Smell thick with seaweed, sand, saltwater and shells. I take a deep breath and fill my lungs. Deeply and slowly savouring the saltiness and warmth in my nose and throat. I flash to an early memory. I am walking down a path. Sand beneath my feet, toes sinking into it. The path is lined with sandbanks. I know the sea is ahead but I can't see it yet. Tall dry grasses in the sand sway. Higgledly-piggledy fence of sticks tied with string, weaves in and out ahead. In and out. I climb up, knowing you are nearby Grandad.
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“(I)t is as if, simultaneously, survival, resiliency and flourishing are connected with memory, living and dreaming, experienced and drawn on by people in the best and worst of times, for each exists in different proportions in the lived moment.”
Lederach & Lederach p.g.137 Fissures and Cracks
Help! Help me! Help! She screams. She’s disturbing the other residents they say. Legend has it she didn’t love him. Told my mother she wished she had the guts to do what she had done and leave him years ago. Shame, sadness and anger at this. Sad broken family of fissures. Two of four children have broken ties. Did not speak with them for 20 plus years. Don’t know why. Sadness, anger, fissures. Invited to the hospital when Grandad was sick and withered. Declined and did not show. Denied and deceived of one last goodbye by the publishing of the wrong funeral date. My Uncle’s idea. Intentional bitterness. I don’t know why. Sad. Anger. Fissures. Alien to me. My mum says “I never want that to happen to us!”. It won’t, I say. Things that people have said to me about knitting. “Knitting…mmmm..it’s a Dark Art. Did you know?” (Psychotherapist) “You gotta be suspicious of a craft that makes something out of nothing. Out of knots” (Occupational Therapist) I Knit and I Wonder Left handed like my brother, She showed me how to knit, Hands moving over yarn and needle, Lightning fast from repetition, Did she select yarn, Or pick up whatever thread she could lay her hands on, Desperate to keep going, I wonder…..? Knitted, crocheted, multi-many coloured cushions, Doilies, pillows and throws, Even cushions for his car, Occupational therapy I wonder…..? For days sat at home, Staring at the TV, Side by side, Listening to him tell the same stories, I wonder…..? The stories of our lives create “a geography of scars”.
(Berry 1990 p.g 7 cited in Hasebe-Ludt, Chambers and Leggo 2009 p.g 98) “She never let me in the kitchen” my mother says. “Didn’t want us in her way”. Never told her “I love you” until a time when she is confused and my mother does not know if she is talking to her or someone else in her distant memory. “She’s cold” says my father, “Not happy unless someone else is unhappy”. Harsh words. Hurtful as she is still my blood. Legend has it that she has been visiting a psychiatrist for as long as I am old. I found this out when she cracked. Left the house in her nightie in the middle of the night. They found her wandering, confused in nearby fields. Another night. Crisis. Lost it. Picked up a knife and stabbed my granddad in the back of the neck, as he fixed the washing machine. A sharp inch from his spine. I don’t know why. Story goes that my uncle took my granddad to the home of a doctor that lived nearby. Afraid of scandal and police. Scary stuff this. Don’t get it. Don’t understand why. What am I missing? Grandad D, always loving and gentle to me. “Controlling and suffocating” others report. She was admitted to a psychiatric ward. I was going through my mental health nurse training at the time. Awkward, as a friend and fellow trainee worked on the unit she was admitted to. Not keen on her knowing family business. Knowing what happened. Probably knowing more than me.. When I visited Grandma, she was there but wasn’t. My mother told me she was having visions of her dead father. A man I know nothing about and have never met. I don’t know if the visions that came to her scared her or comforted her. On visiting I took her for blood work one day. Startled saw the doctor had written “psychotic depression” on the blood requisition. Angered, why did the blood technician need to know that? Were they issuing a warning? Psychotic Depression. That is big and scary. How did this happen? Was she always like that? What did this mean for me, for my genes? What had this meant for my mother?
Grandma returned home after tweaks of medication, with promises of respite and breaks from my Grandad. I don’t understand why. Christiana
One Eyed Scarred Creature with Hair the Colour of Flame Great-Grandma Burns sat on her throne, One eye with glass implant, Missing eye was taken when she was a little girl, Ran into a rose bush. One leg half torn, Legend has it, she was on her way to my aunt’s wedding on the bus, Slipped and dragged under it. Tore flesh to the bone. Visits were infrequent and filled with scared anticipation, Anticipation of this one eyed scarred creature with hair the colour of flame, Sat on her throne, she did not move. Held a stash of sweets in an ivory handled knitting bag by her knee, The offered sweets coaxed me to come closer, Or else I would not have come near, Would have peered from behind my mother’s leg, Hard to know if it's ok to write the stories of others, ancestors, when they are not entirely my own. Nevertheless, their stories and legends are woven into me and it is hard to unpick them. Would I have made the decisions I have if it were not for them. If it were not for their stories whispered and embellished.
Paint
Who am I thinking of? What am I thinking of? How am I feeling? Color? Stroke? Envision. What will it look like? Can I see it? Alchemy. Paint. A little of this and a bit of that. Color wheel. Water and mix. Smooth. Smell of pigment. Smooth. Dip bristles into water. Once. Twice. Mix. Smooth. Coat the bristles. Feel the handle in my fingers. Heavy and solid. Wood and brass. Smooth. Fingertips. Light touch. Tentative. Paper with grain. Smooth and cool beneath my hand. Breathe. Close eyes. Imagine. Envision. Press bristles to paper. Let go. Glide. Swoosh. Press. Lighter, lighter, lighter. Lift off. Trail. Tip. Look. Notice. Admire. Was it as I imagined. |
Helen Kennett-BaconOriginally from South Yorkshire in England, I've lived with my husband Neil in Kitsilano, Vancouver for 10 years. We are fur-parents to our French bulldog Dave, I am a Registered Psychiatric Nurse specialising in ADHD. Archives
August 2016
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