The stuff of cemeteries

When life becomes a thing of cold hard marble.

When your touch feels the chill

of placing your hand on a tomb.

Searching for warmth and another's touch

when nothing is left but the emptiness of absence.

That is when grief is in your heart.

The chill remains with you every day

I was lucky to have you,

hold you.

Be in your company because this moment is

ever so brief and precious.

You can never hold onto anything

just the love in our hearts

which echoes and reverberates through

bereaved souls.

When things become the stuff of cemeteries and funerals

when the touch of cold marble tombstones

are little consolation against the heat of fresh grief.

When death falls all around you

then that is the time to stop and breathe

hold onto the ones you love

it is impossible to say goodbye

so make memories

search out happiness and

follow what gives you the spark

which is life itself.

Five second book review: Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Memories of My Melancholy Whores

An ode to the solitary life, love, desire, sex and old age. This novella is what all writing should be, honest, astute, simple and visceral. It is about a man well into his twilight years who is unwilling to give up following the beauty he finds in life. The brothels of his town are where he has been able to express himself by exorcising his passions and holding onto the vitality of life.

It is honest and pathetic at times. Above all, it creates a magical, dream-like world beyond the frenetic world around the main character, who rejects everything but his solitude and lives inside his youthful passions, despite being well into his 90s. He continues to narrate his life in a mixture of memories, dreams, music and reflections on mortality in his distinct internal voice.

It doesn't make you exactly fall in love with the protagonist, a second rate journalist who doesn't know the meaning of love, but it is intriguing to follow him where his passions lead him, past everyday life and into his fantasies.

Don’t box me in

Except the unexpected

because I'm bursting with ideas

and I'm going to do it all.

So insanely talented,

yet terrified to do anything,

destined to be nothing

but a frustrated artist

too busy watching Youtube

scrolling Instagram and playing

Candy Crush,

brainwashed into wasting time.

Soul crushed by comparison.

Why bother trying when

is it all taken away from you in the end?

Reflections on Mother's Day from a bereaved mother

I’m not good with Mother’s Day. I don’t think anyone else who has lost a child ever can be a hundred percent happy with celebrating motherhood when they will always be missing their child. It’s an ache that never really leaves you sometimes, it’s a dull throbbing you can almost put up with, and you seem to get on with life for a while.

On other days the grief is so powerful that it squeezes your inner organs and makes the tears well up whether you want to or not, and you have to stop, acknowledge it, and let it all flow out. I thought I could open and close the tap, but if the water pressure builds up, your pipes will burst. Who knew grief could be described so aptly with a plumbing metaphor? Life is surprising.

Lately, the emotions snuck up on me in a pretty unique way. It will be 15 years since I lost my firstborn little girl, Estella Carmela Desiree. She was stillborn.

Estella got all tangled up with her umbilical cord. The doctor who performed my cesarean and untangled her said her long cord was wrapped three times around her neck, and as she turned around into the birthing position, her foot pulled at it, and she suffocated. It was a freak accident, like a child playing, hitting its head, and suddenly dying. I still can’t believe such a thing can happen in the womb. You’d think the womb is the safest place to be. I didn’t feel anything, and it would have been impossible to know. Even the doctor said to save a child, you’d have to be lucky enough to be monitoring him at the precise moment he is in distress, and even then, there would be no guarantee that you’d be able to save them in time.

I lost Estella at thirty-eight weeks, towards the end of my pregnancy, when everyone knew and was preparing for her arrival. I was expecting to hold her in my arms.

Instead, I woke up with a terrible sense of emptiness and longing that had never left me. I remember the pain of the operation, the nurse who made me stand up, the blood that ran down my leg, staining my slippers, and the sense that the whole pregnancy and suffering had been for nothing.

The ripple effect of Estella’s loss was felt collectively through my friends and family. They were all as heartbroken as I was. But you try to be brave. You wake up in the morning and try to function even though you are missing a part of yourself. I felt as if I’d lost my faith, my hope, a piece of my identity or soul. I felt so lost for the longest time. Even today, there is nothing worse for your self-worth than losing a child.

