After nearly five years, the words have dried up.
Nothing left except a heavy heart that shifts inside and aches.
Surfacing from sleep, a voice sings to me.
'And though death draws near, I've nothing to fear today.
As the colours they fade, the colours they fade away
All's well . . . all's well.'
A voice that sounds certain. Sure. Quiet and dignified. Seeming to echo through time, at one remove.
A song inspired by Dr. Edward Wilson, who was the chief scientist and artist on Scott's doomed expedition to the Antarctic. The lyric is based on a letter he wrote to his wife, as he realised that he would soon die.
Dr. Wilson believed that everything that happened to him was part of God's divine plan. He repeatedly used the phrase 'all's well' in an attempt to convey this in his final letters.
I wonder.
A death that was avoidable, freezing, lonely. Only a matter of miles away from safety and life.
I wonder.
Georgina's death seems so strange and senseless.
To half form a little body only to cast it aside.
Every narrative I spin to myself frays apart at the memory of the blood running out of her tiny mouth, the laboured breaths, the little hands that squeezed.
Two deaths. One remembered by some. The other forgotten. Except by me.
But it matters very little how I think of it. In truth.
I can fight with it, I can howl at it, I can curse and spit and swear.
I can cry and think it unfair.
It remains there. Implacable and suspended.
In a time that I cannot alter.
As cold as snow.
Perhaps I should just attempt to believe that 'all's well.'
To let some of that quiet dignity seep into my tired old heart.
Maybe if I said it frequently enough, whispered it to myself in the night, I would come to believe it?
All's well.
You can hear the song here
Beautiful. All's well... I have often asked - mostly to myself, sometimes to my husband - "Is everything going to be okay?". Sometimes it's a rhetorical question, sometimes as a plea, to try to have someone else tell me that they think everything isn't falling apart. And then sometimes, as you say, the senselessness of it all hits me, and I can't believe it happened, can't figure out how we got here. Thinking of Georgina.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful post. So beautiful. Five years already. I've been on this path for nearly two. . .and I've been reading your blog along the way, from the beginning of my journey. And you say, now, that the words have dried up? But what you've written here feels true. The way you've leveled your eye and looked right at it. What I'm trying to do, too. To make sense of what the fuck just happened. But it didn't just happen. It's been a while, hasn't it?
ReplyDelete<3
I am hearing echoes of Julian of Norwich and "All shall be well" here. But I think Wilson's use of the present tense is important, and is what makes me able to find more comfort in Julian. For some reason I can believe that things will be all right even though right now they are certainly not, for so many people, in so many places.
ReplyDeleteI wonder what Ory thought of her husband's letters, if they were comforting or frustrating or both.
And I wish I had the secret to easing a heavy heart so that I could send yours some rest. Five years seems like it should feel more momentous or even just longer than it really does.
Your question of what Ory thought of her husband's letters was a good one, Erica.
DeleteI wonder that, too. In many ways, he had the easier road. Those left behind must bear, while death frees the dying.
Or at least, I suppose it does...?
Every narrative I spin to myself frays apart at the memory of the blood running out of her tiny mouth, the laboured breaths, the little hands that squeezed.
ReplyDelete*****
"All's well" rings very hollow in face of this dissonance.
I do not blame you for wondering.
I wonder at those who do *not* wonder.
And I remember Georgina.
xoxo CiM
It remains there. Implacable and suspended.
ReplyDeleteIn a time that I cannot alter.....
yes, that is truth. implacable and suspended. 7 1/2 years out and that is the truth. It is unalterable and unchangeable. This is exactly my experience. I have howled, and cried and finally internalized what I can of it and yet that is my experience of the this experience. It has never changed inspite of all my emotion. It's like it just sits there waiting for me to cope and integrate and finally move along with it attached, unchanging in nature while changing me and my nature forever. Ahhh Catherine.... although we are a continenet apart, this experience is so familiar... my words are gone, it seems like they all came with an expiration date and mine is past, I still read others words and recognize their familiarity, but I have little to add because the years and grief have become repetitive and there is nothing new to add... but this is exactly my experience. thanks.
Leanne
Logen's mom
I love you, I've missed you. Its hard for me to come back around but I cant resist the tempting words that mirror my own private thoughts. Hope you are "well", besides the obvious, that is always there. XO
ReplyDeleteHello sweet Cath- sorry for being away for awhile. What a beautiful post (as always). Almost three years out I still sit with the silence in my own mind and wonder at what could have been for him. Especially lately.. but that is another story altogether. <3
ReplyDelete"But it matters very little how I think of it. In truth.
ReplyDeleteI can fight with it, I can howl at it, I can curse and spit and swear.
I can cry and think it unfair.
It remains there. Implacable and suspended.
In a time that I cannot alter.
As cold as snow."
These words...I get it. We can remember and we can hurt and we can agonize, but nothing ever changes the outcome. Our babies will never come home with us and that is the reality that I still fight against every single day since Finley died.
Thanks for popping by thestarsapart.com and leaving such a lovely comment. I had never stumbled across your blog before and now I am so glad we are connected. I look forward to reading more of your posts.
Lots of love,
Lisa xx
Ah Catherine. Always your words are beautiful, even when they are drying up.
ReplyDeleteI was talking with Astro Boy, my little philosopher, the other day about memories. He was wondering why we have no memories of when we are babies. As I teased it out with him, it occurred to me that we don't have memories we can describe because we had no context or words for the sensations we were experiencing. Our infant memories are more like sense memories. They are held in our bodies deeply. They form us, but we have no words for them.
Maybe losing our babies is like this. We can write all the narratives we want, but they won't change the outcome. The narratives sooth. They help us navigate this strange world of love and loss and intense depth and ridiculous superficiality. But really we hold the memories in our bodies. There are no words for what is felt so deeply. Our children (present and gone) form us, just as we formed them. How we live in and experience the world will never be the same because of Georgina and Laura. That is much bigger than any words can describe.
I love the company your words and presence have brought. I love your eloquence. I hope your words find a space somewhere. They are too beautiful to hide under spreadsheets.
xx Louise
I miss you, and I am thinking of you. Rereading this passage today breaks my heart. The pain in unending. I hope you are doing okay. You have been so quiet. I understand though, sometimes the words do dry up, and the song remains the same. She's gone. XO Georgina. Anna.
ReplyDeleteSo much love,
Christine