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- Herausgeber: Brandon
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
Alice has known, loved, and lost many people throughout her life. Here she talks about her special people, her memory of what meant so much to her about them. She remembers her husband, father and mother, a beloved sister, her little brother Connie, and many others. She tells how she coped with the emptiness she felt when they died, of the seeming impossibility of moving on with life after such deeply felt loss, when time stood still. This book is a sharing – it lets the reader in on a story and celebration of life in its intimacy, its small, precious moments. When we experience grief, sharing in someone else's story can help us more than anything, and in the hands of master storyteller Alice Taylor, we may find our own solace and the space to remember our own special people.
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And Time Stood Still
Alice Taylor
Dedication
For those who brought love and joy to my life
and to you now walking the memory road.
Contents
Preface
Nothing prepares us for the ferocity of grief. The death of those we love disturbs our deepest roots and catapults us – bruised, broken and unprepared – on to the path of grief. Time seems to stand still. Even the word ‘death’ strikes a chill in the mind. Mostly we ignore it and avoid using it, like people walking backwards towards a cliff edge. But no matter what we call it, when a loved one goes over that edge we are whipped around and made to look death straight in the face. Then the hurting encompasses us like a shroud; pain takes hold and clings us to that black space.
Someone who was part of your world is gone and has taken a chunk of you with them. As well as taking your loved one, death has also taken part of you. A beloved limb has been amputated and you are left with a raw, bleeding wound. Grief is physical as well as mental. You cannot eat and you cannot sleep. Your energy has evaporated and your coping skills have shrunk. Small decisions have turned into major challenges and your threshold of tolerance had disintegrated.
You feel alone on this journey and nothing prepares you for its devastation. You walk around looking normal, but inside you are bleeding. The world has shrunk into a painful path and you seem to go round and round in circles. You are in a prison of desolation without walls.
The bewildering thing is that your loved one is still part of your everyday thinking and their presence is still all around you. Impossible as it seems, you are living in two worlds – the ‘before’ and the ‘after’. These two worlds are not welded together, so your thinking is split and the ground beneath your feet is a deep chasm.
Reason and grief have no relationship. Grief is raw emotion; reason does not come into it. When someone you love dies, deep dormant feelings escape out of a previously unquarried reservoir – a roaring tide is let loose and it breaks down all barriers and sweeps on, creating mental chaos.
Waking up in the morning is the toughest part of the day. For one second before realisation dawns, the nightmare is not there. But then reality crashes in. There is no getting away from it: another day to get through!
You look around at people who have survived terrible trauma and wonder: How can they keep going? When I asked this of a friend, she replied sadly: ‘There’s no choice. If people didn’t recover from grief the world would come to a standstill.’ But in grief your world is at a standstill.
It is a time when prayer should help; but that may not be so. Your loved one has gone across the great divide where all your prayers have gone. Heaven is silent now and God may have become the God of no explanations.
In times of heartache I often turn to nature. In the dark of night when a fierce storm rages, the deep roots of a tree hold it in the earth, and similarly when we are battling through the storm of death and grief the human spirit can find within itself the power of amazing endurance. As we struggle on, tiny stepping-stones appear. They are created by kindness, nature and our own inner creative resources, and by a source above and beyond our human understanding.
Tears will help to soften the frozen lump of grief that has parked itself where your heart was and eventually a tiny bud of peace may tentatively begin to flower and fragile shoots of hope come and go. Time moves again, slowly at first. An Eastern sage said: ‘Hope is like a road in the country where there wasn’t ever a road – but when many people walk on it, the road comes into existence.’
Through the Eyes of a Child
Chapter 1
Little Brother
‘What did you buy at the auction?’ I enquired eagerly. ‘An antique bed,’ my sister told me. ‘It’s in the back room. Go and have a look.’
Full of anticipation, I walked hurriedly back the corridor, anxious to see her purchase, but when I opened the bedroom door I stood transfixed. The smell of sulphur permeated the room. At some point in its journey, her antique bed had absorbed the smell of a sulphur candle that now filled the air and curled up my nostrils. A chilling fibre of memory stirred in the deep recesses of my mind. Gradually other fibres awoke and wove themselves into a shroud that wrapped itself around me and dragged me back. Back through a whole lifetime.
I was six years of age, standing uncertainly outside the white bedroom door in the shadowy upstairs landing of our old farmhouse. A slim pencil of light from the narrow skylight overhead shone on the battered brass knob. I wanted to turn that dented knob and open the door, but dreaded doing so. One part of my mind knew that he would not be inside in the wooden bed, curled up in a little ball, breathing quietly. And yet he might be! As long as I didn’t open the door there was always the hope, the possibility that it had all never happened. That I had imagined it. That it was not true. But once I opened that door I would know, know for sure that he was gone and would never again come back.
I finally turned the rattling brass knob and the door squeaked in protest. I edged it open just a few inches and peeped in through the narrow opening. The room was in shadow. A navy-blue blind was pulled down over the one small window. The big old wooden bed took up most of the room, the horsehair mattress and feather tick rolled up on its wire base. All sheets and blankets, signs of our sleeping comfort, were gone, whipped off and washed in tubs of disinfectant and hung for days on the clothes line in the grove behind the house.
In a white sconce on a small wicker table in front of the window stood a yellow sulphur candle. Its flame, edged with grey smoke, guttered and spluttered in a pool of hot candle grease that overflowed in little yellow streams down along its sides. Its heavy, cloying, acrid smell snaked upwards along the latticed walls, across the low, timber ceiling, around the edge of the door and curled up my nostrils. There was only one reason for that sulphur candle in the bedroom that we had shared since he had left the iron cot in our parents’ bedroom: the sulphur candle was there to fumigate the room after his death. That smell told me that he was gone. He was gone and all that was left was this terrible smell.
The smell had a hypnotic effect on me. It terrified and repelled me, but in some horrific way it fascinated me too. Every day I peeped in and every day the smell of the sulphur candle told me the same story. It crept up my nose and into my memory box. It was the smell of his going. On that day in my sister’s bedroom the smell of the sulphur candle melted the seal over my childhood trauma and the dead memory strands awoke. They catapulted me back in time.
In my earliest memory I am sitting on a warm flagstone on the doorstep of our old home while Connie sits in his pram under a huge palm tree in the garden. That old palm tree dominated our garden and its branches brushed against the window panes, filling the rooms at the far end of the house with moving shadows.
Connie and I were the youngest in a family of seven, so when the others were gone to school we were left to our own devices. The farmyard was our playground. We fed the baby ducks and goslings, but always with a wary eye on the gander, who did not like us. Feeding the hens was great excitement as flocks of birds swooped down to share the hens’ breakfast. Later in the day it was our job to check the henhouse for fresh eggs and notify my mother that it was time for collection. Afterwards, Lady, the mother greyhound, could be let loose; she had an appetite for fresh eggs and had to be tied up until after egg collection – the other dogs and the cats posed no such problem so were free to roam around the yard and farm buildings. It was our job too to feed the cats at milking time from the rusty cover of an old churn. We also helped with the feeding of the calves but stood well back when they dived into the buckets of milk, as they could suddenly thrust the bucket forward in a fit of exuberance and injure unwisely positioned feet.