If grief has ever taught me anything, it is that it comes from love. The more deeply you love the thing or person you grieve, the deeper and more heartfelt your grief will be. Even though losing Estella felt like dying, I am comforted that my grief comes from a love I’d never experienced before. 

I have this theory about love; it’s something that you absolutely cannot control; you have to let it out of you, or else you’re going to burst a blood vessel. Love cannot be contained; it’s bigger than we are. That’s why people are said to be glowing when they fall in love. People do stupid things when they are in love because they don’t know how to express what they feel; it’s often overwhelming.

I find the love I have for Estella never really leaves me, whether you believe the child’s soul stays near or that she is somehow haunting me. I prefer to say she’s still in my mind, in my thoughts, and she manifests herself in one way or another. Her birth/death date is coming up on the fourteenth of May, so I know I’ll begin to feel emotional. I try to say a prayer, light a candle or visit her grave at the cemetery, something to commemorate her.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

The fact that the year my daughter was born (2007), the date of her birth coincided with Mother’s Day etched itself into my subconscious. So much so that on the morning of Mother’s Day this year (the eighth of May). The other day I woke up at five am after the strangest dream. I dreamt that my house had been robbed. 

Then the realization hit me. During the week, I’d been following the story of Denise Pipitone, who had disappeared at Mazara del Vallo in the province of Trapani nearly 20 years ago. Sympathizing with her mother, Piera Maggio, who still believes her daughter is alive. The press revisited the case after a Russian girl who had an uncanny resemblance to Denise was found. However, a DNA test confirmed she wasn’t Denise. I remember thinking that’s how I felt, as if my daughter had been stolen from me. An irrational part of me is still waiting, longing for her presence in my life. So the dream wasn’t about my house being robbed; it was about those emotions, the sensation I still have in the pit of my stomach that I’d been robbed of my daughter. 

The tears came welling up. I hadn’t cried for Estella for a while, so I must have needed to express my love for her once again. So I let them flow. It is so unfair to be denied your child, but there is nothing much you can do when something like this happens. The best thing is always to remember them, say their name, include them in conversations, in everyday family life, and talk about them with your friends. If you have pictures, keep them close; visit them if you have a gravesite. 

I have a particular little shrine in my house with photos of my grandparents and Dad. Estella is represented by a small glass vase of crystal flowers. I’m always speaking with Estella, and everything I write expresses my love for her. The grief therapist I saw after her loss said that I’d be fine because my writing would help me, and it does.

Mother’s Day is difficult because I lost Estella, but it is also tricky because of her little brother Matthias who was born two years after her. Because now I have to be a mother to him. I have to be brave for him; he cannot see me crying. I need to be present for him. We do speak of Estella, and he loves her very much. But he, too, is very much aware of her absence in our lives, and it is a void to fill.

It’s difficult for me to see so many expecting mothers on social media showing off their pregnant bellies. Don’t get me wrong, I love babies, and I’m always happy for other women having babies. But the sharing of intimate photos brings back so many memories of my trauma. I wish people would be more sensitive to others’ losses. One in four people has lost a child, whether it be through miscarriage, abortion, stillbirth, SIDS, illness, or other terrible incidents that steal children from their mothers, fathers, and family.

When my son was born, I kept him to myself. I shared his photos only with friends and family because I didn’t want to trigger other people’s grief. I’d very rarely share anything personal about Matthias; even now that he is 12 years old, I still don’t put him on public display.

I’d say to anyone on social media that yes, your child is beautiful, unique, and loved, but this public forum is not the place to share. You can share little proud moments and snippets, but this isn’t what social media is about. It’s more about advertising, selling products and networking, not sharing personal things. I’d also debate if social media is not even the place to share opinions, but that’s another topic.

There’s no harm in wishing everyone a happy Mother’s Day, celebrating your mother, or sharing a newborn photo. It’s just about being aware of other people’s struggles. Those that feel the sadness in their hearts when they remember their pregnancies. And those who are still struggling in their motherhood journeys.

A celebrity will always push their brand or sell their photos for more followers or influence. Honestly, there is no need to publish your entire maternity photoshoot; you aren’t famous.

So please be gentle to mothers who are suffering, to those crying into their pillows in the early morning of Mother’s Day or on their angel child’s Birthday.

Please, be kind, empathetic and sensitive to others.

