“It’s raining,”. A momentary irritation crosses my soul. The dog, for whom we are currently out here, won’t walk now that little drops of water are falling from the grey skies. “No, let’s push on,” I say. “Let’s just see how far we can go. But it’s almost as if she knew how the short trip to the gate would evolve, because she -the dog- skipped over the grassy bits and followed us down the road. She raced ahead with her little bum and tail wagging, content as a warthog in the bushveld. Probably because the rain has stopped. As we walk, we chat about the teenagers soirée being hosted this evening, about the phone call I had earlier from another widow whose partner had been dealt with metastasised melanoma tumours in his brain. Above us, around us, the skies are grey, low, depressing. Out west, a minute ribbon of light reminds me that the sun has not yet set. We reach the gate and return on our footsteps. But the sky has changed in a matter of seconds. Where there was a ribbon of light where the sun would set, the horizon is now flecked with pink, and it stretches across the suburban skyline. I’m intrigued at how in the blink of an eye, the world around me has changed. I stop in my tracks, and whip the phone out from my pocket. The girls and the dog walk ahead of me, but even as I line up the best angle for a photo- I struggle with how ineffective phone cameras are for these moments- once again the light has changed. Now I stand still and just watch, for with ever increasing moments towards sunset, the skies are racing towards a climactic orgasm. I swivel my head to the east and the hint of a rainbow has appeared in the grey, and my girls have stopped in their tracks, such is the splendour of the skies around us. This is a moment quite unlike any moment I have felt recently. The setting sun always an inspiration to me, where the hustle of the day succumbs in magnificence to the night. But now, in this blink of an eye, it’s as if the sun is being liberated from an oppressive companion. She’s fighting to be seen, she wants to be noticed. And as she unfurls from the grey mantle of clouds, as the racing winds high up in the atmosphere help her to push away the vestiges of a dark soul, she shines. She fills up the evening sky with gold, with warmth, with awe and amazement.
There are 2 subjects that spring to mind as I sit down to write to you this month.
The first is that I recently started reading ‘Intermezzo’ by Sally Rooney. For years I have been confused about Ms Rooneys books, because I have been under the foolish impression that Sally Rooney is the wife of a (an ex) English footballer, and how on earth could a football hero be married to a literary artist so enormous that NY Times has her regularly on their list of recco’s. Turns out Sally Rooney is not Colleen Rooney (thank you Midnight Google) and the world is back on its correct axis. (Also, please forgive me for my judgemental clichéd stereotype assumptions. Let’s just blame Generation X generational toxicity.)
There’s a reason Sally Rooney’s books are considered literary hits. Apparently the world needs to be challenged by obscure, grammarless writings, for without challenging ourselves while reading, have you in fact even READ? I say this with an amount of tongue in cheek-ness, because I deeply admire authors who write with seemingly careless obscurity AND GET AWAY WITH IT (Booker prize novels are littered with this style), I secretly covet being recognised for my own flowery obscurity and would simply be in awe if I could publish even a 150 page paperback for the reflections I scribble. But the tongue-in-cheek-ness is actually more aimed at acknowledging and promoting authors who write to encourage people to read. Sometimes we just want to sit in a cosy nook, our feet tucked up beneath us, in the arms of a story that transports us to another world, a place of escapism and not a place of trying to battle through grammarless style, trying to absolve weary characters of their inherited (or inherent perhaps?) flaws.
The reason I’m rambling about inspirational literary authors is because, despite my conflicting opinion about them, reading Intermezzo this morning while waiting for the teenagers to wake up inspired me to write, so thank you Ms Rooney. I was grateful to have had a meteorological moment last night that warranted flowery reporting’s, which is what I started this essay with. And as I arrived at the inconclusive final words, I realised that it ties in with what else has been sitting on my mind for the last 3 weeks or so.
