This time of year

The 21^st January 2016 is not a date I will ever forget. That was the day that my wife Magucha died - six years ago this 21^st January 2022. But that is life isn’t it? We will all die one day!

 

Looking back to the time that we lived together many memories are fading – as is natural of course. The sound of her voice, and her infectious laugh are lost to me now but I can still see her eyes – always windows to the soul. I will admit that I do miss her, grievously miss her. I miss the feeling of her little hand in mine – what she called her “pata” (Portuguese for paw). She was not a “touchy feely” sort of person – she would squirm in my arms if I hugged her, saying in her wonderfully mangled English (Magucha speak!) that I was “strafogating” her. 

 

Magucha was not someone easy to categorize. It was not possible to say she was this or that kind of person. She was in many ways an extrovert – had a very large circle of friends and got on well with people in all walks of life. At the same time she was a very private person with an astonishing depth to her character. She was highly intelligent, very perceptive and seemingly attuned to the inner needs of people she knew. And she was also a wonderful mother with an amazing understanding of a child’s needs – and was certainly deeply loved by both children and her 4 grandchildren.

 

Furthermore she was definitely not the sort of person one could “tie down”. There was a strong rebellious streak in her make-up that I learned about very early in our marriage. To accommodate this I quickly learned to adopt the old maxim, “If you love something, let it fly free. If it returns it’s yours. If it doesn’t it never was.” 

 

Maugucha always returned. Not that she was ever “mine” in the ownership sense of the word but I truly believe she found peace, even solace, in our relationship. That is not to say that peace always reigned! Living with someone who had a strong Latin (Portuguese) temperament and a strong will of her own was not always conducive to “peace” in the accepted sense. Many were the tempestuous scenes that arose seemingly out of nowhere – though I soon worked out that they were, in many respects, a reaction to the rather fractured relationship she had with her mother. I was often the unwitting “victim” of pent up frustration.

 

I loved her you see and knew that there are two sides to everything. One has to know one to appreciate the other. How can on one know harmony with out first experiencing disharmony; happiness without experiencing unhappiness; love without first experiencing lack of love? 

 

You notice that I haven’t yet said that Magucha loved me! She never told me that she did – not in so many words. But she was very attentive to my needs and was very generous in what she gave me – and others have told me that she knew I was her “rock”; that I would always be there for her. That was just her way of expressing love. 

 

We were together for just short of 36 years.

 

As always I resort to poetry to best express my emotions – there is always a poem I can find. This is one I have used before – by John Masefield.

This is a photo taken on our 3^rd anniversary – and our first in Australia – 31^st August 1982 – that is, to me, a perfect visual expression of the poem below.

 

Beauty 

I have seen the dawn and sunset on moors
and windy hills,
Coming in solemn beauty like slow old tunes of
Spain;
I have seen the lady April bringing the daffodils,
Bringing the springing grass and the soft warm
April rain.

 

I have heard the song of the blossoms and the old
chant of the sea,
And seen strange lands from under the arched
white sails of ships;
But the loveliest things of beauty God ever 
showed to me,
Are her voice, and her hair, and eyes, and the 
dear red curve of her lips.

John Masefield.

 

 

There is another date that I don’t forget – 1^st June 1977 – the date my first wife Frances died. We were married for just under 7 years.

Sometimes.

Sometimes I may read or hear something and some passage I turn to or listen to will trigger a memory. It may be a memory of some time far back in my youth when still in Durban or, frequently nowadays, a more recent event of my life with Magucha. 

These are not always sad – often quite funny memories, recalling something relating to Magucha’s quirky sense of humour. But dates of celebration – birthdays, anniversaries – always bring some poignant remembrances. And what would have been her 68^th birthday is coming up soon – 9^th May, also as it happens, Mother’s Day this year.

I know that Magucha was no saint but with all the energy generated in her small body she seemed to shed a kindly light, like a glow. I truly believe that most people who came in contact with her benefited in some way. She was that kind of person.

Likewise I know the old saying that "absence makes the heart grow fonder" and after over five years of Magucha’s "absence" maybe that is true - that I now gloss over her all too human frailties. 