Gone

Gone

The bride has gone to her groom

after years of suffering and doom

Her last breath left her body tonight

as she struggled through the last moments of life.

May she find peace and light

as the wailing grief of her children

floats upon the veil between us now.

Go sweet lady, mother and child

find those who are waiting for you

beyond this life and the next.

You are gone, but you are here

in our hearts, memories and minds.

Go with peace and light as we

weep, our hearts will be forever

heavier at your loss but it is

something we are destined to bare.

Go to your father and mother, they

have been waiting for so long.

There are so many there waiting for you, more than are here now.

She has gone to the home our restless souls seek, where all destinies end.

This is my prayer for you to the holy Maria della Stella on the days Jesus defeats death may he shine his light and guide Maria Stella to the heavens.

Five second book review: Charlotte Perkins Gilman

The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

This is a disturbingly creepy short story. It is a superb, restrained and masterful piece of prose with an attuned aesthetic sense. The story is an intriguing portrait of mental illness and obsession.

It is a thoroughly absorbing reading experience that transports the reader deep into the mind of an unnamed young writer and mother who gradually slips into another reality.

I’ve had better days

There have been better days,

felt less lost and confused

not so sad or deflated

I wish for one of those

better days instead of smack

bang in one of the worst ones.

Nothing going right

love went to waste

efforts all worthless

and so, so far away

from everyone I love.

The hurt comes in tears

that bastard blows up in

your face,

whether you like it or not

that emotion's going to come

knock you over and make you

I wish for better days.

They will come; be patient.

Five-second book review: Edith Wharton

Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton

This novella is a masterpiece with the beauty and pathos of a Greek tragedy. Ethan Frome is a real person trapped by his poverty, the strange destiny of his heart and life's circumstances give him.

The insular nature of small-town America and the beautiful yet frozen winter landscape created by Edith Wharton enriches the emotional world of this stunning tragic hero who stands apart from any others. Ethan's twisted physical body reflects his cruel destiny.

 His story is passionate and visceral; its a memory that will haunt you forever.

William Morris: a creative inspiration

William Morris (1834 – 1896) was a British textile designer, poet, artist, novelist, architectural conservationist, printer, translator and socialist activist associated with the British Arts and Crafts Movement. He was a significant contributor to the revival of traditional British textile arts and production methods. His literary contributions helped establish the modern fantasy genre, while he helped win the acceptance of socialism in fin de siècle Great Britain.

Morris was born in Walthamstow, Essex, to a wealthy middle-class family. He came under the strong influence of medievalism while studying Classics at Oxford University. After university, he married Jane Burden and developed close friendships with Pre-Raphaelite artists Edward Burne-Jones and Dante Gabriel Rossetti and Neo-Gothic architect Philip Webb. Webb and Morris designed Red House in Kent, where Morris lived from 1859 to 1865 before moving to Bloomsbury, central London.

In 1861, Morris founded the Morris, Marshall, Faulkner & Co. decorative arts firm with Burne-Jones, Rossetti, Webb, and others, which became highly fashionable and much in demand. The firm profoundly influenced interior decoration throughout the Victorian period, with Morris designing tapestries, wallpaper, fabrics, furniture, and stained glass windows. In 1875, he assumed total control of the company, renamed Morris & Co.

Morris rented the rural retreat of Kelmscott Manor, Oxfordshire, from 1871 while also retaining a main home in London. His visits to Iceland with Eiríkr Magnússon were of great inspiration, and they led him to produce a series of English-language translations of Icelandic Sagas. He also achieved success with the publication of his epic poems and novels, namely The Earthly Paradise (1868–1870), A Dream of John Ball (1888), the Utopian News from Nowhere (1890), and the fantasy romance The Well at the World's End (1896).

In 1877, he founded the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings to campaign against the damage caused by architectural restoration. He embraced Marxism and was influenced by anarchism in the 1880s. Morris became a committed revolutionary socialist activist. He founded the Socialist League in 1884 after an involvement in the Social Democratic Federation (SDF), but he broke with that organisation in 1890. In 1891, he founded the Kelmscott Press to publish limited-edition, illuminated-style print books, a cause to which he devoted his final years.

Morris is one of the most significant cultural figures of Victorian Britain. He was best known in his lifetime as a poet, although he posthumously became better known for his designs. The William Morris Society, founded in 1955, is devoted to his legacy, while multiple biographies and studies of his work have been published. Many of the buildings associated with his life are open to visitors, much of his work can be found in art galleries and museums, and his designs are still in production.

I accidentally came across William Morris's designs while flicking through an art book dedicated to design and pattern making. I was looking for some inspiration for blog graphics after I was in a rut.

When I looked at his beautiful designs, inspired mainly by the English countryside and nature, I became completely enamoured with his art. His work is as timeless as spring itself, and many of his textile designs are still very popular today.

I recalled reading some of his poetry while studying the Victorian period in my literature degree, so I went back and delved into his writing.

As you can see from his biography, he was a dynamic Victorian who was creative but used his creativity to explore his interests and create an extremely lucrative business. The list of innovative pathways is astounding, from visual art to literature and politics—a wonderfully inspiring individual.

Diving deeply into a William Morris sidetrack, I downloaded his complete works, available as an Ebook on Kindle. It still is so exhilarating to be able to download your favourite writer's works from the past in an instant (perhaps I am showing my age, but this gen X still remembers having to go down to the library to search out these kinds of things!)

His poetry is exquisite and illustrates his love of all things Medieval. It still amazes me how someone can be a master of so many creative elements. His writing is vivid, passionate, vibrant and masterly. The images of Guenevere and Launcelot leap out at you from the page. And he is a maestro of the complex structure of the medieval sonnet form.

Reading the first two poems from his 1857 collection, The Defence of Guenevere and other poems, I immediately fell in love with his poetic gift. In particular, The Defence of Guenevere and Kind Arthur's Tomb have such an imaginative artistic sensibility that they take away your breath. His attention to detail and his command of the language is spellbinding. I am totally in love with his poetic work.

Yet, despite the apparent beauty of his work, even Morris had some setbacks thanks to the critics.

This poetry collection was largely self-funded. It sold poorly, and the negative reviews put Morris off publishing other poems for eight years. Just think how many more published collections we could have from Morris if not for this poor critical response. Thank goodness he had the foresight to continue his work in private and never stopped writing.

Willian Morris's poem The Defence of Guenevereis a dramatic monologue from the point of view of Guenevere, the wife of King Arthur, who defends herself after being accused of adultery with the King's trusted knight, Sir Launcelot.

Morris's use of archaic terms is characteristic of his medievalism – and the poem itself is part of a broader Victorian tendency to see the mediaeval period as one of a lost pre-industrial simplicity. Yet, there is also a trace of the more modern influence of Tennyson in the poem's complex imagery and psychological insight – as well as the use of the dramatic monologue, a form invented by Morris' contemporary Robert Browning.

Morris is a creative inspiration simply because of his immense scope over many different creative industries. His approach was typically Victorian, diligent, focused and determined. I'm grateful that he continued steadfastly on his creative path, so we have many examples of his exquisite works today.

I'm still working my way through his poetic works, which are so rich and substantial. I am also thankful he didn't listen to the critics and continued working away. Yet again, like most other creatives, Morris reinforces the most important lesson to always keep in mind as a creative professional: to always continue with your work. Believe in your value, in what you are saying and never give up.

Thrive

I have given birth to monstrosities

to atrocities filled with insurmountable deformities,

who died horrible, merited deaths as they never

deserved to be born.

I have birthed many rapturous angels who went straight to heaven

too beautiful for this world,

too innocent to survive.

I have killed hundreds, no thousands of my babies,

not because I’m a murderer, but because

they needed to be stronger

I have been re-incarnated after every disappointment

I pushed myself beyond the sluggishness of grief

and dusted off the ashes after the inquisitions

burnt me at the stake.

I’m a tired old ageless phoenix.

I thrive despite it all,

I reinvent myself

endless times over, revive my fading spirit

because my soul comes from a tough line,

from those who outlived their conquerors

from those who have lived despite the misery

created happiness from empty nothing

I stand upon the stepping stones

my ancestors have left behind for me

I never lose my way and keep moving

along with my self designated path

I thrive on spiting life.