A Bit of Fish

Nana was the roly-poly woman. Mammy said that when they got older she and Grampa would move to a nice little flat because the stairs in 35 would be too much. Hugh thought that Nana would never get old. She was the best grown-up in the world. She liked sweets and had lots of funny voices that she used in stories. She used to tell stories when she was babysittin’. Joseph was the baby. Hugh was a big boy now. The boys were always asking Mammy and Daddy to go out so Nana could mind them. That meant they were in the bed, Joseph at one end and Hugh at the other, all tucked in under the green eiderdown and tight blankets with clean white sheets and The Ugly Duckling ready for Nana to read till they fell asleep. Mammy and Daddy owned the big bed that they weren’t allowed to jump on. Nana sat on the chair and read the story until she got fed up.

First she’d start reading The Ugly Duckling like she was going to do what Mammy said. Then she’d make a queer face and say ‘I think this Ugly Ducklin’ fella is cracked.’ The boys would be delighted. ‘Little Red Riding Hood Nana, tell us about Little Red Riding Hood.’ ‘She’s cracked too.’ ‘Ah Nana.’ ‘Go on Nana.’ ‘Well you’ll have to be very quiet.’ ‘We will.’ Hugh and Joseph snuggle down like mice. ‘Once upon a time …’ Nana looks around to make sure no-one is listenin’ … ‘AaaaarrrRRR!’ She pounces. The boys squirm in terror and delight. ‘Nana! What about ‘what great big eyes you have’?’ ‘The wolf was starvin’. He got the early bus.’

Little Red Riding Hood was Hugh’s favourite because he liked when Nana went to gobble him up. The red candlewick meant she was meant to be the wolf but the boys always knew that it was Nana. ‘Eat me Nana.’ ‘Eat me Mr Wolf.’ ‘You can’t get me Mrs Wolf.’ ‘Hahaha Mrs Fatsodatso Wolf.’ ‘I’m not fat!’ ‘Is that so Mrs Fatso?’ Nana would growl and shake the eiderdown in her teeth. Aaarrghghgh! Then she’d pull it back and all the blankets and tickle Hugh’s belly first and then she’d eat him. ‘No Nana, you’re not fat. I’ll be good. I’ll be good. You’re not fat Mr Wolf haha sto-op.’ His pyjamas would be all pulled up. Nana’s lipstick marks were meant to be the blood. ‘Me Nana me!’ Joseph’d say and then Nana would go down to him. ‘Nana Banana the big fat Nana.’ ‘Who said that? Come here till I brain ye’ Nana would say but she’d keep doin’ Joseph. Then they would tickle her and make the fat wobble on her arms and she’d start laughing until she couldn’t stop.

At first they wouldn’t know what to do because they’d never seen a grown-up goin’ like that before. ‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice’ she’d say in a real cross voice and then she’d be off laughin’ again. Then a wet facecloth would come floppin’ into your face and on to the bed. ‘Have a bit o’ fish’ she’d say and we’d pick up the facecloth and throw it at each other and at Nana and the bedclothes would all be in a mess and we didn’t care because Nana was Mammy’s Mammy so Mammy couldn’t say anything but she did when she came home with Daddy and we were still awake and not properly in bed and Nana would have the red cover from the big bed around her shoulders and there’d be sweet papers on the floor and the bed wouldn’t be made and Mammy would say ‘Mammy you’re worse than the children’ and Nana would say ‘I am not!’ Then she’d put her hand up to her mouth and make funny faces when Mammy’s back was turned and we’d start laughin’ again and Mammy would turn around and look at us till we stopped and Nana would put her finger in her mouth and make a loud poppin’ noise and look surprised and that would start us off again. ‘Jerciful Maysus who did that?’ You did Nana. You did!’ ‘I did not!’ ‘Yes you did. You did!’ ‘Are you dickeracontin’ me?’ ‘Mammy I’m trying to put them down. They should be asleep.’ ‘Go asleep,’ says Nana in her cross Wolf voice. ‘Mammy?’ What is it Hugh?’

‘Jerciful Maysus! Hahaha.’

Then Nana would break into hysterics again, an endless panting, wheezy laugh that was so infectious even Mammy would sometimes smile and Daddy would say ‘We’re goin’ to have to do somethin’ about that woman’ and then he’d get it too. ‘Give over you. Here, have a bit o’ fish’ and the boys would be rollin’ around because Nana wouldn’t care if he was wearin’ his good suit and he had to laugh because the way she laughed was so funny. And the boys would be puttin’ their fingers in their mouth and tryin’ to pop their gums and Nana would take out her teeth and bite them like Mrs Wolf did on your belly and Mammy would say ‘I’m glad you decided to come so I could have a night off’ and Nana would have to put her teeth away.