But I loved her you see and it has been said that love is blind. Maybe it is. Because I’m sure she ignored or at least learned to live with my, again, all too human frailties! 

As always I turn to poetry to express what I feel. I’ve said it many times before that poets seem to find the words that pierce the heart – certainly my heart. I miss so many aspects of our 36 years together. Little things, like what she referred to as her "pata" (Portuguese for paw), her little hand in mine as we walked or resting on my knee when I was driving. Just that simple close contact. I have now lost the sounds of both her voice and her infectious laugh – they have gone. But I can still see her eyes when I look at one of the many photographs I have of her. It was her eyes that attracted me when I first saw her. What attracts is indescribable – it just "is".

Quite a while back I came across this poem, from an anonymous composer, and it certainly resonated with me – it seemed to be very true. At least sometimes!

I heard your voice in the wind today.

I heard your voice in the wind today

And I turned to see your face;

The warmth of the wind caressed me

As I stood silently in place.

 

I felt your touch in the sun today

As its warmth filled the sky;

I closed my eyes for your embrace

And my spirit soared high.

 

I saw your eyes in the window pane

As I watched the falling rain;

It seemed as each raindrop fell

It quietly said your name.

 

I held you close in my heart today

It made me feel complete;

You may have died … but you are not gone

You will always be a part of me.

 

As long as the sun shines….

The wind blows ….

The rain falls ….

You will live on inside of me forever

For that is all my heart knows.

 

                                    Unknown  

 

Time is always there.

This is something that is with us always. Time! But what is it? It slows the closer we get to the speed of light. Apparently space travellers age less during the "time" they are travelling at hundreds of thousands of kilometres per hour than when they are back on earth.

 

But its my perception of time that interests me, punctuated as it has been, by major events – deaths, births, accidents, travel – all quite normal for anyone who lives long enough. It’s the "switch" that intrigues me. One moment I can be listening to world news and in the next some word, thought, scent, photograph or sound will send me back, right back, even to my childhood.

 

I know, full well, that the passage of time dulls memories – that’s just life I suppose. Strangely though some are still very sharp and vivid. I can still remember my first day at "kindy" – in Durban, at St Thomas Church hall and Mrs Dibbs the teacher.

 

Then of course and more importantly in my current situation, on my own, in a house that I shared with Magucha there are many memories. She is never far away. I will admit, in the more than five years that have passed since I held her hand and watched her die I can still, in an instant, seemingly switch from that to an incident in our life together in (then) Rhodesia. Then in a split second later I can be back here, now, listening to music.

 

So time, it seems, is a "flexible" measure of life. It slows down or speeds up according to our mood and circumstances. It most definitely speeds up, or seems to, as one grows older – the days, weeks, months and years roll by with apparently increasing velocity.

 

There are, however, some things that time will never touch. Memories. Not necessarily little individual memories but broad brush remembrances – Magucha’s kindness, her generosity of spirit, her inherent sense of justice, her mischievous sense of humour but above all her astonishing courage. And then her eyes. They are what attracted me when I first saw her – their liveliness, their warmth and intensity. 

 

These will always have a place in my heart.  

 

I’ve looked long and hard for a poem that even comes close to expressing what I feel about time.  This one by Paul Dunbar, the first African American to achieve recognition in the literary world, comes close:-

 

Forever

Paul Laurence Dunbar - 1872-1906

 

I had not known before

    Forever was so long a word.

The slow stroke of the clock of time

    I had not heard.

 

‘Tis hard to learn so late;

    It seems no sad heart really learns,

But hopes and trusts and doubts and fears,

    And bleeds and burns.

 

The night is not all dark,

    Nor is the day all it seems,

But each may bring me this relief--

    My dreams and dreams.

 

I had not known before

    That Never was so sad a word,

So wrap me in forgetfulness--

     I have not heard.

 

Just memories.

There are so many memories. But they are mine and wouldn’t have the same resonance if I tried to share very many, I don’t believe. 

 

You see, tomorrow, January 21, will be five years since Magucha died. Now it never has been my intention to solemnize this day into a “mourning” day.  Magucha would never have wanted that. It is after all just another day – the sun will still rise in the East and set Westward over the Indian Ocean (viewed from Perth).

 

Tomorrow will, in a sense, be a day of celebration for a life well lived. Magucha refused to be cast down. Her whole approach to life seemed to be “Life is to be lived. Live it. To the full!” And so she did. She was never still, just like a sparrow – my pet name for her was “pardalito” – Portuguese for “little sparrow”  – always busy with something or someone. 

 

Rather than adopt an attitude, “What can I expect from Life?” Magucha approached it differently with a, “What does Life expect from me?” So she was always up to something – more often than not helping some wayfarer who has stumbled on their journey through life. 

 

And I was glad to be part of that. And I respected her, almost unconscious, desire to help others. And I hope I helped too. I loved her, you see! 

 

But in retrospect one always remembers the better times – the many rushed journeys to hospital and the many days spent in hospital, just became part of the background and tend to recede further as time goes on. Just as does the fist full of medications she had to take twice a day – I still have her hospital pharmacy list.

 

Magucha was  tough. Ever since her late teenage years she had suffered from kidney failure – she died just short of 63 years old – so nearly 50 years of illness. This she endured with stoic fortitude, never complaining, always ready for tomorrow! She was like spring steel – always bouncing back with a smile and a thank you.

 

In many respects I think that what the American rebel and “Gonzo” journalist, Hunter S Thompson, wrote gives a good insight into Magucha’s whole approach to life:-

 

“ Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a Ride!”

 

And it was a ride – being her partner, lover and friend! I wouldn’t have missed any of it. But it is the memory of her gentle side that I remember so fondly. She loved children. Having been told not to have a child - that having a child of her own would overload her compromised kidneys, she was so proud to give birth to a healthy little girl. Her love for Caroline was palpable and wonderful to see. 

 

Being the person she was she gave equal loving attention to Rob whom she refused to call “step son” but always “MY son Rob”. And I loved her for that – her innate kindness and sense of justice.

Then when the grandchildren arrived she was always there to offer help. She was their beloved “Vovo” (Portuguese for grandmother).

 

So, as you can see there are so many memories.

 

As the anonymous poet Atticus wrote:-

 

“What a beautiful thought” she said,

“that even death does not conquer love and sometimes even makes it stronger.”

 

And:-

 

“She had an uncanny energy for life, 

thankful for every little miracle it bestowed –

and it made her entirely impossible to live without.”

 

I know I have used this poem before but it fits my mood so I’ll end with it:-

 

My Wife

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The Great Artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The Mighty Master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The August Father
Gave to me. 

             

                            Robert Louis Stevenson

We are just sojourners.

As always at this time of year many memories come flooding in. And I know, all too well, that they do fade over time even as I grope for more clarity. They lose much of their urgency and potency. This is a blessing I believe, bestowed on us mortals, so that all our days are not darkened by grief and other past matters.

 

For this I am grateful. But, as always, there is a consequence. If I want to recall the sound of Magucha’s voice and her sometimes (deliberately) mangled English – what we all knew as “Magucha speak”; if I want to recall the sound of her infectious laugh; if I want to recall the feeling of her “pata” (Portuguese for “paw”) - what she called her little hand - as it sought mine while we walked side by side, or resting on my knee while driving. I can’t. Those memories are lost to me now. 

 

But then, and maybe this is a good thing, I now can’t recall the sound of her angry voice either! Magucha had a quick fire Portuguese (Latin) temperament and was not easily crossed. And she didn’t mind who knew it!!

 

Also it matters not who we are, what we do or where we live, we are all, I do believe, just sojourners in this place. Or, if you prefer, wayfarers, on our journey through life.  

 

We meet wonderful people, as sojourners or wayfarers, and maybe fall in love and marry, as I did – rather, as we did - Magucha and I. For in us all there is a hunger for love, there is also pity in love, there is a power in love but also in a strange way, a kind of fear. To love someone needs courage. What will love bring? That is the unknown and the unknowable. Life is a grand adventure for the heart (always thought of as the seat of Love and many other emotions) but the end and what that entails is the mystery. I, however, also believe that love is eternal and is beyond knowing.