The girls and I travelled to South Africa in the Toussaint holiday (October/November) to take Anton- well, obviously his ashes- home. Beth and I profited from the journey in that we got to celebrate our birthdays with our South African family. And being with our family made the journey easier than it could have been. Cue up lots of laughs, sunshine, relaxation, lots of photos, and family time in a way we’ve not had in years: I would go so far as to say the red carpet was rolled out to make us feel like royalty. It was such an honour and I can’t express my gratitude enough. Dad, Sheila, Graham, SJ and Andrea, my Carr nieces and nephews, not to mention Koekie, Johan, Belinda and Ruan, and the friends who made time for us. When I shared a series of photos on my Insta account it elicited a warm response from some friends saying how happy and carefree I was looking, and it was so nice to see the old me.
Where I should gracefully accept the compliment and let it rest, I have unfortunately overanalysed it- to my demise I guess. I know I’m allowed to laugh. Grief and widowhood in the 21st century is not the same as it was in Victorian England. But ‘the old me’? Just who have I been for what, the last 20 years? 10 years? Did marriage change me? Did moving to Europe change me? Was it motherhood? Who am I now in this new era?
Holidays should bring out the best in us. That’s why I look carefree. And yet, there’s a new angle to me now, and its that I am also a little more free too.
48 cycles around the sun. I’ve lived in boarding school for 12 years- I learnt to exist in a different form to make space for everyone else. I’m an introvert at the best of times and the friends I have made are friends for life. I have also learnt to be my own best friend, even though I know I’m not my best own best friend, and choosing marriage is/was a natural progression. Partners for life are almost like friends for life. The difference is we don’t tend to live with our friends – unless our husband/wife/partner IS our ride-or-die BFF. But ultimately, once we find ourselves living with someone else, it’s natural that we evolve. Its natural that the way we do things is different- in much the same way I endured boarding school for 12 years. We find ourselves making space for each other. We accommodate for each others habits. We end up complimenting what we each bring to the party, or certainly that is the goal. I think that that is what Anton and I had.
Is it a natural progression then, that widowhood essentially becomes a re-birth of your youthful self? Or am I just lucky…no, luck has nothing to do with it. Am I blessed to have been held by so many kind people that I have ‘escaped’ a life of perpetual widowhood loneliness that I can be comfortable in the skin I have that allows me to just be myself, or a slightly more relaxed version of myself? Or- and perhaps I need to allow myself some grace, but admit that its me who has done the work: its in the people who have raised me and taught me to be strong, to be the open-minded empathetic woman I am.
Heading back to Europe after this trip has been riddled with a hard level of homesickness. After 3 weeks of summer holiday vibes, coming back to winter in Europe and so much stress at work and school has brought my emotions back into perspective. Grief and my emotions are all fluid and linear. The deep tan and healthy glow, the carefree wrinkles in my laughing eyes are but a fading memory as we wrap up against the cold. I bury snotty tissues in every single pocket of clothing, I sleep with honey-lemon water at my bedside for when I wake up coughing during the night. I search endlessly for lip balm and face cream for the dryness, despite the insane levels of humidity here. I’m even lamenting an outbreak of acne because there’s no sun to bleach my skin pores (don’t ask if that’s for real. I’m just writing it as an excuse because it feels like it could be a thing). The shortness of the days has hit me harder than it ever has, so I’m going to have to dig deep for the strength to endure winter this year, despite my own well-known opinion that winter is good for us: it allows us to hibernate, and seek a fresh beginning as the world- well, certainly the world above a certain latitude level up north- is liberated by the return of the sun in March.
My original prose had me drawing conclusions about my rebirth from widowhood. Perhaps the real demons are those that we internalise and inflict on our own selves. Perhaps the freedom I seek is merely my own limitations, and happiness and freedom comes from that.
I’m going to sign off now, because its the end of November in less than 12 hours, and this entry needs to be up, even if its my own self-imposed goals that mean I scribble obscurely like a Booker-prize winner [insert various emoji’s like ROTFL and eye-rolling].
But before I do, answer me this: in your partnership, are you true to yourself all the time, or do you find that you’ve made allowances for a peaceful existence, and do you think its a positive or negative attribute?
Love and wishes,
GdP
PS: Please don’t pay too much attention to my musings about Intermezzo, but read it if you can get your hands on it. ❤
Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals 