Naked Tree

leaves that fall copper and bronze to the earth
make music and create beauty
those that are torn from the branch are incoherent
they scream as their veins collapse
they weep as they realise they will never be autumnal

this naked tree is not bare for the winter
she is not a roost for the buzzard and nuthatch
- no, this tree is all but uprooted
the scar on the earth is terrible

gaping wide, exposed to all
and sundry (in all its shapes and sizes),
there are some who try to describe her form as art
others explore utilitarianism, consider
how the branches will be kindling and the trunk so many tables and chairs
- she has not died in vain.

but i weep open-mouthed and ugly
i rage against the injustice
have no patience with the blessed
or with those who bare their own wounds

for this tree was primed for greatness
her branches tended yet wild
the harvest a long sweaty labour
but the fruits so sweet and so plump

I cannot dance round her yet
i will not celebrate what was
i can only caress her memory 
and miss her
and weep.

Moonrise

The moon rises

i wash my face in her tears

clouds scud across the stuttering stars

i wipe my eyes on sky's dark cloth

and all the while,

as these mystical happenings loom large in front of me,

i hardly see them

i scarcely feel the roughness of the cloth

so lost in grief am i,

so already-raw,

that no new pain can match it,

no sight nor sound can measure up

and no spirit can revive what i have lost.

[written 18th September]

"death is moving from being somewhere to being everywhere" Margaret Silf

...and yet

there are so many areas of life
so many aspects of every day
where i can't reach you

one of three buddies on Moodscope
a follower on every blog i've ever written
a favourite contact on Skype, on Facebook, on Gmail
and always in my Top Ten of phone calls

one click and you're gone
a few taps of the backspace button
and your name has disappeared
a seemingly casual delete
and your name has been erased

and it is possibly quite soothing
that you live on as an avatar
it is probably a help
that all your messages are still there

but yet
i keep wanting to hear your voice
i hover over your name on my phone
i long to write to you and share with you
and laugh and cry and hug
you...

A Woman Who Lived Adventurously

From Quaker Faith and Practice, Chapter One: Advices and Queries

27. Live adventurously. When choices arise, do you take the way that offers the fullest opportunity for the use of your gifts in the service of God and the community? Let your life speak. When decisions have to be made, are you ready to join with others in seeking clearness, asking for God's guidance and offering counsel to one another?

Alison pregnant with Caitlin

carrying precious cargo

driving them around

both a privilege and a worry.

[A memory as i drove the three children to the woodland burial] 

Psalm 121 (King James Version)

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth.

He will not suffer thy foot to be moved:

he that keepeth thee will not slumber.

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is thy keeper: the Lord is thy shade upon thy right hand.

The sun shall not smite thee by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil: he shall preserve thy soul.

The Lord shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in

from this time forth, and even for evermore.

I look up to the mountains

does my strength really come from those great heights?

No, indeed not. For my strength comes from God,

from the divine spark, that of God within me

within and around us all

co-Creator with us, Creator of us,

Creator for us. 

[reflection during Meeting for Worship on The Message version of Psalm 121, verse one following on from the King James version being read at the graveside]

extract from "A Kite for Michael and Christopher" by Seamus Heaney

My friend says that the human soul

is about the weight of a snipe,

yet the soul at anchor there,

the string that sags and ascends,

weigh like a furrow assumed into the heavens.

Before the kite plunges down into the wood

and this line goes useless

take in your two hands, boys, and feel

the strumming, rooted, long-tailed pull of grief.

You were born fit for it.

Stand in here in front of me

and take the strain.

(thank you dear Iona for finding this for me)

cord-bearers

- take the strain

(let me fall)

release the cords

and she will fly

(but she is my anchor

who will hold me now?)

During the Memorial Meeting for Worship this was sung:

"How Can I Keep From Singing?"...Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

Enfolded in the arms of girls i've known since before their births

comforted by those who once i gently soothed and rocked 

and sung to by a girl of wisdom true, the Gean girls wild and free.

COURAGE

Courage has roots. 

 She sleeps on a futon on the floor and lives close to the ground. 

Courage looks you straight in the eye.

She is not impressed by power trippers, and she knows first aid.
Courage is not afraid to weep and she is not afraid to pray,
even when she is not sure who she is praying to.
When Courage walks, it is clear that she has made the journey from loneliness to solitude.
The people who told me she was stern were not lying;
they just forgot to mention she is kind.

(from "The Book of Qualities" by J Ruth Gendler.  Quoted in a card sent to me by Alison which has been of such great solace to me.  So many cards and letters over so many years, each with precious messages of comfort, encouragement, love and spirit)

Guiding Star

She guides me, 

reminds me, 

at times defines me

And now she's died

i will not hide

(though part of me too has died)

(after Lemn Sissay's Love Poem:

You remind me

define me

incline me.

If you died

I'd)

When i visited Alison in hospital i was so grateful for the opportunity to be really present with her and her with me.  We cried and talked, held hands, kissed.  And i sobbed my heart out, unable to contemplate life without my soul-sistah, my best friend, the one person i had been able to be completely and utterly honest with at all times (even if that did mean that we had a few massive fall-outs!).  We infuriated each other at times but always, always there was the strongest pull that kept us coming back together.  What we had was way too good to lose.