 

Behind all this philosophical conjecture the perennial, perplexing, questions remain – what is it that is present when someone or something is alive but absent when that same person or something dies? And why? What is the purpose of Life? We will never know of course, as it is beyond our understanding but, and I repeat but, I cannot believe that Life (however defined) appeared, ab initio, from stardust.

 

If, as is postulated, Life – or the bacteria from which Life, as we know it, is believed to have evolved – was deposited, carried by stardust, on the newly formed planet Earth over 3 billion years ago, the question remains, where did THAT bacteria come from?

 

I think I have always been an optimistic person and never been cast down for too long. Always have I tried to greet what Life has dealt me with a “what now?” rather that a  “why me?” It seems to work. For me at least. But sometimes it is hard. 

 

I have dreams and I can dream, can’t I, that in the “undiscovered country” to which we will all eventually travel, I will, again, see those whom I have loved? 

 

So, as always, it is poetry that I turn to for solace or, maybe, a better way to express the way I feel. Therefore, with no excuse or apology I offer the following by Max Ehrmann.  He, I do believe, must have experienced deep grief to write something as poignant as this:-

The Dead Wife

 

O thou whose lips I’ve pressed in hush of night,

Whose tiny hand has trembled in my own

Beneath the talking boughs the wind has blown,

Hid snuggly from the evening’s starry light –

O thou, my all, why hast thou quit my sight?

Thy straggling curls will no more touch my cheek,

Thy voice and smile are gone where’er I seek

With my watchful eyes and my strong passion’s might.

If all my soul’s deep grief thou now dost see,

If thou dost know the lonely inward tears

My heart hath shed along the saddened years,

Break through thy silent doors to life and me,

Who hourly watch and wait with trembling fears,

Lest in the realm of death I know not thee.

Walk with me for a day

In today's heated emotions about what, if any lives matter, I suggest that this poem written by a member of the "first people" - 65 000 years of history in Australia - is worth reading.

Walk with me for a day

The colour of my skin your eyes do see

Pain dwelling deep within

Afflictions to experience is a mere dream

Walk with me for a day.

Souls of black Australia in the sea of mankind

Neither here nor there

Memories lost of tribal care

Walk with me for a day.

Share my dreaming of this great land

Grassroots problems where did they begin?

Please don’t criticize my countryman

Walk with me for a day.

History’s footprints linger within the depths of time

As its path of destruction lays a snare

Emotions deep in the valley of despair

Walk with me for a day.

Torn and battered weary souls fight on

Equality beats to the sound of progress roar

Reconcile and together we’ll learn

Walk with me for a day.

                                                                        Tania Con-Goo 2005

What brings memories

Certain words or groups of words have to power to deeply affect me. They always have. May be that is why I respond so easily to the emotions expressed in poetry. 

I read the other day something that included the phrase “loyal heart”. Just those two words hit me “twixt wind and water” as the saying goes. Simple words when apart but when together they are full of meaning.

Loyal – being there for all contingencies; being steadfast; being understanding; being critical but not condemnatory. Being a friend.

Heart – and I don’t mean the blood pump thing in our chest cavity. I refer to the old belief that the “heart” is the seat of all emotions; the seat of love; the seat of courage and the seat of hate. There are many sayings that incorporate this belief – she has a “heart of gold”; his heart is “in the right place”; she has a “big heart”; he has “no heart” or is a “blaggard”  (derived I believe from “black heart”); he had “hatred in his heart”. She is “all heart” – though, of course, this, last, can also be used in a derogatory or sarcastic sense! 

Still, it is this combination of the words that brings me a host of memories; warm memories; loving memories. Memories of a loving and loyal heart; of a friend. For all her feistiness and sometimes stubborn, contrary opinions, I do believe that Magucha had a Loyal Heart. A very Loyal Heart.

I know that we tested each other in many ways – but we always seemed to be strengthened by each “test” that was passed or overcome. And for that I am very grateful.

