April Diary: The sadness of leaving, the joy of arriving, the state of processing...

"Everything changes but only the changing stays the same..." Seed to Dust, Marc Hamer. The question is, have I got the strength for this very physical job? Not going to lie, I am struggling...

Hello Tresco Abbey Garden, Goodbye Bridge View garden of 11 years

It’s the 12th May. I am battling to find fluidity in my sentences. I have no desk or chair, I am sitting on the floor with laptop on the sofa. It’s 5.30 am. Simon is asleep. I have just worked my first full week of work since James was diagnosed 6 and half years ago. The newsletter has got so long and disjointed I’ve cut in two so as not to bombard you. Now been here for three weeks. I have just started to miss my mum and my best friends. They are missing me too. But the revelation of deep bonds and a whole lot of love is a beautiful thing.

Leaving the garden, I felt my heart tearing in two. It has served me well. It is where I distracted myself and where I healed. It is where James’ feet first felt grass. Where he screamed at the dog for stealing his ball. I have observed the patterns of the beds with a forensic eye, I have watched the garden die back and come alive from my kitchen table where, by the window, I have filled over three hundred pages of a memoir. I have furiously scribbled as tears poured down my face, going on and on about how my garden has been my therapist, my sanctuary, my playroom, I have dug holes looking for the magic in the black gold, scraping off the surface of the soil, tucking plants into beds as my son lay sleeping off morphine and medicinal cannabis. After he left me I shopped for seeds and brought a thousand seedlings to life. I gave them warmth and water and then as the daylight stretched out its loving arms I took the seedlings outside and tucked them into warming beds. When James was one I showed him the lavender, the rosemary, teaching him the words along with the perfumes. When he was two I gave him a watering can. When he was three I gave him scissors and he took flowers to the neighbours. At age four he played football on the grass and we sat on picnic blankets with grass swaying around us, we made daisy chains and I told him we must let the daisies grow. I have left my tears in those beds, watered with the pain of losing my child. I sat beneath that cherry blossom in the first few days of loss; the heavy bows grew laden with pink candy floss nodding in the breeze as I wept in the long April days after James was buried. All those memories are now in my heart and in my phone.

The Silver Tree outside my new home. Buds as big as golf balls.

Looking back — 15th April: With A Week to Go

What on earth is going on around me, there I go, filling boxes, as if I am not in my body, I can see my arms gathering newspaper, choosing glasses and mugs to take. always the split self, one stubborn, clinging to the familiar; the other half fighting for change. There is a roll of bubble wrap on the floor. Boxes full, and flat ones waiting to be made. Outside, where I wish I was gardening, it’s all gone still, my tulips are standing somehow, defiant, but my goodness they have had a beating. How the stems don’t snap, I’ll never know.

Not long to go now, this is the hard bit. Watching his things leave the house, watching as Simon carries James’ precious six years out of the house up to his mum and dad’s for storage. The box of Hot Wheels cars, the books, the Lego… What am I keeping it all for? Evidence, that all this really happened and once upon a time, there was a little boy called James…

Penultimate day before the Day of Freight, I am writing, briefly, grabbing a second, to feel my fingertips on the keys, my feet on the floor: I think Simon just glanced at the screen to see what on earth I could be tapping in at this last hour when there is so much to do??? But some morning pages to find myself amongst the chaos will help me. Taking time to pause and say, here I am, in this precise moment - now - feeling this, doing that. Again I return to the line my yoga teacher uses in her classes: Check in with Your Heart Centre - What is the weather in your heart? When I do this I realise how shallow my breath is, how rigid the muscles in my throat are, how my shoulders are up, braced for impact. I recognise that I have abandoned the ground. In yoga, Mountain Pose helps me find it again. I do it as the kettle boils. I stand tall, tail bone tucked in, not arching, feeling all four corners of my feet on the ground, legs strong holding me up, not dumping the weight in my ankles. Closing my eyes, I feel my awareness in every finger tip, offering my palms outwards, feeling the space around my hands. Shoulders down, I feel the air around my neck, in the gaps between my teeth and under my tongue. I feel the air on my nostrils as it comes in and as it leaves. Imagining I am a mountain steadies me. My chest softens… and then I can feel the essence of James, the energy of James. It is strong and vibrant. James is my solid foundation and he is the sun on my peaks, he is the deep snow like a blanket around me, he is the solid earth I am connected to.

