saying to another Scorpio he met that, both being Scorps, they should become great friends. He may or may not have been dropping a hint, but I almost immediately started talking about how my cat, Levi, was my Significant Other. Some little time later I had to send Mr J an email about something we were both involved in. His reply was polite enough, but somewhat cool and curt. Since then, I haven't heard a word. But I had a dream which made it perfectly clear to me that I'd discouraged him subconsciously-on-purpose because I still wasn't ready to move on from Andrew.)

Da Wizard advised me to resume meditating — which had lapsed almost unnoticed, as these good habits tend to do — so as to help myself progress faster.

So I did, and I rested, and I gradually got well. And then I noticed that the shift had happened.

I still think of Andrew, still talk to him, am still thankful every day that we married each other and had as long together as we did, and such a great life together ... but I'm OK now with my life being as it is now. I feel not only self-reliant but quite happy. Somehow life did go on, as we are always told it will, and has become enjoyable in its own right.

I am where I wanted to be, and aimed to be, after he died — thoroughly enjoying my own company.

(I still feel a teeny bit disloyal, even while knowing that's irrational, and that he wouldn't want me to ... but not very much.)

If it's true that I have some more development to come — and I have much respect for the accuracy of Da Wizard's insights — then it is probably too soon for me to get involved, platonically or otherwise, with another bloke anyhow. So it is just as well that, at the moment, I feel perfectly self-sufficient.

I Found My Christmas Earrings from Andrew!

Some readers may recall a tale of Andrew's frustration at not being able to surprise me with a gift of earrings for Christmas — because he wasn't well enough to shop by himself, and I was handling the money.

That was his last Christmas alive, though we didn't know it then. It was 2011. I didn't find out until some time after he died, when I came across the note in his journal, asking rhetorically how he was going to get the $30 he needed to buy me 'the earrings'.

He didn't describe the earrings. As my earlier entry also records, I tried to honour his wish by getting some I liked, but didn't really know what he had in mind.

This week, there they were in the pharmacy again, just as they were three years ago — beautiful Swarovski crystals in a variety of colours including a deep purple that's just perfect for me!  And then I remembered.

We had been to get his regular blood test to monitor his Warfarin dose. The pharmacy was just near the lab and we ducked in the side door as we went past, as I had some stuff to pick up. He was using his walker, as he always had to by then, sitting on it while I did the buying. There was a stand of Swarovski crystal earrings in all colours, including the deep purple that friends call my colour because I wear it such a lot.

I love Swarovski crystals, So did he; he bought me some lovely pieces of it in the past. I admired the earrings, and asked the price. I seem to remember that he said I should get them. It would have been like him. But money was tight (it's always tight) and I didn't.

It all came back to me when I saw the same crystals there this week. Perhaps they vary their special Christmas stock year by year; anyway they haven't had those earrings again until now. I asked the price. $29.99. Yes, definitely the ones he so wanted to get me.

This time I had absolutely no money left in bank or wallet, after paying bills, posting presents and making sure I had the food and petrol I need. But I get paid on New Year's Eve — and I have an account at that pharmacy. This time I got them!

They are in a little purple pouch, resting on what used to be his bedside table, for me to open tomorrow morning, Christmas Day.

Raiding the Journals

Cross-posted from LiveJournal


No, not these journals, but old, handwritten ones.

I am going through my own from 1987 (when I began keeping them) and my late Spouse's from whenever (his are in boxes out of order and I'm taking them as I get them) and transcribing them to computer.

I'm posting most of mine to a strictly private blog. But, to my delight, I am finding a number of poems — poems which I didn't at the time know I was writing. These I am making public, at my poetry blog. A lovely, lyrical entry describing my garden (in the Melbourne suburb of Beaumaris) quallfied as a prose poem without any change. Others turn into verses with minimal alteration. I was looking for memoir material, which I dare say is there; the poems are an unexpected bonus.

Some of Spouse's are going into a strictly private blog too. An account of a sexual adventure wth the lady he loved before me — wonderfully written, but his grand-daughters are a little young yet to be regaled with such exploits. A piece on all the things he ended up hating about his first wife. Two sides to that story, I'm sure, but she is no longer around to give hers, and I don't think their children, at any age, need to read that out of context. Perhaps they'll never read it at all, but I do have hopes of creating the autobiography he always meant to write and actually started.

The stuff that's fit to make public I am posting to a memoir blog he began while he was alive. I'm not attempting to put them in chronological order at this point, but my hope is that they will serve as an episodic memoir until (if ever) I can put them into a more coherent sequence.

Tomorrow I turn 75. I recently took part in a successful poetic collaboration with three other poets to produce a wonderful book. Two more collaborations with different poets (except for my LJ friend SatyaPriya who is in them all) will appear next year. And I am getting two little ebook chapbooks out in time for xmas. These faits are pretty much accomplit, and I found myself restless and bored a couple of days ago. You'd think I'd be pleased to rest on my laurels, but that's not how it works for me. I told myself — truthfully — that I have a very pleasant life, but the recognition of this fact did not change the mood. Then I decided it was time to start transcribing both sets of journals, and I cheered up at once. It's good to have a new project!

(Yes I'm back to calling him Spouse. Even though many of you know exactly who the hell I am, and in some cases that's mutual, I still cherish the feeling of LJ being a private 

sanctuary; and one reason I have been here so seldom for quite a while is that I stopped treating it that way. So I'm reverting to the veiling of identity.)

Earrings (back story to a poem)

Some time after Andrew died, I found a frustrated little journal entry in one of his notebooks, wondering how he was going to manage to get $30 to buy me some earrings.

I remembered a time when he complained about not having access to money. By then he was so physically incapacitated that he couldn't go out without me, and although his Alzheimer's was mild, I had taken over the financial management. He had been making some potentially disastrous financial decisions until I did, getting us into situations I had to rescue us from.

