Requiem for a Brother

Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

My brother died today. It sounds harsh doesn't it. Stark. Maybe that is why we avoid it with euphemisms like 'passed away', 'gone to his rest' or 'we lost him today', trying to soften the reality, make it gentler or less final. But the reality is harsh and stark and painful. My beloved brother is gone from my sight and my touch and my hearing. For people of many faiths death is not an ending but a transition, therefore not to be feared, but accepted as part of a life which continues. This is comforting to many.

But for me, on this day, at this moment I feel only loss. 

I have just been reading Susanna Kearsley's new book "Bellewether". Oddly, a minor theme in the story is the main character's recent loss of her brother. To avoid copyright issues, I will  paraphrase a description that I felt very apt. 'She said that missing her brother caused her physical pain, as if an organ had been removed and the edges stitched so badly that it might never heal. But she hid her wound under her clothes so that no one would know that she was no longer whole.' 

It is true though isn't it. Death leaves holes in our soul, places that are invisible yet  scarred. And we hope that we have covered them successfully so they cannot be seen. We hide them because it makes others uncomfortable. They don't know what to say. They sometimes place time limits on grief. They think your faith should be enough. Actually, there is very little to say that helps, and nothing to say that changes anything. Grief has its own timetable and cannot be scheduled. Faith may provide hope for the future and solace in the present, but must make room for pain and its expression.

Grief's sharpest edges will soften over time and the initial pain will dull eventually. Tears will flow less frequently but they will remain close by for a long time. Healing will not take place if grief is hidden away or not acknowledged.

'Requiem' is most often thought of in the context of a funeral mass or the music that might be heard in such a setting. It also denotes an act of remembrance. As such, I will remember my brother Alan.

Alan was born Francis Alan Thornton in 1943. Wartime. My Uncle Frank was going overseas, and before he left he visited my parents. My uncle had been named for his grandfather, and he asked my parents that if the baby my mom was carrying should be a boy, would they name him Francis so that the name would continue. My mom gave birth to a boy and he was named Francis Alan, and thankfully my uncle also returned from war.

When Alan was three months old, the family moved from New Brunswick to Toronto, Ontario. For my dad this was a return home to his parents and family, but for my mom, an arduous uprooting to a new province. I don't know if she ever completely forgave my dad for bringing her to inhospitable Upper Canada.

Alan second from left, me far right

Alan was the brother of my heart; a bond formed when he looked after me as a small child. It is strange that such a fierce feeling can grow in such a short time and last over distances that kept us separate for so long. 

I'm not sure that Alan was a diligent student or even much interested but he had a natural affinity for how things worked. 

Alan loved the quiet of boats and fishing, of having a little land to putter on, and sometimes a few animals to raise. 

Dad and Alan with the day's catch

He married a bubbly, outgoing special woman named Barbara when I was still a kid. It was a big deal to me to spend time with them. He got such enjoyment out of watching Barb laugh and seeing how many fires she could keep burning at one time. Opposites in many ways, yet soulmates for 50 some years. 

Al loved my grandparents and he and Barb spent many weekends with them. I think he and our grandpa were kind of kindred spirits.

Alan was a soft-spoken and reserved person but I loved to see him laugh. He had a quiet faith, enjoyed private study, and shared his thoughts in small groups. He was a behind the scenes kind of guy, a hard worker.

He didn't like politics on the job or anywhere else. 

Alan had a reputation in the family for being the last to any gathering; Barb and the children would be ready, but another cup of tea was needed to fortify for the fray.

He listened. He wanted to know what you thought. He was interested in the activities of his nieces and nephews and wanted to get to know them. Alan had stopped travelling with his job before my children grew old enough to really know him and that causes me sorrow. 

Spans of time would pass that I would not see him or even talk to him, but it didn't seem to matter for we would just pick up where we left off, and I felt secure it his care for me, and I knew he was there.

Before Alan became too ill, we began a correspondence that is very precious to me. I have his letters to read and touch, a tangible and precious gift. When I realized that I had received the last letter that he would be able to write, I mourned deeply.  

When Barb told us that Alan had finally been definitively diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia, we did not really know what that meant. It brought him confusion and anxiety, terror and delusions. It took his abilities away one at a time; a nightmare for Barbara and my reserved brother. So we have been grieving for a long time, mourning each gradual degeneration until now; the final moment of loss. A different kind of grief starts now, the kind that has to acknowledge that we will no longer see a beloved face and touch his hand. 

We know that he no longer suffers and are glad.

We know he had a deep faith that gave him peace.

I hope he knew how much we cared for him.

I hope he is having a cup of tea with the family. 

I hope he will keep watch over me.

Blend, Blending, Blended...

I have given a great deal of thought over the past couple of years about what it means to be a 'blended family', when a new partner brings children from another relationship into a new one. Both of my sons are in their thirties and have found their special person in women who already had children. As their mother I was concerned that this could potentially be 'fraught'..you know, have many ways that everything could go horribly wrong. I googled 'blended family' for a concise definition and found blogs and articles on 'what they don't tell you' and that 'Remarriage with offspring on one or both sides, is like driving straight into the sun'. 
Yikes!!? 