Life In A Box

It’s six am. Two days later, the day after our boxes went across the sea, the 17th April. Wednesday. I have woken up at my Dad’s house in Truro. Two nights with Dad before I leave. My step-mother has gone away for two days. He is in his fifth year since his Parkinson’s diagnosis. He rarely goes out now. I feel bad about leaving. We have just started to spend more time together. He likes showing me around his garden. We watch the news together and share our disgust at politicians. He likes to be rubbed. I give him lots of massages. It’s brought us closer. Because we talk without eye contact, it’s easier; I stand behind the sofa, massage his head and neck. He says he’s happy for me, says he thinks the fresh start is what I need. Tomorrow Simon and I are putting on The Art of James show again with the help of my cousin and his wife in Bar Harlyn. Their children, Noa and Sienna will be proud to show off their cousin. I tell Dad, I have not invited him because I don’t want to make him feel bad for saying no, he won’t come. He’s says he’s grateful because he wouldn’t have wanted to come. I would love him to be there but I know it’s too hard for him. Seeing people means being seen. I understand how that feels. You can read your sorrows in their eyes. it’s painful. When we hide we can pretend none of it is real. he’s worked so hard to enjoy his retirement. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

In the middle of packing I must be mad organising another art show but I can’t wait to be proud, to show James off to people again.

Yesterday I watched as our things were carried to the van. We have chosen what is to go and what is to stay. Five categories: Tresco, Storage, Loft, Dump, Charity. 18 boxes, a mattress, a pine shelf, two fishing rods, two bikes, two mirrors and four suitcases, were carried, loaded, unloaded, and loaded again into a container and onto a ship and taken over the sea, 28 miles from Lands End to St Mary's and then on to Tresco. One of the boxes is James’ ART BOX. His watercolours, oil pastels, acrylics, his brushes, his paper, unused canvases, pencils, crayons. Also his suitcase. Packing him a suitcase was not something that I had not anticipated. Trying to leave certain things behind was just too hard and as soon as I gave myself permission to take them I felt ok again. So I have packed his pyjamas, glasses, favourite books, cap, his Vans trainers, favourite teddies, things that are so precious, and I feel so much better knowing they are coming.

The Art of James Show raised over £600 for Art Supplies for St Merryn Primary school. Loved every minute of these two hours. People’s faces! I think we inspired many parents to go home and make art with their children. The Golden Sunset belongs to my dad. It was a 70th birthday present from James.

Dad and I had our usual strange but nice evening together. We are both indecisive and restless. Neither of us able to work the television— the remote control a mystery. He only has eyes for football anyway. Neither of us can concentrate on anything else. We end up laughing at ourselves, giving up on navigating channels. He is like a cat who can’t really engage with you but just wants to be rubbed. He is like a comedian, always thinking of a come back. He’s hilarious. Parkinson’s is a cruel disease. Dad must stay in his comfort zone where his surroundings are familiar and easy to navigate. He’s still very able bodied and is happy pottering around the house. Stairs still no problem. But it’s the confidence that goes. I can only imagine. I can’t know what it is like for him to know that his body will frustrate him more and more as time goes by. Just like he can only imagine what it is like for me to lose a child. So we have a whiskey together and try not to imagine each other’s woes. I rub his feet, hands and head for hours. His body softens and his left hand tremor stills, becoming barely noticeable. He really struggles to talk about my loss. His way of dealing with it is to push it away. Sometimes I wonder if a dose of that would do me good. I’m at the opposite end of the scale, analysing every morsel of grief, perhaps allowing it to consume me. But feelings bubble away under the skin and sometimes he looks ready to burst. In our conversations we somehow meet in the middle. When I ignore the need to sit down and cry, the day is hard work, like trying to swim against a strong current. This is what he looks like as he potters around in circles. I’ve also been worried about mum. She is taking my departure very hard. But when survival mode kicks in and you need to escape, you have to do what you have to do. She says she knows I have got to go but she feels like she’s losing me. Departures are triggering. But life is about surviving loss.