I tried to reassure him that it was still our money, and if there was anything he needed or wanted, I'd get it for him. But he just became evasive when I asked what he needed money for. Pretty dumb of me! It was coming up to Christmas, and of course he wanted to surprise me. Instead, that year I bought Christmas presents we could enjoy together, with his agreement. Food. DVDs. I guess he decided to settle for that, as he couldn't figure out a way around his dilemma.

I wonder, had I admired some earrings somewhere while in his company? Had he seen some online or in a local shop that he fancied for me? He had very good taste, and bought me some lovely jewellery over the years, albeit suited to our modest budget. The brief journal entry was specific about the price, but didn't describe the earrings at all.

There came a time when I wanted some earrings to go with a particular bracelet and pendant. I chose some zircon studs, a little under $30, and told myself they were my present from Andrew, just a bit late.

During our life together, from when we were courting, he loved to present me with big bunches of red roses. After he became incapacitated, he would sometimes say to me when I went shopping, "Buy yourself some roses." Which I did, as a gift from him. He was happy enough, in that circumstance, to know it was our money, and to delegate the task to me. I guess that was because there was no surprise involved.

Occasionally I still buy myself roses, remembering how he liked to give them to me. Recently I came across some sweet little earrings carved in the shape of red roses. They were affordable. I had a fantasy that he had nudged me in that direction, to notice them. Of course I bought them. Again, I told myself they were from him. Now I always have that gift of red roses.

Another journal entry expressed his readiness to go on to the next life and see his father and brother again. He asked God to look after me when he was gone.

***

These things are all strands in my poem, Love's Winter, which doesn't explain them. The poem felt complete as it is, albeit a trifle mysterious. When I tried to add more clarity, it became clunky.

Some readers who are aware of my widowhood have understood what the poem is about. Others have, naturally enough, interpreted it differently. That doesn't matter in terms of the poem, but some also read it (correctly) as autobiographical and attach their suppositions to me and, by association, to Andrew.

Perhaps that doesn't really matter either. But it's unfair, although unintentionally, so I thought a bit of back story wouldn't go astray.

Ha Ha, I'm Famous!

Sherry at Poets United just interviewed me for the 'Life of a Poet' series. Read it here. As well as asking searching questions about my poetic history, she drew me out on the subject of witchcraft and also about my love story with Andrew.

Meditation with Lizard

I'm late to meditate today. Luckily I am well-trained, not to empty my mind but to step back and be the observer of it — and to stay in meditation mode despite extraneous noises. It's a loud, busy afternoon in this usually quiet corner of the suburb. The man over the side fence is coughing, someone nearby is slamming a door, a bird is shrieking repeatedly. 

I meditate anyway, observing all this dispassionately, and observing my thoughts when they wander away from focusing on my breath. (Yes, I have a mantra, but after decades of use it has become stale. Instead of taking me deeper, it allows the monkey mind to become very active. So I am using a different focus now.) I observe how calm and happy I feel, and have been feeling all day.

That's so good, I think. I am able to have the sense that Andrew is nearby and not be upset by it but just think of him as being 'in the next room', as they say. Then, as soon as I contemplate his closeness in spirit, I start to cry about his physical absence. This always happens. Better not to become too conscious of him, even in happy ways. Better to let such awareness be a background to my life. I observe these thoughts and reactions and bring my attention back to my breath. I feel calm and happy once more.

When I come out of meditation, the bird shrieks and there's a sudden flurry. I see what I think is a coocal bird flying onto a branch. But then it stays so still for so long, I realise it must be one of the big lizards that live around here. It's light brown and banded, and must be at least as long as my arm — perhaps a Monitor, or a very big Water Dragon. It lies along the branch, and I take a number of photos with my iPad, hoping it will show up in them — it's so well camouflaged. [Later: No, it doesn't, even after editing the photos to try for greater clarity.] After a while I begin to wonder if it's really a branch and I'm deceiving myself. Maybe it was a bird, that flew through the branches and away. I stay in my meditation chair to write. If I shift to my writing table I won't see, if it is indeed a lizard and it moves.

I look up, and it's gone! I didn't see or hear it disappear. Clearly it was a lizard; the branch looks very different now. While I stare, it takes a sudden hop along a lower branch. I see it in that moment, big tail swaying slightly as it jumps, then it is hidden behind a thick clump of leaves. OK, I move to my writing table. 

Then I realise it's time to stop writing; to take in the washing; to go for my late afternoon walk. I lead a quiet, ordinary life. I relish it.

Perfectly camouflaged lizard on branch, approx. centre. 
You might just be able to make it out.

I'm Back at the Sunday Market

— the one close to home, which I've decided will be my only one now. I'm set up in what used to be our old spot. Well, we had a few different ones at different times, but this was our favourite, and I think our first. It was in any case the one we occupied longest.

I'm second in from the front door of the main pavilion. Being under cover, I don't have to worry about putting up a gazebo. I'm positioned to take up the whole stall — well, spread out in the space anyway. In the old days, I used to be one side and Andrew the other. He offered Reiki treatments and Indian Head Massage. I was always the bigger draw card with my psychic readings, but he had his customers too, and did a lot of good for people. We both acquired our regulars, at every market we did.

For many years we did Murwillumbah Showgrounds and Nimbin. Nimbin was good to us. It was an all day market, going till 5pm, whereas most finish at 1. Tourists, mainly young back-packers, were always bussed in from Byron Bay. As holiday-makers are in the mood for novelty, I had lots of customers among them. Other stall-holders often used to come to me at the end of the day, after they had packed away their own stalls, so it was always a very long day for us, but a good one. We also went, a few times each, to Kingscliff, Coolangatta and The Channon. But at first we only did Murwillumbah Showgrounds, and always thought of this as our first market.

Strictly speaking, Nimbin was our beginning. The Nimbin market, which had lapsed, was revived in the early nineties. A friend of ours said, 'We're doing a stall there; why don't you guys do one too?' So we did — and made money hand over fist. A renowned local astrologer had already suggested I would do very well out of the Sunday markets, and this seemed like confirmation, so then we started at Murwillumbah.

