Wellies and wheelbarrows

In the days after Tony died, it felt like my phone continually pinged with texts, messages and emails. Thoughts, love, concern sent from all over the world. It was wonderfully comforting, if a little overwhelming, and I found a few safe sentences in reply that I tended to repeat. One of them was that we were heart-broken.

We were.

Totally.

Yesterday I listened to a song and the lyrics spoke of ‘every heart that is broken’ and I had one of those ‘grief ambush’ moments. When you’re least expecting a reminder or a memory and you are blind-sided by it.

I cried.

I have found myself crying a lot recently. Just because I am sad. Sad and heart-broken. I feel it when I wake up in the morning like a heavy blanket. And it lingers. And grows. And then spills out in tears. Am I crying for myself? Yes. My children? Yes. Am I crying for Tony? Yes. Am I crying for what was, what might have been, what may be, what won’t be? Yes. All of the above. Is there comfort in my crying? No, not really.

But I do hope. I hope that there will be mornings when I wake up and there is a blanket of joy that feels lighter. And I hope for healing.

So, what about the wellies and wheelbarrows then? There is a connection, I promise. Back in the spring as I began to get out into the garden again, I had a real sense that this was a place where healing could happen for me. BBC2 Gardeners’ World on Friday past was all about the healing potential of gardening. It’s even an NHS prescription in some parts of the UK. (I was right!!) There is a communion between our physical, emotional, spiritual selves and nature. A communion that gently soothes our inside brokenness. Where our tears and the rain or the dew on the grass, mingle. Where a weed removed, leaves a patch of soil exposed and ready for the growing of a new plant. Where the cutting away of the faded flower encourages a fresh flush of buds and the anticipation of colourful blooms.

I have worked away in the garden during this summer. Last year I didn’t and couldn’t have done. I didn’t have the physical or mental energy for anything other than getting through each day. I am very thankful that now I can. There is always something that needs to be done. And it is helping me.

My wellies are near to hand (because my garden is quite muddy) and I have prescribed myself time each day to step out and take a dose of nature’s healing goodness.

6 thoughts on “Wellies and wheelbarrows

  1. Wendy Bolton September 30, 2019 / 6:43 pm

    Both heart-wrenching and beautiful to read at the same time…..so pleased that you write.😘😘sending love and praying.xx
    I will pm you Kathryn laterx

  2. busynanny September 30, 2019 / 7:24 pm

    I am on this journey. I am not ready yet, the family are getting together on Monday to scatter David’s ashes.
    But you have given me hope that, perhaps, next Spring I will find the motivation to do much needed work in my garden and it will help.
    David loved gardening before he became too ill to do it and I want to honour that, with his favourite plants and flowers.
    Thank you, this has really helped me.
    All my best wishes to you. X

    • hugglemama September 30, 2019 / 11:21 pm

      I am so sorry that you are grieving too and hope that you will find a way through it all and healing when your heart is able. x

  3. Chris Kelly September 30, 2019 / 7:54 pm

    So glad that you’re able to get in your garden again. I can’t begin to imagine what you and the children are going through.
    I heard a guy speak recently about grief and he said, “people think we’re not coping when we keep crying, but we actually are coping. If we didn’t cry we wouldn’t be coping.”
    It’s like a roller coaster, up and down, sometimes you’re moving so slowly then all of a sudden you’re over the edge. You have to roll with it, and I guess it’ll get less and less until we adapt to life without them.
    🙌❤️🙏xxx

    • hugglemama September 30, 2019 / 9:29 pm

      Grief is a hole that never gets smaller I think. It changes shape and becomes filled with other things, but it’s always there. Lots of love to you Chris on your journey too. xxx

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