We’re on our way. Six bags, all badly packed. Things I should have put in the freight boxes. Miscellaneous last minute items grabbed in desperation, clinging onto my clutter and crap. A third tea-pot hidden from Simon wrapped in a scarf in my handbag. An old tea tin of loose earl grey. Soft old jumpers. I’m sitting here barely alive, like a heap of dried seaweed on the shore. I am aboard the Scillonion III, writing in pencil on a hotel notepad I found in my bag. It’s sunny out on the deck and packed with people. We are downstairs in comfy seats. Last night was almost entirely without sleep. I have left so much blank paper behind, collected notepads waiting for words. I wanted to bring them all. It’s 9 am. 15 minutes until we set sail for our new life. Ernie is at our feet, looking up, anxious. I just went to buy ginger lozenges to prepare for sea sickness. We’ve got that timeless holiday feeling so we’re having a cold beer. It’s smoothing over fractures. This is a notoriously rough crossing. Many people have told me I will be sick. I came back with the sweets and Simon said, what on earth have you bought those for, there’s hardly a ripple out there. The ocean has softened and stilled itself for us, because it knows we are fragile. The early morning sunshine is soft and golden. I can’t sit still and keep going out there to take photographs. Penzance already seems enormous; The mainland. I stood in my son’s bedroom, a hand on his wallpaper and I cried. Next time I see that bedroom the wallpaper will be gone. I tell myself that he has grown up and that phase of life is over.

24th April, I’ve just woken up after my second night on Tresco. It’s 6.30 am. It’s so quiet here. The word peaceful does not do it justice. I feel so far away. I will not miss busy roads, the school run traffic, the motorbikes. When we walked into a little green chalet, a bed had been made up for us, beautiful crisp white bedding. I said to Simon — this bedroom will never seen ironed bedsheets again. It was pure luxury. Even though Anna, our new boss, she knew our mattress was in our container she’d thought we’d be tired and so had a mattress put in our new home so there was no rush to get the container open. There was tea and coffee, milk, shortbread. It was all so much more than I was expecting. We dropped our bags. The sun was shining. We took Ernie straight to the beach two minutes from our home. I have never lived so close to the sea. I can see it from our front door. Looking out, it’s like morning medicine.

I have a new alarm clock. A Pheasant and his hen, they are dating daily, right outside our window. The fluttering of feathers. The pheasant sounds chocked up. It’s the ‘cock a’ without the doodle doooo, like a cockerel with a gobstopper in its mouth. Two days ago on the Scillonian III approaching Scillies, as we approached St Mary’s we began chatting to a man in front of us. He told us he drives one of the day boats from St Martins, the island we can see from our new home, about ten minutes away. He was lovely chap. We chatted for a while, realising we have a mutual friend from Rock and then preparing to disembark I asked his name? ‘James’ he said. I reckon there was nearly 200 passengers, and out of all those people — we sat next to a James. It made me smile.

One foot in front of another, a new life beckons and everything is all because of James: who I am, where I am - in this breathtaking place that is giving my heart cause to thaw. On Monday 22nd April, I said goodbye to my son’s bedroom, knowing his wallpaper would soon be removed for tenants. I walked up the path passing my flowers and shrubs, roses coming to bud, new bright foliage everywhere. I cried hard in that moment but I kept going, as my good friend took me in her arms and let me cry and then bundled me into her car and took us to Penzance. I walked away knowing it’s for the best, knowing we had to leave and because I know if there’s one thing I am good at it’s making a home and I know I will make this new place my own, right here — this scruffy patch of grass where Ernie now lies. I cannot believe how friendly everyone is. I have met the head gardener, and his lovely wife in her incredible vegetable garden. I have met the curator, Mike who drove me round a buggy and filled my head with new plant names. I have met Emma up at the Abbey. She is the propogator, and has a lovely border terrier called Inca. We are enjoying good old work banter with the brilliant team of guys I will be working with. Six of us looking after one hundred holiday cottages. I have met the bee keeper, a passionate woman who took my hand and said, I am so glad you are here.

I am keen to build a garden out of scraps and cuttings but I must not take on too many plants as I will be gardening for 40-45 hours a week and no have outdoor tap. I must stick to the rule - RIGHT PLANT RIGHT PLACE. Draught tolerant. Wind tolerant. Without my 13 house plants I feel like I have lost a limb but I have filled vases with bluebells and campion that I have picked on our walks. Today we picked up our uniforms, very smart, navy blue jackets with Tresco in red. We have had nine days to unpack and settle. I have pottered and arranged and stuffed shelves until I have collapsed. We have explored new corners and sat on wide open white sand in silence. Nothing but bird song and the bumbling of bees. Ernie has needed much comforting. Nearly eleven, he’s only known one house and he is very confused, looking at us and whining for home. Suddenly on day four he seemed brighter, his wagging tail wagged once more. He is winning hearts all over the place.

