Zug the Bug Little Legacy 20

The start of this week was plagued by strange vortexes, I think triggered by having a virus, the cold weather and my big black duffel coat coming out of hibernation.  I was continually taken back to the bitterly cold walk to and from the hospital to see my Mum back in January, with my brother and Dad.

Another vortex opened, taking me back to talking on my mobile phone outside the hospice, and watching my breath form clouds of steam.  Somehow when I put on mascara, I am often whisked into another vortex which finds me sitting on a particular bench outside the hospital, probably then I was trying not to smudge it.

I took Mr G to the park, thinking it would do us good to be outside, no matter how cold. We spent a happy ten minutes burying 'treasure' in the sandpit. Then a little girl and her Gran sat down next to us. I'm still not great at these situations, these little reminders of what's missing still catch me off guard. Fortunately Mr G dragged me off to find more treasure.

Later that evening I found a little legacy on my daughter's newly tidied bookshelf.  The perfect antidote to the day's vortexes:

My Mum found it in Oxfam a couple of years ago.  It's been one of my daughter L's favourite books.  Now she's in reception class and learning to read.  Her teacher has asked us to focus on sounding the first letter of each word.  Many days L is just too tired and doesn't want to.  But finding Zug the Bug again enthused her.  This set of books make that fun, each page the first letter of the word changes, zug, bug, lug, slug, mug. 

Loss leaves gaping holes, but then little legacies come and fill them. mum would be a much more patient at teaching L to read and G to find treasure, but she did an amazing job of preparing me to do it. She left little hints and tips absolutely everywhere.  I'm reminded again of the words of Kahlil Gibran:

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

I wish I had paid more attention the very last time mum came to visit, she made a huge fuss out of reading both children stories, I would love to know which books she read them that night.  We kept poking our head upstairs wondering if she had finished, but no. She got cross with me and my husband for rushing through stories without talking about them, as parents sometimes do after a long day.  

Now when I read stories at the end of the day I often feel emotional, a powerful feeling that it's just me, my child and a book at the end of a day filled with distractions.  But it's a magical time and one I cherish.

With both children sleeping soundly that night, I crept upstairs to my desk in the attic.  My subconscious must have been playing games that day because it took me to Why Mummy Why's post in which she explains the joy and pain of a long forgotten book so beautifully and humorously.

Little legacy is a remembrance project , a positive and creative space, to celebrate small things handed down by predecessors.  Feel free to link up a little legacy you've been thinking about this week, or to leave one in the comments.  Here's the code and here's more on Little Legacy

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Little Legacy #2 On Marriage

Last week I posted my first Little Legacy and it was lovely to be joined by some other fabulous bloggers, do check them out.    I loved the variety of everyone's legacies: a mixture of objects, sayings, rituals, habits.  There's no right or wrong answer.  It's simply about celebrating little legacies, building up a picture of someone though small details.  If something triggers a particular legacy, whether it's an old post or a new post, just go for it.  Mine are coming thick and fast now I have started, and reading other people's posts got me thinking of lots of new ones.

So Little Legacy #2 On Marriage

At my wedding my mum chose to read from Kahil Gibran's the Prophet. One line has always stuck with me, have a look at the picture I took in my kitchen earlier, and have a guess which one:

Then Almitra spoke again and said, "And what of Marriage, master?"

And he answered saying:

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.

You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.

Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love:

Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.

Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.

Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,

Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.

For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.

And stand together, yet not too near together:

For the pillars of the temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow. 

Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.  Mum wanted us to know that relationships need space.  It's a metaphor of course, but every time I look in the bread bin I see a literal reminder of the spaces in Mr A and my togetherness.  Guess which loaf is mine and which is his?

Of course when I am having a bad day or feeling ill I will push aside wholemeal for a slice of hot buttered, white sliced Hovis, or cotton wool bread, as my mum used to call it.  She baked her own brick like, but beautiful, wholemeal loaves throughout most of our childhood, so sliced white bread was the fluffy work of satan.  


Despite his love of cotton wool bread, mum was very fond of Mr A. This poem will always remind me of that, and of her hopes for our life together.

Credit Martin O Neil

All that from looking in the bread bin.  The subconscious is a powerful place.

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little legacy A small thing handed down by a predecessor

Little legacy is a remembrance project , a positive and creative space, to celebrate small things handed down by predecessors.  I am going to post one every Thursday. If you want to join me at any point, either as a project or a one off, there's more information here and a space to link up below. 

Goodbye Mum

Banksy - Always Hope

After I posted that my mum was going into a hospice I recieved so many words of support, here and in my offline life, all of them perfect in their own way, despite people's pleas that they didn't know what to say. Thank you.

My amazing mum died in the hospice on Thursday 27th January 2011.  She was peaceful and we were with her.  The hospice was amazing, mum's care was fantastic, but they also care for relatives too.  It doesn't make it less sad, but it makes it calmer.

I could write a million blog posts on the experiences of the last few weeks, one will never do it justice.

My mum was amazing and inspirational. She was so thoughtful, so interested in everyone she met. She was so positive despite cancer. She taught me a million and one things which I've been scribbling down furiously.

My friend sent me this Banksy as a card, its the image my parents also sent me for my birthday card last year (cool parents huh?)  It reminded me my mum used to read to me from a book about a French boy with a magic red ballon. It's a book based on a film from her child hood.  I read it to her last week.  At the end the little boy floats off in a bunch of ballons.

I wish I could give the four year old this image of Gran drifting away in a bunch of ballons, but I read up and everything points to honesty.  We read Goodbye Mousie and Always and Forever.  Miss L is stunning us all with her understanding and sensitivity.  I'm not sure about taking her to the funeral (a humanist ceremony) but I know she needs something.  I would love to hear about any experiences with this age group.

One of the things my mum taught me was the importance of rites of passage, that I could create my own ceremonies and rituals if I wanted.  I didn't want to go to my PGCE degree ceremony after feeling like part of a herd of cattle at my first degree ceremony.  Instead we walked on Devil's Dyke and she made me a daisy chain headdress and told me how proud she was.  Little things like that keep popping into my head, reminding me what an absolutely amazing woman she was.

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart,

and you shall see that in truth you are weeping

for that which has been your delight.

Kahil Gibran