I have however, watched this scenario play out for several years now, and the mother in me is so proud of the way my sons have become fathers to children who are not their own. I have watched these daughters of my heart entrust themselves and their children into the hands and hearts of my sons. I am really in awe. Lest one think that my sons are perfect, let me disabuse you of this notion; they are not nor will they ever be, but, are they in the trenches of family life doing their best, and learning to do better if needed..Yes!! Are there horror stories of blended families that simply can't? Many more than we know of probably, and it is tragic for everyone.

I took a walk on the 'semantics' side to see if I could better understand the word 'blended'. It seems that 'blended' is often used interchangeably with 'mixed'. So then I wondered what the actual difference in meaning was. Sometimes study does not bring enlightenment, especially when differences are  highly nuanced. It is thought that 'blend' might come from the Old Norse 'blanda' which means 'to mix'. Not extremely helpful. 

I did pick out several things that seem to differentiate the two. Blending seems to indicate a gentler process of combining things; with a spoon, as opposed to a mixer. This seems to imply a gentler hand, like time taken to move slowly in the process of this blending of families. Time taken to be comfortable, to understand who is involved and to blend with gentleness and compassion.

Another definition that I read was "Mixing means to combine materials or ingredients together to form a mass or a single element. Blending means to mix substances together smoothly so that they are inseparable."  While in a sense a new 'mass' or 'single element' is formed, I think that I would like this to imply a 'heart bond'; a blending that stirs a new heart into the bowl and they become emotionally joined together. New families are not formed to the exclusion of the original ones, they are enlarged and their shape changes. It takes mature adults to do this successfully, and it must be down with tact, compromise and great care. I am in awe as I watch my children and their families swim these shark-infested waters with such assurance. 

Having been raised with my own parents and not having divorce make changes in any of the relationships of my siblings, this blending of families is new territory for me. I am reminded often by my children that I tend to overthink things. But there are lots of things to think about; my new children already have grandparents, they hardly know me yet, what role should I expect to fill, what might they like to call me.... This must also be hard for extended families who now have to share 'their' children in different ways.

Then I got to thinking, are not all families 'blended'? There are myriad ways in which we have to gently combine traditions and backgrounds, priorities and beliefs to form successful relationships. And are blood relationships the only criteria for what can form a family? Sometimes people are without family, or family is far away, so they have to find a 'family'. And don't we all augment our families along the way with precious friends old and new.

So in between the pondering of these deep thoughts, I will enjoy the growth in my family. I will meet my new 20 year old grandson and his love this week as he arrives from BC to attend the wedding of his mother to my son. I will  probably cry many tears of joy as my son joins his life with Karen in a hand-fasting ceremony which will be as unique as they are. I look forward to meeting Karen's parents and pledging to them that I will watch over their daughter in a way they are unable to, being in Newfoundland. Blending..

The joy of a family celebration also brings to mind thoughts of those who will not be present. My mom would have so loved to see my boys grow up and celebrate all their special times with them. She would have reveled in having more great grandchildren. And I think of my brother Alan who may this week leave us behind to join our parents and grandparents, and then I will shed tears of sorrow. That is life, though isn't it; joy blended with sorrow in varying amounts.

And then maybe, in a little bit, I will let myself think about the fact that I could become a great-grandma, and just within just a few years of becoming a grandma...magical!! And only possible because we have a new, blended, family.

To everything...

I think today may mark the arrival of autumn. Nothing is certain, but I am hoping. For those who enjoy the heat, this has been the summer of dreams, but for the rest of us, a test of endurance. Mother Nature either has a warped sense of humour, or is menopausal; being of an age where this experience is first-hand, I vote for the second option. After a summer of 30 degree temperatures, we woke up to 15 this morning, with an expected high of 18. There seems a certain degree of malice here. However, the change is welcome.

Each season evokes different feelings for me, and while fall is a time of year that I love, I also find it quite melancholy. (This may not come as a huge surprise, and I shall attribute it to my Irish roots from my great-grandmother.) I guess it is a reminder to be grateful for the bounty, the beauty and the warmth, for they will pass for a time. 

Fall can be a time of adjustment, from first days of school taking our babies away for the first time, to first days of college, taking our babies geographically far away and leaving us with empty nests. Teary transitions often. 

Fall is a time of transformation; from green to crimson and gold, from flower to fruit and seed, from the heat of the sun to a cooler time. 

Fall is a time of transition; from growth to fallow and rest, from green fullness to bare beauty, from the front porch to the chair by the fire. In the garden the activity of furry and winged friends becomes frenetic as time is shortening to prepare for winter survival. On the path the birdsong is becoming quiet as summer nesters leave to winter where it is warmer. 