*

Grampa could be very strict. Sometimes he got angry if he was cuttin’ your hair and you wouldn’t stay still. Other times he would put you on his scooter and take you for a spin. You started in the Back Lane because Grampa kept his scooter in the shed. Then you went past Bolger’s garage at the top and turned ‘round into Pleasant Street. Mr Bolger’s name was Fod. That was a funny name. Sometimes you just went out the front and Grampa brought the scooter ‘round himself. Hugh felt real important when John Tomlin saw him gettin’ on. Then they’d have to go ‘round the block to end up facin’ Phoenix Park. It’s too dangerous to turn into the traffic. Grampa was a fireman so he knows. In Grantham Street you passed by Go-Go’s. That was number 10. Nana lived in number 35. The scooter helped him understand that they were different streets. You went very fast, much faster than runnin’ and you didn’t have to move! You just stood there, behind the windshield, inside Grampa’s knees, holdin’ on. At the top of Pleasant Street you turned down to New Bride Street, past Freddy Carol’s and the Meath and the little houses where Dermot Reagan lived and the Iveagh Flats. Grampa beeped if you got stopped at the lights and Nana would come to the window and wave down. Then the lights would change and you’d be off again, past Jacobs and the place your Daddy used to live and the Bird Market where he bought Dick-a-Budgie for Joseph’s birthday and the old flats where Aunt Rooney lived. Hugh wondered what happened to Aunt Rooney’s middle name. He knew a boy called Thomas Rooney from the Iveagh Flats. His Mammy cut Nana’s hair. Hugh went up once but he didn’t like the smells and thought the big helmet things they put on women’s heads would hurt Nana but she laughed and gave him a cream slice so it was alright. You can’t remember things on the scooter because you’re goin’ too fast, only sometimes at the lights when Grampa doesn’t shout into your ear to explain. It’s nice shoutin’, like if he wants you to look at things. It’s great goin’ up the cobbles at Christchurch. There’s loads of bumps and Grampa has to go very slow and you think you’re goin’ to fall off but you never do. Then you speed away up Thomas Street, the fastest of all. You see loads of shops and places you don’t know and the wind whips under your shorts and around your legs and your quiff’s blowin’ like crazy but you don’t mind because it feels great, like you’re nearly flyin’. Grampa tells you this is James’ Street where Nana used to live and you like it. Then he drives you past an island with a bridge or something before you turn for Phoenix Park. You know Rowntrees, he shouts, the sweets? That’s where your Nana used to work. I already know that. She had to wear a paper hat. The road is lovely and bumpy and goes up an’ down like in a carnival and you can see the monument stickin’ up over the trees and Grampa takes you along the Liffey if it’s an extra-long spin and in the Chapelizard gate to see the deers. We stop at the roadside if they’re munchin’ grass and Grampa tells me every time ‘That’s where your Daddy footballs it of a Saturday.’ I know, its name is the fifteen acres. Five-ten-fifteen-twenty. I like the tree parts better. It’s like Sherwood Forest in Robin Hood Book for Boys 1958. I’m a great little reader. The President lives in a big house over there. What’s the President? A man with a big job, like the king. The king was in his counting house, counting out his money, Hugh was on the scooter tryin’ to be funny. Grampa I said a poem. He can’t hear me with the engine and the wind. Grampa wears a helmet. Look at the men playin’ polo, over there on the horses. They have kind of helmets. It’s easier for Grampa to shout. His face is right behind my ear. His moustache makes me itchy and there’s a funny …nnngggg… sound after if he puts his mouth too near. I’m not allowed to turn around. I have to stand up straight and keep still or he won’t be able to take me anymore. My hands hold the front bit under the windshield. They only feel a bit cold after we stop. There’s the Zoo. There’s big lions and tigers in there that’d eat ye. They couldn’t while I’m on Grampa’s scooter unless they escaped but we’re goin’ down the hill now out of the park so they’d never catch up. The next part is the Liffey. I wonder if scooters can slip on a banana skin and fly over the wall and me an’ Grampa’d get drowned and everbody’d be cryin’ and Mammy says no such a thing and say Grampa and I and it’s true he does be very careful and goes in a straight line and you never really do think that you’re goin’ to go flyin’ over when you’re beside the river and you can smell Guinness’s on one side and there’s the barracks on the other and in two bridges time you’ll be turnin’ unless Grampa makes it extra-extra-long. ‘Would you like to go in for a glass of porter?’ he shouts even though Mammy said he isn’t to put the idea into my head. Grampa likes a drop of porter but only now and again. I like it when the brown stuff gets stuck on his moustache. Grampa’s moustache is like the hard brush the Currans use to sweep the yard except it’s got bits of grey mixed with the brown and red. Mammy says it’s very military. I forget what that means. Grampa’s very proud of his fireman uniform. He’s a gentleman with a very nice manner and now he’s takin’ me on a really long go up to O’Connell Bridge. That’s where Town is. Town is the name of the centre of Dublin, where Clery’s is and the other big shops. I live in Dublin 8. I know Grampa’s takin’ me back there now and I’m nearly dizzy from goin’ halfway ‘round the world. He doesn’t tell me so much on the way home but I know that’s the Bank of Ireland, where they keep all the money. I’d like to go in and see it sometime. I wonder how they stop it from fallin’ down all over the place. This is another street that takes you up to George’s Street and that’s nearly home and there’s Pims and that’s the Market Arcade shut now with big iron gates across. Nana’s sweetshop is in there. I wonder if she leaves her white coat or does she bring it home? Grampa? He can’t hear me. I remember that she leaves it there. There’s Dockrells where you have to stand for hours and Whitefriar Street where they have special priests called Carmelites. That’s like carmels. Nana likes carmels. Or caramels. Caramelites! She sells them in her sweetshop haha. Nana sells chocolate priests, and toffee ones. And jellies. Black babies. Jelly priests. Can I have a quarter of Caramelites please? Mammy wouldn’t like that. I’m not to be cheeky. Carmelshites haha. I can’t say that to anyone. Carmelshites. Carmelshites. Carmelshites. Aw! We’re not goin’ to Nana’s. Straight into Wexford Street. There’s Angelo’s, and Hector Value, and Gorevan’s where you got lost. In the revolvo door and you forgot to get out and you’re back in the street except you don’t know where you are and you’re cryin’ like you never seen it before and Mammy comes out and takes you from the lady and says she’s terribly sorry and she brings you into the shop and sits you down and you see your chubby face and good coat in the mirror and mammy’s lookin’ at gloves and why do they call it Wexford Street when Wexford is a far place that Auntie Peg goes to on her holidays and you’re past the Deluxe now and back in Pleasant Street and there’s all the home places like the Step Inn and the Olympic and the Slaughter House and the Scrap Merchants where all the dirty men work that are always black from head to toe. Do their Mammies tell them to get dirty before they go to work? He wasn’t sure. I wasn’t. I didn’t know what all the squeals meant in the slaughter house, or why there was always such a stench after the livestock trucks had been.

*

Your legs are all wobbly when you get off but only for a minute. Then Joseph cries and says he wants a go but Grampa only takes him around the block because he’s little. Then he puts the scooter in the shed and comes up for a cuppa tea. Mammy says ‘How’s Mammy?’ and he rolls his eyes and says ‘Don’t be talkin’’ and Mammy says ‘Why? What’s she doin’ now?’ They like talkin’ about my Nana.

*

Mrs Wolf had great big lips that were made to eat ice cream. They reminded him of jelly and kisses and strawberry sauce dripping from a giant-size cone. Knickerbocker Glories were Nana’s favourite meal but she cooked bacon and cabbage of a Sunday. She always got lost when Grampa took her on holidays. He worked in the airport so they were able to see the world. Every time he’d look around, no matter where they were, Nana would be talkin’ to someone or else she’d be missin’, so he spent one half of the time lookin’ for her and the other half tryin’ to get her to move.

‘Jaysus Sheila,’ he said, ‘she has me demented. I was tryin’ to get her to come to the mass at eleven and I said to her ‘Mam, will you not be standin’ talkin’ or it’ll be time for the Communion’ and do you know what she said?’ ‘What?’ ‘It’s not goin’ to get cold, is it?’ ‘She didn’t!’ ‘Cool as you like. Then she met Mrs … Paddy the Paperman’s wife at the corner and they went off yakkin’ straightaway so I said ‘Mam’ and she didn’t pay a blind bit of notice so I just left her.’ ‘So did she not get mass after?’ ‘I don’t know. I just went for me walk after and I came up here.’ ‘She’s probably down with Mrs Mac, is she?’ ‘I don’t know.’

Mammy said it was most unlike her Daddy to use that language and Nana must really have tormented him this time. He would never say anything like that if the boys were around. They forgot about my hide-out under the table.

*

New Bride Street was where Nana went to live when she got married. Hugh figured that out by himself. 35 was more her house because Grampa had to go to work. When you stand on the armchair you can look down and see people goin’ in the Flats. Cars are lovely when you’re lookin’ down. You can lean right out and see where you stand waitin’ for Nana if someone holds you. Sometimes you want to do a spit. That’s very bold.

*

Nana was mostly in if you were sent down on a message. She said Grampa’s name was Joe Soap and that he was cracked. When you got to the door you had to shout up because the bell was very high. First you asked Mr Saunders in the shop if he’d seen Mrs Lynch goin’ out. He always knew because she would shout funny things at him on the way. Mr Saunders liked woodbines and had brown fingers. He used to do sums on the paper for wrappin’ bread. Hugh had to wait before he could ask because he didn’t want to be rude. He knew the answer while Mr Saunders was still addin’ up the ones. Mr Saunders was an expert on the weather. People in the Flats asked him if it was goin’ to rain before they bought stuff for goin’ to the sea.

Hugh waits till the traffic is quiet before he shouts ‘Nana’. He tries to do it in one big voice so he won’t look stupid standin’ there callin’ up over and over. Nana lives on the top floor, two floors over Saunders’ and Jack’s. Other people live over Glennon’s. As soon as she hears you, her head pops out the bedroom window and she disappears with a smile. Then she’d be at the door givin’ you a hug for comin’ down all by yourself. You go up the step and get pulled into the soft place women have on their chests. Nana’s is very big and smells like laundry but it’s only for a minute so you don’t mind.

Later, as you got bigger and could reach, the key would come sailin’ out the window in a glove. That saved Nana havin’ to do the stairs. Sometimes she’d look first, mostly she wouldn’t. You had to run to catch it or warn people that it would be coming. Then if they saw you waiting, the neighbours would know they needed to take care. Nobody minded. They all said Nana was a great little woman. Her face would appear out the window after the throw and some woman from the Flats would look up, shaking her fist.

Nana beams down. ‘I was aimin’ at my grandson. I do fire it at him.’ The woman looks at me. ‘That’s my grandson, Shela’s eldest.’ ‘Ah, are you Sheila’s boy? God he’s the spit of you Missus. Hello Love.’ ‘Hello.’ ‘Well I’ll be seein’ ye Missus.’ ‘And I’ll be suin’ ye. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?’ Other women look up and start talking before the first one leaves. I’m afraid she’ll lean out too far and flatten them all. ‘How are ye Missus Lynch?’ ‘I’m dyin’.’ ‘Ah you poor thing!’ Then they see her smile and realise they’re being conned. ‘You’re a terrible woman Missus.’ ‘Is that a true lie or a damn lie?’ She keeps them talking while I hover, waiting for an opportunity to ease into the sanctuary of the hall.

1992

Another Story

(i)

He crossed over from the Green to Newman House. The doors were open. It was over twenty years since he’d been inside. Table tennis had been his passion then but he liked to think that something of Joyce and Hopkins had rubbed off, not to mention the Great Apologist himself. Belfield hadn’t made a gentleman of him. A porter in the window eyed him curiously as he skipped up the steps, glancing quickly at a notice of the day’s events.

‘Hello there, can I help you?’

‘Hi, I’m looking for the Linguistics Association meeting.’

‘Down the hall, second door on your left.’ 

‘Thanks. I’ll wait until this session ends. Can you direct me to the toilets please?’

He could still manage a gentlemanly tone when required. Thanking the porter again, he set off as advised.

Ah! The Big Room was still the same, a huge oak table in the middle with elaborately carved chairs set around. Portraits of several artists as old men still glared down fiercely from the walls. 

‘The other side, just down a bit.’ 

Ooops! Rumbled. Just as well he had resisted an urge to go straight up.

‘That’s great. Thank you.’ 

‘Just keep on straight. You can’t miss it.’

Smitten by remorse at the man’s helpfulness, he really did want to go now. 

He found it easily, just past a room where the linguists’ refreshments were being laid out. The idea of a gentleman figured neatly in silhouette on the door. Transported, he imagined an earlier Joyce pissing contentedly on that very spot. 

Why was there no plaque? James Joyce went to the bathroom here 1898-1903; or Gerard Manley sweeping his cassock aside, if he wore such a thing. Great frothing bubbles frothily froth-bedecked/ patristic pullulations da-da-da-aah! That felt good. It was good to be back, marking his territory like a rational animal.

He liked to think of Joyce spouting Aquinas less than a mile from where Nana lived, down Cuffe and Kevin Streets to the flat over the corner shop, Glennons of New Bride Street, because that was where the front door used to be. 

He remembered working that out for the first time. And even though the great man had been long dead by the time of those first memories, he liked to think of it all happening in a kind of benign synchrony, as if he hadn’t been reared all that far from harmony, clarity and integrity. 

Fry’s cocoa and spaghetti in tins. Nana drank Ireland coffee. God was sending a little brother for Hugh to play with. He didn’t like the warm feeling when you woke after wetting the bed. May her wed wothe blothom, twa-la-la-la-la.

He walked back along the corridor feeling robust and alive, glad to have stolen in from November cold. He had even remembered to wash his hands. John Henry would be proud. The gurriers of this island were steadily being brought to heel. 

Then he was back in the Big Room. He had always liked the light here. The high ceiling made the most of what little there was today. He felt an urge to sit in all the chairs and was about to start when he saw that he wasn’t alone.

A woman was sitting in an armchair on the other side, close to the window. Low sun streamed in, lending a coppery sheen to her dark hair. She wore a brown skirt that had lost its battle with the contours of her chair, revealing the most magnificent legs he had ever seen on a linguist, for such he imagined her to be. 

She was poring over a folder, oblivious of dignitaries staring down ambivalently from above. He was about to leave when she looked up.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You are late also?’

‘I was born late,’ he smiled.

She had a striking face, generous and noble. Her green-brown eyes matched the colour of the sweater she was wearing.

‘They were already started when I got here,’ she said, gesturing towards the linguists. ‘I did not like to go in while someone was speaking.’

‘Me neither.’

‘You are a linguist then?’

‘No, I’m a chancer.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I look for open doors and then step through.’

‘I see.’

Her English was subtly accented but she seemed to know what he meant.

‘You’re making a presentation?’ he said, pointing to the folder.

‘Yes, I was just checking that everything is in the right order.’

‘Would you like me to leave you alone?’

‘Not at all, I was actually finding it quite weird with all these rather ancient gentlemen looking at me.’

‘I used to think they were following me when I first came.’

She asked him when that was. He told her about James Joyce, table tennis and Aquinas. They looked out the window at an icy sun. The back of the National Concert Hall lay just behind. It was once the hub of UCD but had housed only Medicine and Architecture in his time. His name was Hugh. How had she come to be here? A short version would suffice.