There was a street market at first. That was how I came to be invited to work the Country Music Festival at Tamworth one year. The organisers of the psychic readers' area there were visiting Mur'bah and saw me sitting out in public. They said they wanted someone who would read in such conditions, not tucked away out of sight. (But Tamworth's a whole other story.) Murwillumbah shopkeepers soon complained that the street market interfered with customer access, so we were moved to the Knox Park car park. This deprived the public of parking spaces, so finally the market settled in the Showgrounds. 

Some time later we started doing Nimbin regularly as well. These were our two main markets until we moved to Pottsville Beach. That made Nimbin a longer drive away — and Pottsville had two monthly markets, just around the corner from home, one of them on the same day as Nimbin. So thereafter we did three markets a month, the two at Pottsville and our old faithful Murwillumbah Showgrounds, and let all others go.

The memories are strong but not distressing. I can see — and hear — Andrew in his spot alongside me. He would bustle about, and as soon as he was set up he'd be out investigating the other stalls, saying hello to the regulars, buying veggies...  He was also good at chatting to passers-by and drumming up trade. 

It was Andrew's initiative to offer 'gratitude rocks' as give-aways. This was a concept he came across in the DVD of The Secret. It inspired him. The idea is to keep one in pocket or wallet, or somewhere you'll see it often, and use it as a reminder to think of all the things you're grateful for. This in turn sets up good energy so that you attract more of what you like. We collected smooth stones and numbered them so as to get an idea of how many we went through. We put up a sign explaining the concept, and emphasising that they were free. People loved them, and invested the numbers with personal significance. We'd get people coming back years later to tell us they still had their stones, and how they felt so much benefit from them. (Eventually we stopped putting the numbers on, as they went into the  hundreds.)

So for most of our lives here we 'did the markets', with some breaks when we went travelling. We loved it, loved the whole market culture. We weren't mad about rising incredibly early, lugging the stall around and setting it up etc. (We did have a gazebo then, and for most places we needed it.) But once we were there, it was worth it, After Andrew turned 80, he decided to retire and sleep in every Sunday. And good on him, I thought, but I decided to continue alone. By then it was only Pottsville and Mur'bah, three a month. I found I could manage quite well on my own, with a little adaptation, and did that happily for a year, until we moved back to Murwillumbah at the start of 2010. The move meant I missed a couple of markets, being otherwise occupied, and then I decided to call it a day too. Just as well, as it turned out, as Andrew soon needed more and more care and I couldn't have left him. 

Some little while after he died, I thought I needed to be bringing in a bit more money, and also to get out and about. Resuming the market work was the obvious solution. Just the local one, I decided. I've been very successfully replaced at Pottsville by an old colleague from the Tarot Guild, who lives there now. But there's no-one else doing psychic readings here, it's close to home, it's under cover ... and I am back where the locals know to find me. One market a month, I also decided, is enough for me now.

While I have been writing this, I have had three customers. The first was about 8.30, earlier than my customers usually start coming. Three is enough to put me in profit. It takes the first two to cover my costs. This is a small market today in terms of stall-holders, and there don't seem to be many buyers wandering around either. But it's been good in terms of conversation, always one of my bonuses in being at a market — this one in particular. 

My third customer turned out to be a psychic medium himself, but needed a reading and was told by his guides to come to me. He said I told him things he could not have read for himself — probably only because he's been unwell, as I gather he's a pretty powerful, lifelong psychic. He had some messages for me too, about ways I didn't know of cleansing and protecting my cards and crystal ball. We ended up having a great chat.

Then my old mate Mick came to greet me, with his new girlfriend — and she was one of my Reiki students from long ago. One of the great things about this market is that I'm liable to see all sorts of old friends here. Mick and Mali sat and yarned awhile, having a catch-up. Sometimes I move people on fairly soon, in case potential customers think I'm already busy with a client, but today wasn't a busy kind of day. Never mind, it has been a pleasant one. I always used to say to Andrew, at any market, 'You know, there are a lot worse ways to spend a Sunday.' That is still the case, even in this indoor market. I am near enough to the door to see the green and the weather. 

I had one more customer before I was through, so it was a nice little profit for the day. When you're on a low income, even a small profit makes a big difference. And I'm back! Today was a bit of a test. It went well enough, and people will start to know I'm there again. Several people took my card — my new card, designed by an artist friend, using my old logo in a new and creative way. One lass even made a booking to see me at 11a.m. next month! 

I discovered I am already a presence in town. 'I saw you yesterday,' said one young woman as she took my card, 'In your lovely rainbow dress.' (By which I knew she meant the day before, but no matter.) Smiling with delight, she showed me her tie-dyed bag: 'I'm into rainbows too.' Ah, I love small town living!

I saw the managers of the Pavilion and told them I'm permanent again. They and some of the old stall-holders said, 'Good to see you here,' and, 'Welcome back.'

Magickal Moment

I was feeling a bit down today — missing him. (I know he's around in spirit, but it ain't the same.)

Sorting through his stuff, I came across a note he'd written to himself, wondering  how to get me some $30 earrings for (last) Christmas. The money would not have been the problem so much as actually shopping for them without me knowing, when he could no longer drive and could barely even walk. Anyway, it didn't happen.

'You should have conspired with one of my girlfriends,' I told him in my head.

Coincidentally, I had recently decided I'd look better in stud earrings than the dangly ones I've worn for so long. I went hunting for some plain silver studs today, but ended up with zircons, a little under $30, and decided to regard them as a present from Andrew.

Later I was loading my shopping in the car when I heard someone call my name, and there was a lovely friend beaming at me. We don't bump into each other all that often, as she lives out of town. She gave me a wonderful hug. I admired the full-blown, pale pink roses she was carrying.