Fall is also a time of contrast; lush to bare, green to gold to brown, warm to cold, light to dark...

and beginnings to endings. I know that my beloved brother Alan is approaching the end of his life. It is a painful reality that is ever in my heart and mind. I am reminded of how his was a constant presence at the beginning of mine. My mom was 40 when I was born, the last of six. She was unwell after my birth and Alan often cared for me. I guess that is why I have such a deep bond with him even though we have spent our adult lives in different provinces. The pain of birth and the pain of loss.

(Alan and I)

(my grandma, Alan and I)

Yet even in the midst of sorrow, there is joy as our oldest son marries and starts a new journey. As a mother you must accept that whoever your son marries will become the new and most important woman in his life. Knowing this, you can only hope that he will choose someone that you can love and respect as well. I am so grateful as I watch with joy as my new daughter carefully tends his heart, and helps him become all that he can be. There really are no words. And, as if this were not more than I could ever hope... there are four lovely children for us to open our hearts to. A time of thanksgiving and abundance. 

Fall is the time of harvest on our calendar; a time to take account of what we have to be thankful for. Do we always feel thankful? Of course not. Can we make a practice of being thankful? Yes. We have to practice the things that do not come naturally to us..like being grateful, like being kind, like saying thank you. It comes back to stopping amidst the busyness and taking just a moment to take stock....

 and be grateful.

On a quest for quiet

I just wanted quiet that day. I felt like my soul was bruised, like my skin was inside out and even the lightest of breezes on it would be painful. I had just heard that the life of my dear brother Alan would now be measured in months and I was mourning this news. Having cared for my parents in their last years, the pathway is similar to one I have walked before. As their needs and conditions change, your schedule and attention adapts to meet those needs, but you are often too busy to mourn the changes as they happen. My brother is in Manitoba. He has an illness that none of us, his family, was familiar with. Its progress has been relentless and difficult, robbing him of speech and movement and memory. I have not been there to see the steady erosion of his health. While I would not have him suffer further, the thought that there might be only months left of his physical presence here, hit me very hard. Grief has kind of an ebb and flow; sometimes overwhelming and sometimes easing and today the tide was coming in. 

I just wanted quiet..to sit on the porch and watch what was going on in the garden. There was however a tournament taking over our street and the ball diamonds across the road. Noise and traffic..an invasion. So I got in my car and left.

My son had called while I was crying and suggested a little 'baby time' might be in order. It is wonderful to have grown sons who offer their shoulders to their mother for the occasional meltdown. Grief needs to be expressed and shared... and then followed up with a snuggle from a sweet little person who is glad to see you. It helps and I am grateful.

Still, I wanted quiet. So I headed to the path by the river that leads to the pedestrian bridge. Normally this is a quiet path, but on this day there were cyclists and airplanes and boats on the river. At first I was angry, but then I thought that maybe when we cannot find external quiet, we have to find a place of internal quiet. 

" In the midst of movement and chaos, keep stillness inside of you"  - Deepak Chopra

So I decided that perhaps I did not need silence to have a place of quiet. So I forced myself to walk slowly, notice the small things and really appreciate my surroundings. 

Running Strawberry Bush presents more like a vine and you have to practically have your nose on the path to see these unique seed pods under the foliage.

Somebody gnawed a window in this mushroom to allow a glimpse of its inner structure.

When I saw this Grass Spider and his funnel web, I was awed by its architecture. I include this for Karen who finds them fascinating. I however, had no desire to make its further acquaintance.

At this time of year the forest is taking on a softer, rounder shape as vines of all sort begin to coat everything in sight. Included in this number, are One-Seeded Bur Cucumber vines with their prickled pod clusters and tightly wound tendrils.

Orange and yellow Jewelweeds are easy to find in late August, but this larger variety, also known as Himalayan Balsam is the tallest of the three and not so readily seen. 

From the pedestrian bridge I could see a solitary cormorant sunning on a rock. Maybe he wanted a little quiet too.

The view upstream included a heron fishing and a canoe just coming into view from around the bend.

White Snakeroot is blooming and something has traced a lovely pattern on its leaf. 

The meadow is fragrant with Joe Pye Weed and a variety of Goldenrods.

I saw a Great Spangled Fritillary in the meadow but it was too busy to pose. This one stopped briefly in my garden the day after.

A glimpse of blue amongst the yellow and pink in the meadow revealed Blue Lobelia, a lovely plant which I had never seen in this meadow before.

One leaves the meadow to the sound of the water in the brook.

Jack-in-the-pulpit plants have outgrown and shed their striped spring coats and these ruby fruit clusters are ready to be eaten so their seeds can be dispersed.

It was time to go home again. Did I see anything really extraordinary? Not especially. Do I still feel bruised and heart-sore? Yes. Do I feel quieter inside? Also yes. Will I need to walk tomorrow? Very likely. I guess that is why we have to 'practice' mindfulness. It does not come without working at it; a deliberate focusing of the mind in order to centre the heart and emotions. Will practice make perfect? I don't know. But maybe I will recognize sooner that I need to stop, or maybe I will be able to find that quietness more easily with time. I do know that life will continue to provide a need for it.