She was originally from Germany but had attended university in England before coming here to teach. She was presenting a paper to this morning’s meeting called ‘Sex and Gender: Lost in Translation?’ She smiled as she spoke these words. 

He felt strangely excited that she came from Germany and imagined going there with her. Where in Germany? Bavaria. He liked the sound of that: high mountains and tall trees, a trans-human landscape, before and after Empire. 

They heard a burst of applause from the nearby room. Soon linguists could be seen charging discretely for toilets and caffeine. Good, they weren’t wearing badges. He asked Christa – that’s what she said her name was – if she wanted coffee. ‘No sugar please,’ she said, smiling as he went to join the queue.

She was with colleagues when he returned but excused herself on seeing him approach. She would be speaking first in the next session. He was welcome to join her if he wished. She would have to sit through the second paper to take questions but hadn’t planned on staying after. He said he would be happy to wait. 

They moved into the conference room. Most of the linguists were women but their President sported a prolific beard and gold earring, hunched behind stacked copies of the Association’s journal. He deferred graciously to his next speaker as she let it be known that she and her guest would be unable to stay. She’s a bit of a chancer herself, Hugh thought, nodding to the Main Man. 

As a speaker’s guest Hugh was entitled to sit in the front row. He took Christa’s coat and congratulated himself on becoming a groupie. ‘Roadie’ was more dignified. She was busy checking out the projector. 

He pictured academics as rock stars, going ‘one two, one two’ before their gigs. They’d probably use complex numbers. There was no microphone. The linguists were slowly drifting back. It felt strange to be here, waiting for this new woman to speak. New-woman House! She caught his eye and smiled. He smiled back.

The President asked people to take their seats quickly. The first session had already overrun and they must at least ensure that the second didn’t put them even farther behind.  Christa stood calmly, her notes neatly arranged. He clapped as if he had known her for years and then composed himself to avoid becoming a distraction. She spoke warmly, engaging her audience confidently and without fuss.

Her paper incorporated a feminist critique of translation practice. She cited clever examples of translations her students had made across English, German and French. He had little interest in the content of her talk but admired her energy as she paced easily throughout, sharing information with ingenuity and charm.

She finished to an enthusiastic wave of applause and sat down beside him, smiling. He wondered if this wasn’t a dream. Words of congratulation passed. Someone touched him from behind and asked him to say she had been brilliant. He did and almost fell into her eyes.

When he turned back a middle-aged man was fidgeting nervously on the floor. He was unique among the morning contributors, he explained, because he was a Trinity graduate. He worked in Belgium in a large translation school but liked to get home as often as he could. He was fluent in French, German and English, obviously. His Dutch was passable but not fluent. He didn’t propose to be polemical as the previous speaker had been. We know little about the cognitive processes involved in translation activity but that would be the focus of his talk. 

Christa joined him at the table when he finished. All questions were addressed to her. She answered deftly, displaying an awareness of political issues that had only been implicit in her paper. She wasn’t a chancer! He waited while people hung around to quiz her when the session ended. Whither then? She presumed he didn’t want to stay for the afternoon papers? Life was too short. They left Newman House and turned left towards Nana’s.

(ii)

They paused at Harcourt Street corner, intending to cross towards the Green. He had passed this way a thousand times with the Brennans when he was too young to come over by himself. Once when he was three he had fallen into the pond and been wheeled back wearing one of Joseph’s nappies. 

‘There’s nothing coming.’ 

Her eyes were asking why he didn’t cross.

‘That’s what they said at Pearl Harbour.’

On the other side he told her of his memory. He could almost feel the impact where the buggy jolted off the kerb.

 He pointed towards Kevin Street and the window of Nana’s toilet that used to be. He had been thinking of the view from that window earlier, before they met. In his mind, it was associated with the bells of Christchurch and St Patrick’s; seagulls screeching through frosted glass, angrily contesting scraps that Nana heaped up on the sill. The toilet smelt of carbolic that seemed pleasant to recall. There was a little light you turned on by twisting the bulb. When he climbed up on the bowl, he could see to where they were standing now. He imagined waving back across the decades at himself waving out.

‘How can you remember this so vividly?’

‘I haven’t been around here for a long time. I guess location stirs memory. Also, I like to remember.  It makes me feel kinder and more alive.’

‘Do your parents live around here too?’

‘Passed.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Dead, they’re both dead.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thank you. My father died a long time ago, my mother just last year. I’ve been writing stories since to aid remembering. I finished last week and came here to see how it would feel.’

‘You would not prefer to be alone?’

 ‘It’s OK,’ he smiled, ‘I already walked a lot this morning, before linguistics called. I remembered a huge amount so I feel kind and tender, and very much alive.’

‘You would like to go in this park?’

‘Yes thank you, I would.’

*

They were sitting on a bench. He had climbed the tallest tree in Stephen’s Green when he was eight. Walter Doyle got them a bad name by passing water on innocent pissers by. Then passing Walter charismatically pissed off, abandoning him to a right rollicking from the gardener. He remembered straining not to piss himself through the harangue. Christa said she had cycled through a park like this for years on her way to school without mishap. 

‘Doyler never made it to Bavaria.’ 

She laughed. They fell silent. After a moment she turned directly to him.

‘There is something else that you would like to say?’

He looked at her appreciatively before answering.

‘My father died suddenly many years ago. He had been on holiday and I was away so there was no chance to say goodbye. It took years to find a new relationship with him.’

She touches her heart.

‘My parents are still very much alive.’

‘Thank you. My mother spent weeks in a coma, clarifying inwardly before she passed. That happened last year. I spent hours with her every day.

‘The medics were still trying to help but I knew she wasn’t coming back. All her organs needed artificial support. She was made tough so intense physical processing was needed to break the toughness down. 

‘One day only, near the end, her eyes opened. They were like a baby’s, clear pools of pale blue, as if she had been crying all that time. She could never cry before but on that day she looked completely purged. I even saw a look of love in her eyes. 

‘I asked if she knew who I was. Somehow she managed to convey ‘yes’. It wasn’t a physical answer, more a sheer act of will. I am absolutely certain about this. 

‘I asked her if she knew that she was going Home: another ‘yes’. No stress or panic, just knowing and acceptance. I sensed that she was ready then and had returned just to say goodbye. 

‘This moment brought healing to many hard times that we had known. I saw a depth of infinite compassion in her eyes. They closed then and two days later she was gone. I gave permission for her life supports to be turned off.’ 

‘That sounds very beautiful.’

‘It was, in the end.’ 

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘Thank you for listening. I hadn’t found a way to tell that story.’

‘It is my honour.’

‘It seems we need death for life to thrive. That one became a kind of inspiration.’

‘That sounds very beautiful also.’

‘Maybe but there must be more beautiful ways to realise things.’

‘We must live and we must learn.’ 

‘I agree.’ He paused. ‘I think I’m ready to move now. Is that okay?’

‘Of course.’

Linking arms, they resumed their walk, past flower beds, over the bridge and along the lake towards Grafton Street. It felt strange to be sharing these places with a new woman. He had practically grown up here. And now? What was he doing here now?  He couldn’t say. He had been much given to reverie in this place. Christa didn’t seem to mind. If she wanted to say anything she would. He had that sense about her.

(iii)

They entered Grafton Street, the Mecca of Dublin’s shopping classes. It had become interesting since it was pedestrianised a few years before, especially on weekends when there was lots of music. Christa said she liked to come here for the shopping. 

Of course she knew it already. Still, this was his city and he felt like it was being given back to him today. He would let it reveal him also. He had never been this way with Christa so it felt like a new place, familiar and yet not.

He remembered Phil Lynott walking past in days when he could still be heard for 3/6 at the Crystal. Christa had heard of Thin Lizzy. He wondered how her life had been before music was admitted to this street. He marvelled that they must be a similar age and had a sense of worlds converging as they walked. 

*

Today’s musicians were posted at regular intervals. The first set comprised three girls, early teens, a cello and two violins. The cello was pouring out the rich bass line of Pachelbel’s Canon. The violins joined in. Familiar harmonies diligently rendered. 

The young musicians seemed surprised when people started gathering. They focused on their scores, trying to look impervious. One smiled when Christa threw a coin into their hat. All grinned broadly when others followed suit.

‘I think you’ve just made them professionals.’

She smiled.

‘C’est bien mais est une piece excessivement connue,’ remarked a Frenchwoman to companions as the piece came to an end.

‘That was lovely girls. It wasn’t Vivaldi by any chance, was it?’ said an elderly man laden with plastic bags.

The linguists laughed. Hugh put his hand lightly on the back of Christa’s neck. She leaned towards him and he smelt her hair. Her hand touched his waist. Their bodies brushed as they continued down the crowded street. 

An evangelist exhorted them to stop and think. They stopped and bought ice cream that she said wasn’t real. He recommended Plato on the subject.

‘You’ve read Plato?’

‘No, but I saw the film. Sylvester Stallone.’

‘Let me think … Scorsese?’

‘Sorry, Oliver Stone. The critics said his feminism didn’t work and that Plato was miscast. A bit thick …’

‘I have learned to prefer men thick.’

‘To ensure disappointment?’

‘It is easier at the beginning.’

‘You think I was made for you?’

‘You are not my type.’

‘Book early to avoid me.’

They kissed lightly in the street. 

Outside Woolworth’s they heard an uncannily arresting sound.

‘This piece is not excessively known.’

The young men responsible were squatting on the pavement, lost in music they were making, ignoring the rapidly growing crowd that it attracted. One was blowing into a home-made didgeridoo, ingeniously fashioned from a thick plastic hose inserted into a wooden box. The sound it made was eerily authentic. 

The second played a bodhran with a metal stylus rounded at both ends, beating insistent rhythms from rapt concentration, eyes closed and body swaying as its pulses discharged. His companion was equally intent, furiously channelling his breath into soaring sweeps and stabs too raw to be melodic. Spit dribbled from the hose and his cheeks swelled with exertion.

Their music was primordial; a rude sequence of wayward explorations, at once tentative and bold, noble and desultory, each blowing itself out as another rose to carry lingering traces farther past solider, immemorial rhythms of the thumping bodhran. No trimmings or adornment, just energy and pattern, breath and pulse. That was what made it so elemental. 

Hugh whispered his amazement, rejoicing. 

Christa rejoiced in his rejoicing. 

‘You are really feeling this?’

‘I am.’

The musicians were unkempt but not unclean. Both had sandy hair erratically shaved on top, with long frizzy strands coiled into dreadlocks that ran down their backs, bound tightly with crimson bands that made it look like they had tails protruding from their skulls. 

Both were dressed in nondescript khaki, post-aboriginal exiles from the Dreamtime, wrapped in blankets that might once have been ablaze with starry lore. Consumers paused, caught between fascination and disdain. These scruffs were capturing the spirit of Grafton Street and somehow challenging it at the same time. 

Many of those gathered looked uneasy, unsure if they could safely remain. Most seemed repelled but also drawn. Enchanted. A woman in a fur coat turned warily from perusing high end leathers and, casting a cold eye, hurried off.

Meanwhile bags from Pamela Scott, Switzers and Brown Thomas, Guccis, Wranglers, Levis and Adidas continued to pile up. The street was almost blocked! Admen and Trinity toffs rubbed shoulders with the merely fashion-conscious, all helplessly enthralled. 

Managers and security staff viewed the growing crowd with alarm. They were prepared to tolerate buskers as long as access to entrances and windows was preserved but this pair looked distinctly uncouth. There was something strange, almost threatening, about the sounds they were producing and the mood of their audience wasn’t right. 

Something extraordinary was going on.

Two policemen stopped to inspect. The older itched to intervene. Before a pedestrian zone was decreed, the players would have been shifted long ago. Now their music continued to pour out, haunting and unabated, breath amplified by pulse, its savage declarations tempered only by limits of the straining frames through which it flowed. 

Manic improvisations began to emerge. These lads weren’t turning profit but they were shaking their mesmerised audience to its core! Then improvisation gave way to an explosive cacophony of shrill, insistent repetitions that built to an impossibly rapid crescendo before halting abruptly, leaving the scene adrift in a resonant hum of pregnant silence.

Spectators lingered uncertainly before starting to disperse, as if a spell had suddenly been broken. Hugh looked at Christa, who looked transported. He only noticed then that she had taken his hand. He freed it gently and threw money on the musicians’ invitingly spread coat. She followed his example. Theirs were the only contributions so far. 

‘He did it all in one breath!’ the percussionist exclaimed, jumping to his feet. ‘A round of applause for One Breath. Thank you, thank you. Any contributions towards food and fuel would be greatly appreciated!’ Someone tossed 5p on to the coat. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you so very much.’

The percussionist’s tone was mocking.

Their music over, the players looked like they might be animals on show, a relegation they weren’t inclined to suffer. ‘All contributions towards food and fuel would be greatly appreciated,’ echoed One Breath, detaching the hose from its box as he stood up. 

‘Would anyone like to blow my didg? Here,’ he offered the spit-covered plastic to a young woman with wild hair and ripped jeans, ‘would you like a blow?’ 

She recoiled in horror. What remained of the crowd began to scatter. 

Soon there were only two linguists facing One Breath, who sat down saying that he must get back to work. They musnt’t hold up busy Grafton Street any longer.

‘Thank you for your gift of spirit.’

One Breath looked up.

‘We’re always happy to entertain on busy Grafton Street.’

‘You also know that everything is an expression of One Breath.’

One Breath looked down at the ground.

Christa squeezed Hugh’s hand and drew him back to the road. 

‘Come Hugh,’ she said, ‘this is too much for the young man.’ 

Hugh let himself be led but repeated ‘Thank you’ over his shoulder as they turned to leave.

‘Cheers man, thanks. I’ll see you around.’ 

They turned again. One Breath grinned, waving curtly. Then he knelt and re-attached his hose, now drained. The percussionist looked up also, nodding briefly by way of salute. The linguists smiled and resumed their walk.                       

Crowds were flowing easily again. Managers relaxed in their suits and security men let walkie-talkies idle at their sides. The police resumed their authoritative stroll. A well-dressed group at Bewleys played folk on polished instruments. Their music felt oddly out of place. 

A young man in black gesticulated frantically to sounds only he could hear. There was a ravaged look on his face as he played imaginary guitar. A message scribbled on rough cardboard said that he was homeless and needed a flat. People were tending to avoid him. Christa left three pound coins in his cap.

They passed a harpist, two jugglers and a young acoustic duo singing country. Hugh felt himself carried still on waves of One Breath as Christa nudged him into Wicklow Street.

There was a very nice restaurant here, she said. She had made translations for the owner who invited her to dine there anytime, with a friend. Would he like to join her?

Was this a date?

November second, she believed.

He would love to.

Yes!

2011

Dream Postscript

Both Father-Mother dreams mentioned before, C’s and mine, end with us standing on a threshold. This is how things must always seem to hero/ines. However many horizons we clear, there are always others calling us to go farther. This is in the nature of the adventure of existence with respect to the miracle of Being. The Ocean of Possibility is forever behind, beyond and transcendent of our efforts to embrace it.

I leave you with two last dream reflections which illustrate this point from female and male points of view, respectively. These dreams came to C and me on the same morning, a few days after our enactment of her John-the-Father dream. They don’t signal the end of anything but rather the beginning of a new stage in our marrying of complementary intentions. I will share C’s dream with you first:

I have been given an award of some kind. Later there is a ceremony in which I am given a gold apron. John is there also and gets one too.

Dreams never congratulate but sometimes they must recognise achievement. C’s soul does so in this dream. The ceremony clarifies the nature of this achievement and its recognition. Following her ‘Father’ dream, I replace him as the reflection of her current inner masculine disposition and here image one half of her inner sacred (masculine-feminine) marrying process. This would be her final contribution to our 2006 dream advent.

Our gold aprons are tiny and worn over the genitals, signifying a kind of erotic alchemy that transmutes the base red (chakra) of sexual passion into the gold of spiritual healing/creativity. This symbolism also plays over the fig leaves with which Eve and Adam, our first parents, sought to hide their inexplicable sexual shame. There is no place for shame in sacred marriage, only glory. C’s dream sets her on the way to this wedding.

Her award involves no overt outer journeying. A Woman of Spirit, well-travelled, she always returns to Centre in her Heart, although illusion sometimes obscures essential pattern. My masculine edginess lacks this simplicity but also always returns, by desire and aspiration, to it. Here is my dream of the same hour:

We’re on a bus in Malta, travelling to an ancient Goddess site. The bus reverses along a narrow shelf that’s lapped by brilliantly clear water. We alight barefoot beside a huge rocky mound and wait until a stream of tourists has passed through. We then step over the threshold and make our way to a cave-like space in the heart of the rock. I carry two swords in my extended arms. One is Eastern and curved, the other Western and straight. I kneel in the centre of the cave before a primal Mother Goddess made of stone. I lay my swords before her, at the base of a pedestal on which She rests.

There is all and nothing to say about this classic male journey of return except to note that my (inner) Soul Woman now accompanies me as I reverse an outer trajectory back to the Sacred Centre where Primal Mother gives birth to all form. I/we walk barefoot over Holy Ground. My swords represent the dualistic tendencies of ‘male’ individuating consciousness (East-West, Saracen-Crusader, masculine-feminine, Cain-Abel…). 

Malta, in addition to being a site of ancient Goddess sanctuary and witness to many East-West confrontations, is actually in me. Returning to this Universal Source, I am reminded that All is One and surrender my illusion swords to Maya as the Mother of All (Manifestation). I must return to this Point of Creation again and again, as to the generative Womb of Goddess in my Heart.

Enacting, it transpires that C kneels by my side. 

I draw a single Sword of Light out from the stone. 

We look upon the Mother and are Blessed.

[This was written in 2006 as an end piece to Dreaming the Soul Alive (see under ‘Books’).  It is presented as a Story since that is how it feels twenty years on, essentially one that was written by my soul, often in conjunction with Christa’s. Dreaming describes an extended dream series that ran from late March to late May 2006. Postscript conveys a sense of its ending.]

Song for Christa

Sunday September 20 is especially wonderful. The morning train is quiet and reaches Ulm early. Outside the station, a bus waits to carry me on. Even the hospital is quiet. C’s room is bathed in sunshine when I enter. She is asleep.  

I kiss her and she wakens with a smile. She looks radiant in midday light despite the yellowing eyes. A strong energy of love is immediately present. I tell her of my journey and T’s sense that she has come into a loving space where she can feel softly held. I hold her and she falls asleep again.

She wakes up twenty minutes later and asks ‘What time is it?’ ‘1.15.’ ‘Good, you don’t have to go yet.’ She closes her eyes and rests again. I feel absolute, impossible love in that moment, so touched am I. I know how much she has cleared and pray she can return with this peace that she has found.

She wakes again and listens to music on her Walkman. A nurse asks if it’s anything interesting. ‘Mozart’, C says proudly and introduces me as her partner. Now it is my turn to feel proud. An energy of pure love abounds. She sleeps through Laudate Dominum, the Divine Child music from our Goddess Rising play.

Her mother telephones later as arranged. Their exchange is soft and healing. I offer to read a poem I think she will like. It too is by cummings but not one I have read for her before. She says she would like that. I fix her pillows so she can sit up. Closing her eyes as I begin, she smiles at lines she particularly likes. A look of joy beams out as I come to the end.

‘Would you like me to read it again?’

‘Yes please.’

This time she smiles through the whole reading, savouring phrases in their anticipated flow. I watch with love as the smile spreads through her body.

‘Again?’

‘Yes please.’

I read again, more precisely, so she can better catch nuances of expression.

‘One more time?’

She smiles, nodding. I start over, deeply moved by the revelation of these words and the significance they clearly hold for C.

‘We’ve heard it four times now, once for each of the directions. Do you think I should read once more so we can get the essence?’