The lyrics of the song “You’re my best friend” – by the Country singer Don Williams, just fit, as far as I’m concerned (and of course so does the melody):-

You placed gold on my finger
You brought love like I've never known
You gave life to our children
And to me a reason to go on

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all you're my best friend

When I need hope and inspiration
You're always strong when I'm tired and weak
I could search this whole world over
You'd still be everything that I need

You're my bread when I'm hungry
You're my shelter from troubled winds
You're my anchor in life's ocean
But most of all you're my best friend.

Memories or dreams?

It is very strange how memory works. I might be going about my daily chores when a scent, a sound, a picture or something I might read, will suddenly recall an event or something about our lives together. Me with Magucha. I know that it is getting on for three years since she died (I just can’t use the euphemism “passed away”. It seems like an avoidance – to hide something). Sometimes she seems closer than at other times – like a dream – drifting in and out. 

All this reminds me of the reasons why I like poetry and why it has been used by troubadours and wandering minstrels down the centuries is that the cadence, the rhythm, matches that of music and the beat of the human heart – about sixty beats a minute. Before written language was invented, Hindus used the rhythm to help them remember verses of the Bhagavad Gita and other epic tales. Similarly the Greeks had wandering minstrels who would entertain people with tales of Olympus and the Gods who lived there. These stories were later collated by Homer and many other writers. 

This poem – and I know it may pull at the heart-strings – but I don’t care, it resonates for me - only because I grieve. This reminds me of Magucha and the love we shared.  It is all about memories. 

When tomorrow starts without me.

When tomorrow starts without me, I will not be here to see,
That the sun will rise and find your eyes; filled with tears for me,
But please know you're always in my heart, and I will forever love you,
And know, each time you think of me, I will be missing you too.

When tomorrow starts without me, I need you to understand,
That an angel came, he called my name and took me by the hand.
He told me it was time to go up to heaven far above,
And that I have to leave behind all those I dearly love.

When tomorrow starts without me, I know that you will cry,
For all my life I’d always thought that I would never die.
I had so much life ahead of me; I had so much to do,
It seems almost impossible that I was leaving you.

When tomorrow starts without me, I think of the good days, and the bad,
I thought of all our fights, next to all the fun we had.
If I could have stayed, just for a little while,
I would say I'd always be here, and then I'd make you smile.

When tomorrow starts without me, I'll realise that this could never be,
As all that would be left of me, is frozen in memories.
Then I thought of all the beautiful things that I would miss tomorrow,
I thought of you and when I did my heart was filled with sorrow.

When tomorrow starts without me I will walk through heaven’s gate,
I will feel at home even without my soul mate.
I know this is what I wanted, deep down within my bones,
And God looked down and smiled at me from his great golden throne.

When tomorrow starts without me I see everything He promised me,

“Today your life on earth is past, and now you can be free.”
“I promise no tomorrow as today will always last,
And since it's all the same you will not be longing for the past.”

So when tomorrow starts without me don’t think we’re far apart,
For every time you think of me I’m right here in your heart.

Attributed to David Romano. 

Another day has passed.

Some things, like memories, are not easy to write about. I know that memory is a wonderful thing yet it can be quite frightening in its scope. My memories seem to be activated at random, as I presume happens to others. All of a sudden a memory is there without seemingly being called. While others have to be dragged from wherever they reside. 

While the time spent without Magucha has not been easy, time can be kind. It dulls the pain. Sort of. But the ache remains, as do the memories. They always will. 

But the curious in me wants to know so many things. One thing has bothered me, even though I think I have worked it out – why we/I grieve. Grief hurts in many ways but it’s all about me! It’s about my hurt; my loss; my feelings. 

I should be glad that Magucha no longer suffers; I should be glad that she is no longer burdened by the trappings and necessities of life, as we live it. I am - but it is not easy!

That her love; that her emotional strength; that her mischievous sense of humour; that her deep and sensitive knowledge of the needs of others; that all this has just disappeared into "nothing" is beyond my understanding. 

Of course it is a given that I have absolutely no idea what has "happened" to her. I have the strong conviction though, that when we die we still “exist”, obviously without the bodily form we used when “alive”. The essence that was/is us continues. That essence, that “Life”, has returned to wherever it came from.