'Would you like them?' she said.

'Why?' I asked.'Aren't they for you?'

'Well,' she said, 'It's a funny thing. Someone just gave them to me and I've been wandering around, thinking, "Why have I got these? Who are they for?" Then I saw you.'

So I accepted with pleasure. I wonder if Andrew had a hand in it somehow. He liked to get me flowers. Even when he couldn't easily go shopping himself, if we were out together and he saw roses for sale, he would order me to go and buy myself a bunch.

Not that I mean to diminish my friend's generous impulse. She was in the middle of an assignment about citizenship. I told her I thought giving a bereaved friend roses was an example of good citizenship!

Here they are at home in a vase, viewed from above. (I sat them on the floor for the photo, to avoid distracting backgrounds).

The Strange Journey of Widowhood Begins

It feels weird, surreal. Well, it's only been 16 days since he died, 10 since his commemoration ceremony. Sometimes it feels as if he's still here, just resting in the bedroom as he did more and more in recent months. At other times I'm acutely aware that he's not here. At least not physically; sometimes I'm aware of his presence in other ways, but it's not the same. And that has good and bad aspects. I can still tell him stuff, but I can't hug him. I just have to be glad of the 20 years of hugs we did have. I am not accountable any more; I can please myself what I do when, what I eat, where I go ... only it is hard to get used to taking even the simplest pleasures alone, for instance not preparing a meal with his enjoyment in mind.

I can't believe it was all so quick in the end. 'Only a few weeks ago we were soaping each other in the shower!' I thought yesterday, as I turned on the taps. We didn't always shower together, but it's a big enough space that we could and quite often did. That last time, I think my ulterior motive was to keep an eye on him. With our non-slip floors and substantial railings, when he was at home he was always able to shower himself despite problems with his legs and his balance. He seldom even used the shower chair. He could still shave himself too, but sometimes needed a hand with drying and dressing himself. But he was frailer, that last week at home. Nevertheless, he managed just fine.

I didn't mind any of the nursing I did for him; I wanted to help as best I could. But I must say I don't miss it. I have a lot more time to accomplish other things. And now, when I look back, I realise how much I was doing in the way of practical care. His body was breaking down, inexorably. When I feel lonely and weepy, I only have to bring back the image of him shuffling about painfully with his wretched wheely walker, and I can't wish him back. 

Not that I thought his walker wretched until now. It was a godsend, a valuable tool, the only thing that enabled him to get around. At first he only needed it for long walks outside the house; in the end he couldn't do without it anywhere ... until at the very end he could no longer walk at all. We went through a few different models, actually, to find the one that suited him best. I bought the first brand new, the rest second-hand from Palliative Care. I used to think that if he died before me, I'd keep the walker stashed away somewhere in case one day I should need it. Not at all — I couldn't wait to get rid of it. (I donated it back to Palliative Care.) Though I hate, now, to think of him shuffling along behind it, at the time I admired his guts and patience. As a friend said to me today, he kept going as long as he could, with great determination. As our doctor said, he was a fighter.

These last months were more and more difficult for us both. Yet there was also great sweetness and much love. As my poet friend Joyce Lee said to me of someone else, long ago, 'His soul was showing, like light through a crack.' When I remember those times of enduring, unconditional love, I am calmed. And then I want to weep all over again!

I see some things he has used, and feel not the least bit sentimental about throwing them out or giving them away.  'You don't have a body any more,' I tell him in my head. 'You don't need these.' Other things I feel revulsion for, angry with the poor, inanimate objects for the fact that he is no longer here to enjoy them. And others again I hug to me because he cherished them, or simply because they have felt his touch. 

It seems I can't talk of widowhood without talking of the marriage partner. In a way it is as if I am just in another phase of the marriage. And I haven't yet changed my relationship status on facebook. I still feel that we are husband and wife, and I rather expect I always will. However I shall change the status at some time — soonish — when I feel ready — so as to acknowledge the external fact.

It's lucky I have two cats dependent on me. They keep me grounded. It's time to go and feed them now. (They are getting extra cuddles these days, because they miss him ... and because I miss him.)


PS (Sept. 25) I have decided to create a new blog, The Widowhood Chronicles, and start it with this piece.

Merry Meet and Merry Part ...

Andrew's Commemoration

People who have been reading my poetry blogs and/or the 'Shifting Fog' blog (see sidebar) will know that my darling husband Andrew passed away on September 3rd after 18 days in hospital and 11 in Heritage Lodge nursing home. In both places he was beautifully looked after. Basically his body just broke down, quite rapidly, and it's a blessing that he is now free of its restrictions. His last days were comfortable, peaceful, without pain, and full of love.  This is what I posted about it in various places online:

My beautiful man passed away today about 3.40 in the afternoon. The nursing home phoned me just after breakfast so I went straight there and our dear friend Maureen joined me there, and we sat with him all day. The nursing home fed us, and we reminisced about him and his life, and talked to him too, and held his hands, knowing he could feel and hear us although he was unable to respond. He was very peaceful and comfortable all day, and went quickly and easily. He did wonderful things in his life, and was a treasured friend and mentor to many. I have been very blessed to have 20 years with this incredibly loving man.

He and I weren't into funerals. We have been to a few, because that is how things are usually done in our culture, but we agreed that we didn't want that for ourselves or each other (being anti-gloom, and considering a body to be just an empty shell). His body was cremated at the funeral home. The ashes have been shipped to his children in Victoria, who will hold a memorial for his many friends living there who wish to pay their last respects.  

Here in the Mt Warning Caldera, in the Northern Rivers region of NSW, where we have lived for most of our marriage, we had a gathering of his closest local friends, by invitation. Here are the details —

The invitation said: 

Dear Friends

We are not holding a funeral as such for Andrew. His body will be cremated privately and the ashes shipped to his oldest son in Victoria. His children will arrange a memorial service for his family and his many friends down there. 

You, his dear friends and soul family in the Caldera, are invited to a commemoration at noon on Sunday September 9 at Kouranga Hermitage, North Tumbulgum (the home of our friends Maureen and Alan). It will be a simple gathering of friends, to celebrate Andrew's life and acknowledge his place in ours. Please dress pretty, bring a small plate to share, some wine or whatever else you would like to drink, and a flower for the altar.

Love, Rosemary

My niece Ellie came up from Victoria for a few days to be with me. She drove me to Kouranga on the day. We arrived ahead of time to finalise the preparations, and later she helped organise the food that people brought.

Alan and Maureen, with other old friends Nik and Julie, had already prepared the space, putting chairs, benches and cushions in the temple and flowers on and around the low altar. We used the candles that were there, and these three photos — this one taken on our wedding day in 1993: 

















this one in the winter of 2005:





















and this on 26th August 2012, 8 days before he died:

Alan blew them up and printed them on photographic paper; Maureen found frames for them and Julie did the framing.

I put a plaque from our friend Gail on the altar. It said, 'Live Simply, Laugh Often, Love Deeply', which she felt summed up Andrew. I placed Andrew's magickal tools on the altar too, in the appropriate places according to Pagan practice. Twenty-five people came, despite short notice. As they entered the temple (shoeless) they each placed a flower of their own on the altar. 

I didn't speak from notes, but from the heart, thanking everyone for coming, and saying something like: 

'Andrew identified as Pagan. He understood, as I'm sure we all do, that religious distinctions are artificial and man-made. When we updated his facebook status recently, for 'religion' he chose to say only, 'I believe in God'. However, in the way he expressed his spirituality, he was Pagan — albeit one who loved Jesus, whom he regarded as an Ascended Master and his own Patron Deity. His magickal tools are on the altar: his pentacle, which probably very few people knew that he always wore, as he kept it tucked under his shirt; his wand, his dagger and his chalice.' [I said 'dagger' rather than 'athame'  as some people present might not have been familiar with the latter term.]

'We're going to start by playing the Circle Casting song by Wendy Rule, one of Andrew's favourite singers and an out-of-the-closet witch, whom we were lucky enough to see in concert twice at the Castle in Uki. In fact several people here were with us on those occasions. This is from a recording called Live at the Castle.'  

Maureen operated the CD player with a remote switch and we listened to Wendy's beautiful, soaring voice singing:

The East the air the sword the mind

The gate that leaves the night behind

The North the sun the flame the fire

The gateway to our souls' desire

The West the womb the water's flow

The gateway to the world below

The South the star the silent Earth

The gateway to our souls' rebirth

The circle is cast and outside of time

The circle is cast and outside of space

The circle is cast and outside of time

The circle is cast and outside of space

and saying: 

'Welcome and Blessed Be'.

I said (something like): 

'We're here to celebrate Andrew's life. 

Many people seem to expect me to be devastated by grief. I'm actually not. It's when I think of how difficult life had become for him that I get upset, but I also have moments of great joy that he's now free of all those restrictions.' 

I shared a beautiful email received that morning from my stepson Adam, which read in part:

'Never was Dad happier than when he was with you for these last 20 or so years.  The way he looked at you, even in his last few days, was a look of indescribable love.  I have never seen another man look at a woman the way he looked at you.  I can only hope that one day I am blessed with meeting someone I feel that deeply for.  You were his world, his inspiration, his reason for waking up each day and doing things he only ever dreamed of doing - writing a book, studying screen-writing, being part of other people's lives in a meaningful way, exploring new ideas, and searching for an inner truth.  When he left us, I truly believe he was finally at peace with himself, his life and the world.  You were the reason, his reason.  

Dad also left me with a gift, a message.  One that I will carry with me always; love is all you need.'

I said that indeed, by the time Andrew and I had completed our time together in this lifetime, I felt utterly loved and appreciated, as I know he did too. Even on his last night at home, before he landed in hospital, he gave me Reiki because I had come down with a nasty virus. I always told him he had 'the best Reiki hands in the business' and I reiterated it then, because they still were.

I told of that last day at his bedside. When I first went into his room, I said in his ear, 'I'm not only your wife, I'm also your Reiki Master, and you have my permission to leave when you choose. That's the greatest healing for you now, to make that choice.' Later on I said, 'Don't stick around on my account.' I also had the Reiki II channels open between us the whole time, allowing for telepathic communication. 

About 3.30 I said to Maureen, 'I haven't given the cats their lunch' and then, realising my neck was hurting from all that stooping over the bed, 'I need to take my arthritis medication. I might just dash home. It's only five minutes away.' But I was torn. To Andrew I said  telepathically, 'I want to be here when you go. Please don't leave while I'm away attending to those things,' meaning, 'Please wait until I come back.' Maureen was just about to phone her husband to come and drive me, and I was reaching for my handbag, when she suddenly said to me, 'Look!' I did, and saw Andrew's eyes, which had been shut all day, wide open. Even more dramatic, I realised there was complete silence; his breathing had stopped. It had been loud and laboured all day — what nurses call chain stoking and the rest of us refer to as the death rattle. After some minutes of silence he gave a big gasp, and after a few more minutes another, then that was it. We buzzed for the nurses, who confirmed it. Afterwards Maureen and I exclaimed that he was considerate to the last. I needed to get home, so he chose not to linger any longer. (Of course it was then some time before I could get away — but that's all right.)

I spoke about things Andrew had done in his life before coming to this part of the world. People here knew him as an author of children's stories, and as a gifted Reiki Master working in the markets (combining it with Indian Head Massage) and supporting me ably in teaching Reiki. Many didn't know that in Melbourne he had been a film editor for ABC-TV and for Crawford Productions, his greatest claim to fame being his work on the very popular police series, Homicide. And they didn't know that he was the moving force behind bringing to Australia an accelerated learning program for teenagers, called Discovery. They didn't know that he'd been an investigative journalist, and that because of that he was hired to front an organisation called Watchdog which investigated the then draconian powers of the Australian Securities Commission which victimised many innocent people, and that he ended up giving evidence before a Senate enquiry which led to urgent reforms.

For this part of my talk, I used as a prompt a list of his life highlights which he made for his 80th birthday party, at the request of Dinah, who was the MC on that happy occasion. You can read the list at this link. I also spoke of the genesis of his book, Jorell, which you can read about here.

Maureen read an email message from our old friend Marg Watson in Sydney, who was unable to attend the event:

Dearest Rosemary

My thoughts have been with you all week since Andrew’s passing and of course, remembering Andrew as I have known him the past 12 years since we first met.  I am so glad that John and I had our visit with you and Andrew in June when he was still at home.

Even though I could see his health deterioration since my last visit  in December, there was still much of the real Andrew present. His laugher, his entrepreneurial streak and his humour still shone through.

My memories of  Andrew are and will be enduring. His wonderful clear blue eyes which so easily filled with tears of compassion for others, his rich, deep-throated laughter, his ability with the written and spoken word and his deep feelings for others and most of all, his constant and enduring love for Rosemary.

Andrew, along with Rosemary, made every event important and meaningful. I remember the times they attended Kouranga, dressed in their best colourful outfits and Andrew usually in his suit to mark any and every occasion. 

Rosemary without Andrew will be like bread without butter. Yet we know that Andrew will be available to Rosemary whenever she whispers his name in the loneliest darkness of nights, when the memories and tears visit her as well as the times when peace and tranquillity will settle on Rosemary for the love shared and memories made with Andrew.  He will live on in your heart and soul Rosemary and will walk and be with you every step you take in your new life without him.    

Be at peace Andrew and Rosemary, know that the love of your friends encircles you with support, kindness and presence.

Much love, Marg and John 

Some other people spoke about Andrew, while the rest listened with smiles or even laughter. Kay spoke of him 'rediscovering' her in recent times and rekindling their friendship. (What she didn't say was that when he was so ill that I couldn't leave him alone even for a few minutes, she would come and sit with him every Wednesday afternoon after work, so that I could go out for a short walk. Some other days I had in-home respite carers, and could fit in a walk while out, but for minimum fitness I needed the extra time Kay provided. It was during those times that they talked and renewed the long friendship. His in-home carers, too, always mentioned how interesting he was to converse with.)

Del reminisced about a series of singing workshops where we met many years ago. (A number of lasting friendships originated there.) The teacher had some innovative methods to get us to free our voices. Del particularly recalled an occasion when we became 'goddesses' and stripped off to sit in the creek and sing from 'the fishhook in our crotch'. She decided to keep her cottontails on, and Andrew his Y-fronts. She was affectionately amused that he, the only male, was willing to participate as a goddess.

Dinah said Andrew had given her a message to bring some rosemary to put on the altar, which she did. She also said he wanted us to name a flower after him, as there was no Andrew flower, and to make up a song for him. We didn't take up these suggestions, but it occurs to me now that because Maureen had put so many azaleas on and around the altar, in future I will always associate azaleas with Andrew. (Which is doubly appropriate as we had a huge azalea bush growing in the first home we shared, in Brighton, Melbourne. Andrew transplanted it from somewhere else, I nurtured it successfully, and we saw it as something of a symbol of our relationship.)

I remarked that Andrew was evidently enjoying his new freedom. Already a number of people had reported seeing visions of him, receiving communications from him, or feeling his presence. I told them that, when I'd shared this with one friend, he said doubtfully, 'But I don't think he's trapped on this plane,' and I said, 'No, I think he's flying free. But as a psychic medium, I believe he can be in many places simultaneously. I know the dead are only a thought away.'

I was sure that, as soon as he died, he rushed home to see our cats. They were vaguely pissed off all the time he was in the hospital and the nursing home before he died, but when Maureen and Alan brought me home that night, they were frisky, playful and happy!

Feeling a little daring, but trusting those present, I then shared that, during his final illness, when I wasn't visiting him I had distracted myself in various ways, including catching up with Season 4 of True Blood, an outrageously gory and sexy vampire series which I absolutely adore. The day after Andrew died, I watched the final episode, in which one character is killed. His lover, a psychic medium, is visited by the spirit of the dead man and bemoans the fact that the guy was killed. The spirit says, 'Dude, I'm dead. You're a medium. You'll never be alone.' I reminded myself, 'I'm a medium!'

When everyone who wished to had spoken, we played Wendy Rule's song to open the circle, in which she again evokes the elements, repeating each time, 'Hail and Farewell and Blessed Be'. It finishes, 'Merry meet and merry part, and merry meet again.'

Then we went out to a deck with tables set up, to enjoy the food and drink that everyone had brought. Maureen had baked a cake and Julie had iced it with the word ANDREW and the red outline of a heart. We all sang 'Happy Birthday' and shouted 'Hip, hip, hooray!' and I cut the cake. So if we didn't make up a song for Andrew, at least we sang to him. (It was a bonus that we happened to be celebrating Andrew's rebirth on Eddie's actual birthday, so we sort of nodded at him as well while singing, and Maureen snuck his name in too.)

Alan had provided a book for people to write in, and many lovely things were written. There is still room left in the book, so I am going to add tributes which have come in on facebook or by email. One person who attended was our three-year-old god-daughter Flo. Her father wrote in the book: 'I asked Flo what could we say to Andrew, she said "Goodbye". '

It was a joyful celebration, as intended — and some people did get a little weepy at times. Maureen choked back some tears while reading Marg's email; and as we left the temple, I saw others who looked emotionally affected. Young Cosmo, who came into our lives when he was 14 and is now 21, regarded Andrew as a surrogate grandfather. He had never been to such an occasion before and was taken by surprise to find himself in tears as we went to eat. He kept apologising for it. Marian and I hugged him and told him it was natural. 

A couple of invitees begged off on the grounds that they always weep buckets at funerals. I did try to tell them it wasn't a funeral like that, but I didn't push the point. I didn't want anyone to feel uncomfortable. Another dear friend who lives some distance away got a flat battery and didn't make it. It was probably just as well, as she had been ill and the long drive would have been taxing for her.

If we'd had a more conventional observance, I expect other people who knew Andrew would have wanted to attend. He touched many lives over the years, and I learned afterwards that people had been asking, 'When is the funeral? When is the service?' ("What funeral?' said Maureen to one person who asked, which caused some temporary confusion until she explained that we weren't doing that.) But I wouldn't even have known what paper to put a notice in: we have so many local papers here! And we definitely didn't want a conventional observance, with everyone looking serious, and that awful business of the coffin sliding behind a curtain and down a ramp to be burned. 

People have said since that it was a beautiful and profound occasion. One person who was there likened it to a wake. It was certainly closer to that than a funeral, but not as boozy and boisterous as I imagine wakes to be. It was, to me, a softly Pagan ritual celebrating my beloved's life and his current transformation.

Andrew and I had a long association with local Hare Krishna devotees, as when we first came to the Caldera the devotees had been praying for a resident Reiki Master and I turned up. For the first few years here, most of my Reiki students were devotees. I was in Coles the other day and one of my old students rushed up, saying, 'Hello, dear lady,' and gave me a hug. I thought he must have heard about Andrew's death, but he hadn't. When I told him, he and his wife said they would hold a private fire ceremony for Andrew after they had worked out the most auspicious date.

So, with the memorial in Melbourne, that will be three wonderful send-offs, a magick number!

Adjustment (Sometimes by Torture)

I missed another WordsFlow meeting — that’s the first two this term. (My GP had a cancellation. I was desperate to talk to him about Andrew, so I grabbed it.)

Reporting by email on the meeting afterwards, the person who deputised for me said:

It's sad to hear about Andrew, but then, you will now have more freedom to move around yourself. We miss you in WordsFlow!

That unleashed my flood! (Words this time; there have already been many floods of tears, and they’re not done yet. Many words too, but mostly in poetry.) I replied:

Ta.

Went to nursing home late afternoon, to have tea with him. Nursing staff said he had been anxious about 'a readers group?' He himself told me he had tried to go to WordsFlow but 'no bugger would listen'. [I retired him from WordsFlow shortly before the end of last term, as it was proving far too tiring for him, and in any case he was barely able to participate any more due to the Alzheimer's. He was relieved at the time, but has since missed his writer identity.]

I am learning fast to take it moment by moment. In the space of 3 hours tonight he was in many moods, and degrees of lucidity or otherwise. So much love still between us on both sides, so much grief at not being happily at home together any more, so much adjustment ... and also some pleasure to be derived in each other's company wherever. 

Last night I racked my brains to come up with some strategy to successfully have him back home and kept hitting brick walls. Tonight, observing the rapid mental and physical deterioration, and facing up to the fact that I was already nursing him around the clock these last weeks before he went to hospital, I know quite well I can't cope with having him back home. Maybe when one of our kids comes up to visit, as all plan to do when possible. [He can have 52 overnight home visits a year.]

(Of course my stepdaughter was already here and helped choose the nursing home, which was wonderful. Couldn't have been better timed. And my son David put some money in my account, so I could just get whatever I needed without stressing. He and the steps are all very supportive.)

There is some good news. I asked the geriatrician to order tests for me too as Alzheimer's runs through my father's side of the family (though on my Mum's side it’s a very different story). While I was seeing the GP today re Andrew, I asked if he'd seen the results. He had. I have no sign of it whatsoever! HUGE relief. (Cognitive function intact, no sign of any recent damage to brain, not even mini strokes I might not have noticed, as many people have. Some slight changes, normal with ageing.)

Freedom. Yes, it is good to go and get a nurse instead of dealing with various practical matters myself. When I went to lunch with a friend yesterday, I had to restrain myself from becoming fidgety about getting back to Andrew‚ because there was no need. The other night I went to see the final session of Hugo at the Regent. (Lovely movie! I knew it would be.) I was on my own; I didn't want to go with anyone else. As it began and I got absorbed, I thought, 'Yes, I can do this: this being on my own.'  It is strange — I love large periods of solitude, yet have never in my life lived alone except for a few months between my first and second marriages.

Yesterday morning I took my laptop and the DVD of Tintin to the nursing home. I loved it. He seemed to enjoy it but said afterwards it was hard to follow and the 'noises off' of normal nursing home activities bothered him. Ah well, it's all an experiment now. 

I probably would have been a mess today anyway. I fall into tears at the drop of a hat. Hopefully will have come to terms with it more in another week. 

It all seemed incredibly sudden. But the GP said, not to the medicos. Andrew's frequent hospitalisation over the past year or so was an indication of decline.

Andrew was genuinely delighted I have no sign of Alzheimer's. 'When is he going to do me?' he asked, and later said he didn't know how he'd cope with a brain scan. He has forgotten he ever had any! Perhaps it's just as well.

My Most Beautiful Thing

This is a Blogsplash. Today, Tuesday April 24th, bloggers around the world are blogging about their ‘most beautiful thing’, to celebrate the birth of Fiona Robyn’s new novel, The Most Beautiful Thing.  On Tuesday 24th and Wednesday 25th April, you can download a copy free to your kindle, pc or phone, or win a free paperback. Click on the link for instructions. I know Fiona's writing and happily recommend it even though I have only just started reading this book. You can find everyone else's blog posts here.

And what is my most beautiful thing?

It is my relationship with my husband Andrew, my third-time-lucky marriage (his second) which we entered into in 1993, on the 13th and 14th of November. Yes, that's right. I wanted a quiet, intimate wedding in our own home, with just our respective (grown-up) children present. He wanted a great big shindig of celebration. So we had both. On the 13th, the day after my birthday, we had the very private legal ceremony with a civil celebrant in our own home; the day after we had the big party with a public affirming of our vows, conducted by our friend and spiritual mentor Jenette in a ceremony with no legal significance but much emotional charge, followed by feasting and dancing. 

I was married the first time for 3 years; the second time — during which I had my children — for 27.  I was 53 when my second marriage ended, and was certain I was far too old, fat and ugly ever to attract another man. When I was younger I had also had some important relationships which didn’t lead to marriage, that ended sadly. I put out a strong request to the Universe: 'Next time around I want a happy one — a  lasting, happy one!’ I was thinking of my next incarnation, not this lifetime. One day my Reiki Master, Ann Adcock, who was also a powerful psychic, suddenly said, ‘Ooh! Nice man coming for Rosemary. I just got told.’ And a nice man he was, and is. 

He had had one marriage, in which he had his children, which ended acrimoniously at the time (though they became amicable enough later). One of his subsequent relationships which was very important to him had also ended badly. He told me that, some years before we met, he had a reading in which he was told there would be another love for him. The reader said, ‘Work will be very important in this relationship; I see you working together.’ He asked her rather plaintively, ‘Won’t there be love?’ She just smiled and said, ‘Oh yes, there’ll be love.’

When we were first together, my main income-earning work was teaching Reiki. He supported me wonderfully in presenting my seminars. We also worked at the Sunday Markets for many years, and that gradually became the main focus. At our stall I did psychic readings, he gave Reiki treatments and head massages. 

Even more important than that was the fact that we were both writers. I’m a poet, he was an ex-journalist who turned to fiction, particularly children’s stories. We never wrote any best-sellers, but we believed in and supported each other’s work and had some modest success.

Spiritually we were aligned too, going from New Agey to Pagan — still with a love of Jesus, though hardly an orthodox attitude.

We travelled the world in 1998, on my inheritance from my mother, and had many wonderful experiences. It turned out to be a sort of spiritual pilgrimage to places that had huge past life significance for us, though we had not known or expected that. 

We had already uncovered two lifetimes we had shared. In the first, we were merely acquainted, but in the second we had a brief and tragic love. On the advice of a wise friend, instead of getting excited about that we cleared it so as not to have to repeat it. And so, this time around, we have had a long and happy love.

Not, however, a ‘never a cross word’ kind of marriage. We are both too stubborn and too volatile for that. There have been some power struggles, some screaming matches and some sulks, but always the love and commitment to each other were stronger. 

We acquired two cats when their owner couldn’t keep them. They were seven months old then; they are 14 years old now (and still behave like youngsters). They became ‘the children’ of course, and have brought us much joy.

Soon after we married we moved from a capital city to a small town in another State, with a sub-tropical climate and beautiful scenery. We have made many good friends here and had a wonderful life. There was never much money. When we met, I was an undischarged bankrupt, a legacy of my previous marriage, and he had just finished paying off huge debts incurred by a business partner who scarpered and left him holding the baby. So we didn’t have much — and eventually we went on the age pension, one at a time. (He is ten and a half years older than me.) But we have been very rich in other ways.

Since the beginning of 2010 we have been living in a Housing Department unit in a lovely location, which we have very much enjoyed. It is exactly the home which he, in particular, dreamed of.  Because of some deteriorating health conditions, he gradually became somewhat housebound, and I too have been more of a homebody. Despite the problems, this has been in many ways a particularly lovely period of our lives together. Simple things like playing with the cats, watching our favourite TV shows, sharing books, writing, spending time with friends, and talking to our children on phone, email or facebook ....

I have had to do more for him, and he has been very loving and appreciative. We have laughed together a lot, cuddled a lot, enjoyed our meals, our music, our home. I have felt that this elderly love — I am 72, he is 83 — has had a particular sweetness. That is built on all that has gone before, of course, in the years we have been together; still it is very special in its own right.

Have you noticed that I am tending to speak in the past tense? We have just entered a new phase, and I am still in mourning for the one we have just left. 

It is ironic that a man who has helped many people over the years with Reiki, to their lasting and vocal gratitude, has succumbed himself to illnesses which have been hard to alleviate, let alone cure. 

He had a triple bypass and heart valve replacement in 1995 and a small heart attack in 2008. His annual checks, though, have always shown him to have excellent heart health. He has had more of a problem with diabetes, which was diagnosed in 1998. (Last year he finally went on to insulin instead of tablets.) The diabetes led to an excruciatingly painful nerve condition of the legs, called peripheral neuropathy. He has dealt with this pain for years, with great courage and patience. For the last 12 months he has become more and more dependent on a wheely walker to get around. 

This last week he has had some falls, where his legs just collapsed beneath him. No dizziness or losing consciousness, and luckily he didn’t injure himself. But he ended up in hospital. It is not really safe for him to come home any more; he could injure himself next time, or I could hurt myself trying to help him. 

And then there’s his mental state. Last December he was diagnosed with ‘mild to moderate’ Alzheimer’s. The medication to slow it down has not proved very successful in his case. He now doesn’t always know what time of day it is, and sometimes is living in the far past. He does still know who I am, and tells me often that he loves me.

His children and I are looking at all the options, but it seems clear enough which way it’s going to go. I realise I have been doing pretty much everything for him of late, looking after him like a small child. Not that I minded, or even noticed all that much — but I have become busier and busier, and have come close to exhaustion. (Even with respite care and domestic help in place.)

The thought of not bringing him back home is unbearable, and right now my heart is breaking, but I am trying to look ahead and see that there may be good things in the new phase too. I think it is all about quality of life, and I have lately realised that what that means for him is no longer the same as what it means for me. Rest and comfort are his priorities now.

When we first started getting serious, I read his palm and saw that he would have a lot of illness late in life. I married him anyway and I’m glad I did. I’m glad I didn’t miss out on my most beautiful thing.