Yes: I compose myself to read a last time, slowly, my Heart bursting with love, reshaping cummings’ lines as I speak so their essence might arrive intact:

i thank You God for this most amazing day

for the leaping greenly spirits of trees 

and a blue true dream of sky

and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today

and this is the sun’s birthday

this is the birth day of life and of love and wings

and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing 

any – lifted from the no of all nothing – 

human merely being doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

My Beloved’s spirit flies over these words and we are full of hope and joy.    

The next day C is at the centre of a medical emergency. Potassium levels in her blood have soared and need to be stabilised. For four of the six hours that I am present, I can do little more than offer support through her engulfment by this process. At last, it becomes clear that balance will be restored and that she will be comfortable through the coming night. She wakes up shortly after to find me by her bed. She smiles. I kiss her cheek and take her hand.

We are joined then by two earnest-looking doctors. The older one addresses Christa in a rapid, complex German that I can’t follow. I ask for a summary in English: ‘I am not satisfied with the situation. Here is a young woman and we have means to fight this disease. If she does not accept our treatment now, she will die in two days.’ He looks at me, then C. She looks at me, almost apologetically, then turns to him and slowly shakes her head.

She is resolute and calm. There will be no more fighting. The great surrender long called for is to hand. I am awed by her courage and dismayed. I could ask for reconsideration, say I would respect her none the less but that would be undermining, no different than her parents’ attempts. I thank the doctors, saying I must support C’s choice. They go for a blood transfusion ‘to give her more time’ for inner changes to complete and, we have hoped, a particular miracle to unfold. 

‘I’m sorry we never made it to Trieste.’ 

‘I still have faith in miracles.’ 

This is true but something radical has changed. I have never known C to be so definite. Her expression seems totally aligned with her soul, creating an aura of great strength. I ask if she would like me to read for her. She shakes her head and says she is too tired.

A nurse comes with bags of blood warmed to a specific temperature and wrapped in foil to prevent heat loss. I take them and hold them to my Heart, standing over C so I can channel love through a direct flow into her veins. Feeling great waves surging for her, I dare to hope that our miracle may yet transpire. She sleeps while the bags slowly drain.

She wakes then and knows from darkness outside that it is late. ‘Don’t you need to go?’ ‘It’s okay, I can stay a little longer.’ I hold and stroke her face. She looks tired. Her arms are bruised from all the injections she has had. She hates injections. This is not her leaping greenly world. 

‘Go now darling, quickly, or you’ll miss your train.’ 

She’s right. I kiss her and turn to leave, saying that I still require her company on the Danube. She smiles weakly as I go. There is more love and therefore truth in her last sentence than in all the words of all the teachers we have met over these last years.

The train is cold, empty and bright, clattering at high speed through outer darkness. Alone in the carriage I weep, Heart-broken that my beautiful love may not return from her ordeal: so many ordeals, so much suffering and tireless, never-ending work.

I am back again by noon. C is physically tired but spiritually calm. Her breathing is regular and comes from deep within. All her energy is needed to sustain it. She looks as if she is exploring other worlds. I take her feet and channel love through them. This gets easier by the day, a direct expression now of my first nature. Her breathing continues unperturbed and she looks radiant, as if to mark her perfect soul-alignment. I hope once more that she might yet return.

That evening she can’t eat. The doctors invite me to stay and I agree. C spends most of the time sleeping. Each time she wakes, I reassure her that I will be staying. She smiles, happy that she won’t be left alone. A strong light burns weakly in her eyes. I build two paths and settle by her side, knowing again what it means to truly love. One path leads back to Earth and another through the stars. Her soul will choose.

The atmosphere changes as night-shift begins. With reduced staffing, hospital emphasis passes from care to containment. Medicine is administered to aid sleep and dull pain. Catheters are offered to patients who, like C, are unable to meet toilet needs alone. From the depths of her altered state, she accepts morphine and refuses a catheter. I will help with the commode.

The hours pass calmly until midnight. I mop her brow, telling her repeatedly that I love her, synchronising with the rhythm of her breath so she can hear me clearly after each exhale. I am not sure why I am doing this until, suddenly, she gets agitated. She pulls herself up, clinging tenaciously to an overhead triangle. Her fingers lock death-like around the bar. Her eyes dart anxiously, betraying fear.

She speaks a clipped, staccato dialect that I mostly cannot grasp. ‘Mama, schnell bitte. Papa, schnell, schnell, schnell!’ Her anxiety is focused on soiling the bed, or a fear of doing so but when I offer help she pushes me away with fierce strength, the fingers of one hand clinging tenaciously to the bar. She seems not to understand my words.

I realise that I am meeting a part of her that knows no English, never dared open to the world and has pushed away the love it craves for years. Locked fingers assert this fundamental holding and a terror of existence that no psychology could ever hope to shift. Instinctively, I modulate my tone, stroking her gently and saying repeatedly ‘Ich liebe dich, ich libe dich, ich liebe dich…’ Gradually, she calms and lets me ease her fingers from the bar. I take them gently in my hand.

Her breathing quietens and becomes regular again. She lets me settle her back on the pillows. I continue to hold her hands, repeating over and over ‘Ich libe dich’ in gaps between her breaths. She sleeps a little then but startles soon after, flapping anxiously as she again calls ‘Mama, Papa, schnell, schnell, schnell …’ I sense that she really does need the commode and manage to get her to it in time.

She is exhausted from the effort and hangs limply as I clean her with one hand before lifting her back into the bed. Her body is faint and birdlike, receding, but her essence shines brightly still. I see my Christa in light of a familiar beauty and kiss her face. She knows me as I rearrange the covers, kissing her more, telling her I love her, repeating this until she relaxes into sleep.

A few minutes later she stirs again. The same agitated consciousness erupts: ‘Mama, Papa, schnell, schnell schnell…’ This time there is no actual emergency. I calm her with gentle strokes and reassurance: Ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich, ich liebe dich…’  She holds my right hand in both of hers. I caress her cheek lightly with my left.

By 4 am the panic has passed. C is now happy to be held but agitation has cost the last of her physical strength. She looks totally worn-out. Without realising, I find myself saying ‘Go home my love. It’s time now to be free.’ It’s clear that she has nothing more to give. My consciousness expresses knowledge of this in words I could never have imagined saying. 

Nevertheless, I find myself repeating them over and over, letting C know I am aware of what has happened and that she must no longer feel bound by my hope or any sense that she might be letting it down. In this moment I too am wholly clear and fully resolved. I know now what her soul has chosen. Lying beside her on the bed, I continue to reassure her of my love.

C’s work is done. Nothing remains but a farewell to her parents. At 7.00 I advise them to come as early as they can. They arrive by bus and train around eleven. Her mother sits on C’s left, placing hands on her daughter’s wrist and shoulder. I make way so her father can do likewise on the right. He sits and looks, not knowing how to behave. 