As i sobbed with my head on the hospital bed covers and her hand on my head i told her that i didn't know how i could go on without her.  And she answered me, not with platitudes but with the words "I know.  I don't want to die".

The love poem that Lemn Sissay wrote kept jumping into my head and heart and soul.  I knew that when Alison died part of me would go with her, part of me could not live without her and ALL of me would have times of immense struggle without her by my side, at the end of the phone, through the miracle of Skype, or the medium of written word.

A friend emailed me this morning and wrote: I hope her star will continue to shine brightly over you.  And a girl who used to be one of my students sent me a message on Facebook:

"Did you know you were running with me along a lovely railway line in Dollar last night? I was running and you burst into my head and I felt this urge to contact you. It was very strange and compelling. Then this song came on my ipod so I thought I would share it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WbN0nX61rIs. I know from your facebook posts that all is not right and I am truly sad about that. I am apparently sending strange messages of support?! and of course, all my love. Its always darkest before the dawn."

I love that railway line, walked it many moons ago when on a Franciscan Third Order Retreat.

Alison is guiding me and i will keep walking the path though i will often stumble.

Silk Dress

I overheard the family discussing how Alison would like to be dressed when she passed and it was so beautiful, so poignant, so painful.  They have chosen the silk dress that her twin made for her for her commitment ceremony when she committed her life to Mark 20 years ago.  I haven't seen her wearing it (typical of me that i had flu on the day of their ceremony plus an ex-girlfriend was going to be there and i just didn't feel strong enough to cope) so this poem is pure imagination...

It sits so perfectly across your hips

falls that way that only silk can

down your tranquil torso,

lies across your collar bones

softly strokes your tender skin.

If you move it will follow

silent waves of shimmering threads,

if you dance it will caress you

gently holding as you twirl.

You do not move at all or breathe

the dress lies still

flat calm of endless sea

as perfect as the day you wore it

to be betrothed

to your true love.

Twenty years have hurled past

three children have joined the dance

and all the time the dress lay waiting

for the perfect moment

to re-emerge.

You never dreamed your twin would sew

such an excellent, gorgeous gown

(though you knew how keen her eye,

how neat her hand)

This dress, it took your breath away

turned your sealskin into silk

and now you wear it (it wears you)

and the boundless ocean calls you back

you slip from human form to selkie

and the waves rise up to greet you.

Held in Arms

"Held in arms" was our one poetry duologue over the 26 years of our friendship.  We always wrote though, always shared our words.

You responded to my poem

- how proud i was, how delighted

that you should choose this intimacy.

And now i can never hold you again

though i will never ever let you go

I can never stroke your luscious locks

or run a finger along your jaw

How i long to hear your sing-song voice

on the phone, on Skype, anywhere

Why didn't i keep a recording?

How could i so casually hit delete?

And now you are gone

And now you are gone from your earthbound self

you are the selkie and the unicorn

the kelpie and the dragon

You are all and everything

yet no more i'll hear your voice

And i will miss so very many things

too numerous to list

And as i sit on wood

my feet on stone

i hear the wind shake trees

i see the candle flame stutter

i smell the incense, the flowers, the hot molten wax

You are all and everything

yet no longer can i touch your skin

And i will miss so very many things

too numerous to list.

written on Sunday 1st September in Lady Chapel, Osmotherley.

About this blog

It has been so long since i last blogged.  It has always been something that Alison encouraged me to do, something she did as well and something she always took the time to read and comment on.

The blog she kept throughout her cancer journey is called "The leaves of the tree are for the healing" after her favourite biblical quotation "The leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations" (Revelations 22:2).  She shared it with a very few people, kept it under the name "Marion's Twin" and challenged the readers with her honesty, tenacity, frustration and joys.

A fortnight ago i was driving home from being with Alison and took a quiet route which led me to the lovely town of Corbridge.  There i found an independent bookshop called Forum Books selling books and all things paper-related.  It was very soothing to me to wander round the space.  Alison would have loved it!  I bought a few things - a birthday present for Gemma, some bulldog clips to help me sort my paperwork (labelled SEND, PAY, DEAL, FILE...) and a beautiful wee book called "Lament: Scottish poems for funerals and consolation".  Helen Stanton, the owner of Forum Books, told me she used to work for the publisher, Polygon and had been entranced by the collection which includes "Handfast: Scottish Poems for Weddings and Affirmations".

In "Lament" on the title page i found inscribed "by leaves we live".  As i flicked through the leaves that follow i then found this:

Fall
after Rilke

The leaves are falling, falling from trees
in dying gardens far above us; as if their slow
free-fall was the sky declining.

And tonight, this heavy earth is falling away
from all the other stars, drawing into silence.

We are all falling now.  My hand, my heart,
stall and drift in darkness, see-sawing down.

And we still believe there is one who sifts and holds
the leaves, the lives, of all those softly falling.

Robin Robertson

So this blog is called "Alison - the leaves are falling".  I need somewhere that i can write exactly what i want but i don't want to just do that in a notebook kept under my pillow.  I want to share it with you in the hope that it might speak to you too, that you might want to have some dialogue, that we might heal together even if all the leaves do seem to have fallen...