All I know is that (in the words of the song) “Loving her was easier than anything I’ll ever do again”.

Sixty-four.

Sixty-four.  Had she lived that’s how old Magucha would have been today - May 9.

I am not sure how others do it, but I find that coping with what Life (with a capital L) throws at me to be a continual rather ad hoc arrangement. Everyday, every moment, is different.

What I am doing is coping in my way with my grief. I know that I could wallow in a “poor me” trough – but I realize that such an attitude would not do me any good. But grief is not just “grief” – some amorphous “thing” out there somewhere. It is personal.

My way of coping is to try and “meet” my grief head on and attempt to understand the how and why. I mean the woman I loved, my wife, my best friend Magucha, is dead – has “passed away”. I can’t change that fact. I can’t deny it. To try to ignore it; to try and hide it; to try and divert my attention from this fact just doesn’t work. Not for me anyway.

But it is very hard. I look at some of the many reminders of her that are in the house we shared and I can remember the time and place, when and where the photos were taken, or the items purchased, or when the gifts were received or given; I sit down at a café and I immediately recall the table we sat at and what we ate when we were last there together.

It is of course a fact that we all suffer grief at some time in our lives. People have died of old age, illness, in battle, on expeditions and in various other tragic or violent means since humans first walked the earth – grief is always with us.

Being the person I am and as a human being, as a husband and father, I have a strong desire to know, to try and understand.  I am deeply curious but it is all made harder because I suspect that I will never understand what happens at the end. I am not alone in this and why I think that from the earliest times humans have had a belief (hope?) that there is a hereafter of some sort. But are we ever supposed to know?  

In my case my grief is compounded by the mystery of it all. I just have to accept it! But what has happened to the “person” – not the body - but the essence that was Magucha? I find it incomprehensible that her love, her intelligence, her vitality, her emotional strength and empathy have just disappeared into nothing. After all it has yet to be determined what Life actually is (that “something” that makes any living thing, “alive”) – it may be beyond our knowing.

But why is there something rather than nothing? And why us?

As always in moments of high emotion I find solace in poetry.

Shakespeare expressed this mystery in his timeless verse:

“The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn

            No traveller returns, puzzles the will.”

Rabindranath Tagore, in a more accepting mood, also wrote:

“Death is not extinguishing the light; it is only putting out the lamp because the dawn has come.”

And Shelley, long before Tagore, obviously had similar views when he wrote:

“Peace! Peace! He is not dead, he doth not sleep, -

He hath awakened from the dream of life;”

    Even though only 62 when she died, she lived her life to the full and Magucha, to quote Kipling:

   “Filled the unforgiving minute 

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run.”

She did this every day and was glad.

It comforts me to believe that Magucha no longer suffers, that she has gone before me, gone on ahead, and that some time in the future we will meet again. That love will always win in the end.

I hope. Maybe - but who knows? I still have my memories.

There are always poems.

Some events; some memories; some recollections don’t get any easier, any less confronting with the elapse of time. They are still too fresh, too raw to be easily cast aside.

At times, such as the present, when recent past events cast a long shadow over my life, I am drawn to poets magisterial use of words to express the inexpressible. 

For reasons that I cannot explain – possibly because of its very early, childhood introduction – poetry has always stirred, within me, a deep well of emotion and intense imagery. Poets use of words are like a cry from the heart, that bring forth both pain and a salve to ease the pain.

One such poet is the Bengali polymath and Nobel prizewinner, Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941). From his 1913 publication, Gitanjali, a very short poem, number 87, hit me with a body blow that left me breathless and deeply moved.

87.

“In desperate hope I go and search for her in all the corners of my room;

I find her not.

My house is small and what once has gone from it can never be regained.

But infinite is thy mansion, my Lord, and seeking her I have come to thy door.

I stand under the golden canopy of thine evening sky and I lift my eager eyes to thy face.

I have come to the brink of eternity from which nothing can vanish – no hope, no happiness, no vision of a face seen through tears. 
Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullness. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe.”