Tomorrow is the 1st May and will be the first day of my new job. As I walk these glistening shores and narrow back lanes I am speechless; awestruck by the utter peace and the relief my body feels. Over the brows and through the gateways, there it comes, the space, the sleepy isles and the gentle lapping water. Here are a hundred bumble bees filling my ears, here are the larks melting my heart. This is all very surreal. Who am I? How did I get here? New sentences come into my mind and I seem to be looking for anything other than a full stop. But I must force endings because without them there will be no more beginnings.

We have introduced ourselves dozens of times and we are trying to learn names. There are people working here from so many corners of the planet. It reminds me of when I was 21 and I moved to London. And now I realise that’s what I miss about London, meeting people from all over the world. I wonder what sorts of people this island attracts? Life has washed us up here. What are we? We are miscellany, lost souls looking for adventure, looking for meaning, wandering misfits, nomads… We are all intrigued, all on a journey, and none of us know how long we might stay or where we might go next.

People ask, “So what brings you to Tresco?” Deep breath. The truth, or not the truth? I say, ‘Oh, we just needed a change… (I feel the lie like a neck brace, holding me stiff. This is where I need to change the subject, ask about them.) Sometimes I say, I lost my son and needed to get away… But this leads to a much a longer conversation which makes sad faces and takes so much energy. But talking of the death of a loved one is the way we bring them to life. In those moments when we do choose talk about our son, we bring him closer. We let people in and they know who we really are - two very proud parents of a beautiful boy.

Wallpaper I could never get bored of! James drawing at bedtime. I have a spare roll of it in the loft back home. Who knows its destiny?

It’s going to be so strange putting on a uniform. My last uniform was bakery whites. The apron strings got tangled in the machine. I never got them white enough. I usually looked crumpled and my father often told me off. I love that about being a gardener. NO IRONING.

1st May, 5.30 wake, 6 am dog walk for an hour. We must leave here at ten to eight to cycle to work. The sun is up. Simon has just put on his new uniform for the first time. A navy blue Regatta coat with the Tresco red lobster logo. He looks so smart. Light blue polo shirt. Brand new trousers and steel-toe cap boots. I am watching him leave with the dog. (Mine turn to walk him tomorrow) I am thinking about that last night in Bridge View, the last night in James’ bedroom. I have not cried since I have been here but it’s coming now and like finding the ground, it is a relief. When I find the release, when the tears roll — that’s the heart of it all, the heart of the matter, the matter of the heart — and right here, where the emotions burst the dam, HERE IS JAMES, and I can feel at home. The holiday is over. Work is starting. What relief. On that last night in his bedroom I lay staring at the ceiling for hours. I counted his glow in the dark stars over and over. As my blinking eyes failed me I got to 12,13. But I know there is 15 stars on that ceiling. The new tenant may or may not take them down. I meant to bring them with me but I forgot. I only ever remembered the stars when I saw them in the dark. They were always a surprise to me when I turned out the light. Maybe I will message her and ask her to post me his stars. James and I counted them together so many times, locked in a cuddle, smooth warm toddler skin that all mothers long for when their children grow up. I can close my eyes and feel my body wrapped around his little body. I think I eventually got a couple of hours sleep between 3 and 5 am. In the morning I woke up and I was dizzy, having to hold onto walls walking to the bathroom. I was sick. This was the body’s knowing, this was the final departure. On the 22nd April: We had to wake at 5.30 am to get to the Scillonian port in Penzance by 8am.

One hour until I must put on my new uniform and walk out of the door, get on my bike and cycle to the other side of the island, ten minutes at most to the office, the tool shed. I have to wear steel toe cap boots. I have to learn to drive a small tractor and reverse a trailer down narrow lanes. I am nervous. But the heavy boots will help me feel rooted to the ground.

3rd May

Third day of work. Life is so much easier without choice. Less thinking is bringing me huge relief. Up with the birds, kettle on, sunlight from behind low lying isles pouring in, uniform on, dog walk, cycle to work. My over-thinking brain is having a much needed break. All the, Can I go to work? Will I? When shall I leave???? All that is gone. I am missing my magpies but I have noticed that every time I set off on my bike to work a female blackbird flies directly across my path. It’s as though she waits in the hedge for me and then— Dash, there she goes. Swallows are darting, flying fast and low, zipping the air. Finches are singing. Pheasants are flirting with hens. The sea sits, shushing itself to sleep, quietly warming. Walking north, looking out, there are the breakers, the ocean proper. But it is broken up by all these rocky outcrops. I have just looked up a definition of ‘Rocky Outcrop.’ It is the result of millions of years of soft vegetation being washed away leaving the ‘Parent bedrock.’ I like that term. It makes me think of safety, a sense of solid foundations. Something always there. And here we are surrounded by bedrock parents. They sit all around me keeping out the rough seas. I made it through them. I got here. I was worried something would happen to stop it. Like before, when I thought life was all mapped out and certain, and then it was all taken away. Like before, I thought something would take the wind from our sails again. But we got here. And James must be here too.

New Grimsby, New home. I’ve only managed one short dip in the sea. It’s sooooo cold.

Some pictures of Six Years Ago, May 2018 Skiathos, Greek Islands

Tresco is adding another layer to me. The peace of these low lying isles is a blanket for the old self. If I was a car I’d have been written off. The loss of a loved one leaves your bones feeling exposed, weakened. The dents can be fixed but I have a shattered chassis. I know that grief has knocked me, in some ways beyond repair and in other ways the bandages I’ve put on have made me stronger. Here, closer to the ocean, to the stars, to the wilderness, mother nature is holding me up. James has sent me on an adventure.

There are moments, when I hear myself talking about plants, especially how to nurture them, and I think, who is this woman that sounds like a gardener? Imposter syndrome is common. We’re all so much more brilliant than we realise. We all belong to everything, and to each other. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all felt good enough, if we didn’t seek approval. I can feel myself smiling a lot, meeting many new people, housekeepers, maintenance staff, chefs, waiters.

I should read my last newsletter because I can’t remember writing it. Apologies if I repeat myself. But the point to this writing is not tidy structures. This is reality. Life is messy. It is a process. I could spend another week fiddling with this. Of course I want the writing to be fluid, coherent, easily read and absorbed. But that just isn’t the state in which I am in. I am unsettled. My mind is between homes. I have no table or desk. We eat on the sofa, our plates on our laps. We are waiting for pay day, still three weeks away. I am waiting for new rhythms to come. The words are up in the air, far from perfect, the lines and paragraphs are the sums of my soul, the workings-out scrawled on a maths board. I feel my words are fumbling in the dark, making their way across the page by candlelight, trying to make sense. Always trying to make sense. I write for my own sanity. Sometimes James feels so far away now, it’s as though it was all a dream, and that I am making him up. I look at pictures and feel my self split in two. I will always live with this confusion, in a fog, wearing a mask, inventing a self: a childless woman, a gardener, who once upon time made pack lunches and did the school run. I am a stranger to myself. Sometimes I look at pictures of him and feel nothing at all. My body is numbing me so I can get to work and absorb the names of a hundred holiday cottages, remember their location, pull cords of lawn mowers, and say good morning to the guests. I had my first conversation with a toddler yesterday. A little boy. He came out of his cottage with some water to help me. I gave him a flower to give to his Mummy. I hated every second of it. But soon children will be everywhere and I must get used to it.

I can’t lie. I am struggling. My body feels beaten and bruised. My tired eyes are hiding behind sunglasses. I am not used to power tools. I hate the smell of petrol fumes. I am nervous when learning to reverse to the tractor and trailer. The noise of machinery is awful. But I have ear defenders and I have got used to worse. My arms do not have the strength for hedge trimmers. I MUST GET STRONGER. Surely I will. Simon says don’t worry, soon your muscles will be used to it. I hope he’s right. On day three I cried, worried I am too old for this, surrounded by young men making light of heavy jobs. I am the only woman. I have got to show I am strong. But I have also got to show them it’s not all about blades and fuel. We can be tender with plants. We can love them and be gentle. I am used to being on hands knees in the mud. But I am learning new aspects of gardening. Time is an issue. Guests are checking in; no time for close inspection titivating. This is not a way of gardening I am used to. BUT, I am learning to look at the whole shape, to see the space, the hedges, the outline. These new skills can only empower me. I can’t wait to tell you about all the plants and the people in my next newsletter. The six guys I work with have a dilemma — do they watch me struggle as I pull strimmer cords again and again, or push a heavy Honda mower up onto the trailer, or do they offer to help? Sometimes I want to yell, I LOST MY SON, I can’t do this. I am not strong!!! …But of course I never will.