I hold C’s feet at the end of the bed, channelling love to her with all my might. Her mother speaks endearments in her ear. Her father sits helplessly before getting up and shuffling off. He wanders aimlessly in the room, like a fly in a jar. Numbed by overwhelm, he inspects the tiniest elements of décor.

I take the chair he has vacated and hold C’s hand. Kissing it, I lean towards her, and say ‘I love you/Ich liebe dich’ over and over, as I have been doing through the night. Then, without knowing why, I burst into tears. Seeing this has some impact on her father and, when a nurse brings food for me, he takes my place.  

This time he puts his hands on his daughter’s arm and wrist, just like her mother on the other side. He leans forward and speaks into C’s ear. For the first time ever, I believe, she is held in unanimously loving embrace by both her parents. 

I sit at a table away from the bed and start to eat. C’s parents continue their loving ministrations. All is well. After some time, her mother calls sharply ‘John!’ I look and see that my Beloved is no longer breathing. I rush over. C’s eyes, still beautiful, are empty. The spirit that once shone through them has left. I was not present. I did not see her go or say goodbye.

I might have felt cheated by this, or guilty, but I don’t. I know from the nurse’s timing that my job has been to prepare C for those minutes with her parents and withdraw, surrendering as she did to Divine Will. Now she has passed without the slightest hint of stress or agitation.

The feeling is one of grace and wonder. The whole room throbs with love. So inspiring is the moment that we forget to be sad. I know something wonderful has taken place: that C received at the end of her life all that seemed lacking from its start, providing great healing for her parents also. Eventually, her mother calls a nurse. I step out to walk a little. 

Passing through familiar corridors, my consciousness is elevated still. The sublime transition I have witnessed dwarfs in majesty and scale all the gleaming banks of technology and buzzing expertise around me. Moving out to fresh air and bright sky, my sense of context is restored. Christa is no longer in this world! I can’t begin to think what that might mean.

I send messages to persuade myself, asking friends to relay the news. I remember words from my first message: ‘C passed beautifully c 12.30 in perfect unison with both her parents.’  Soon after, T replies ‘With tears streaming down my face, I see a huge space like a doorway of light opened for the world. You, standing in Gold, place the Crown of Glory on her head. C’s journey is perfectly completed.’

Wandering in university grounds, I know nothing of this but it mirrors my feeling. I walk through a little forest to the campus edge, arriving at a hillside that offers a view back over Ulm. Seeing the cathedral spire I imagine a little girl in the square beneath. A Wonder Child, forgetful of identity, she converses with doves who flock to her acquaintance. I linger there a while; then, carrying her in my Heart, turn back to face another life.

The atmosphere is still sublime. C’s parents are sad but relieved.  The manner of her passing and their role has erased fears of a difficult, unresolved parting. They know she was prepared: reconciled and unafraid. This inspires them as it does me. I pay respect to the temple of her body one last time, marvelling at the wonder of dis/incarnation, crying shamelessly at the glory and abysmal sorrow of it all. I find myself clinging to her legs as Magdalene clings to Jesus’ in the sculpted tableau at La Baume.

We are left alone then for three hours. I pack C’s things. There is too much to carry so a neighbour comes to drive me ‘home.’ I can’t imagine ‘home’ without C. Mundane sensibility is starting to return. As we step out from the clinic into light, my world hurtles out of phase. Nothing coheres. All that once seemed ‘here’ is now elsewhere, accessible no longer. 

I knew this world through the vibration of C’s presence. This land for me was her land. Now she has withdrawn and I am lost. I can’t find a way out of muted consciousness and sit quietly through the drive. Finally, I say this to my friend. He understands. I don’t. Nothing seems understandable anymore. 

A vast, shapeless challenge looms before me, to assimilate all that now impends and give it form. I have no idea how to go on.

C’s flat is rented. This means the world we shared there must soon vanish. The next day I start to gather memories, absorbing reflections of her presence that surround me: now this photo, then that, a picture, book or plant, the exquisitely harmonious appointment of her living space, where every detail is a signature, a memento of her having been. No more. 

Her presence was a delicate one: sublime and expansive when unthreatened; fragile and vulnerable in harder times. She was a flower whose nature was to bloom for every sun but whose spontaneity had been curbed by harsh experience. My part was to soften her way. Sometimes I managed. 

She was never just the troubled girl who grew to be a troubled woman. Her wound was not an effect of damaged psychology but its absolute underpinning, the base recoil of one who was put aside at birth, suffered constant inhibition and lived almost without notice towards an end of pure service.  

She was not, as she sometimes thought, one who failed to clear this wound but a great soul who bore its extremity for all, resolving in the hour of her death patterns laid down at her beginning, given again into her parents’ care. The beauty of this resolution chills me.

I walk in a nearby forest where we used to walk, feeling the pressure of her hand in mine, wondering how she could ever have doubted my love and knowing, too late. I cry aloud, whispering over and over ‘I love you and I love you and I love you, forever and forever and forever.’ Again I feel like Magdalene beneath the cross: shattered, desolate, bereft. 

T says I look sad and bewildered; that I am being dismantled.

On the fourth day my intolerable ache reduces slightly, becoming noticeable for this. Fleetingly, I intuit a possibility of Beyond. A friend drives me then to Langenargen on Lake Constance. Its familiar world endures strangely, despite C’s absence. We walk by the shore towards a marina. 

Open book stalls are still there and droves of people, seemingly assured. An elderly couple passes on bikes. I would have liked to grow old with C, happily wise. Now I am torn and unmet; everywhere unmet. Awareness tells that every disaster brings new opening and every opening greater life. I hope C is enjoying hers now. I miss it so much. 

Next day I ride her bicycle to another favoured place, a country track just outside the city. I imagine her walking by my side, a welcome ghost. It’s hard but I try projecting my sense of her presence all around, extending it as far as I can see. My Heart opens with renewed intent. I sense a nascent spaciousness within. A new way seems to beckon, new love. 

How could C have doubted ours? How could I have failed to express it? Or succeeded? I know now but the question lingers. That last unexpected clearing showed her wound to be foundational, and a power of Spirit in her to keep pressing for release. My joy is that she found love absolutely in those hours and that this brought her gently Home, the tyrannies of a deep past overcome. 

I too must let go of a deep past, dissolving old forms into new orders of relationship with my Beloved. I recall words from an English folksong: ‘My true love has flown into every flower grown/ and I will be Keeper of the Garden’. C’s expansion is vaster, trans-dimensional, but still the pattern fits. When one is here and another there, mutually yearning, yearning brings estranged worlds together. 

Renewed questing for my Love has brought me this awareness. My passion was once focused through her. Now it must open to see everything revealed as Beloved. Sun shines on the valley where her city nestles still. The Alps reflect gloriously from afar. Corn in the next field stands waiting to be cut.

2010