The Proper Place

There is a wonderful old Hans Christian Andersen story about a magic flute that produced a special tone with an accompanying wind that blew everything back to its proper place. 

That was a very dangerous flute but it burst after the first note was sounded – and I think that was very fortunate for all concerned. 

This old fairy tale has come to mind recently, for some reason, as the fourth anniversary of the death of my wife Magucha arrives – 21^st January. I certainly don’t want to make of this day anything other than another day. But it’s a very special day for me as it was 4 years ago that our relationship irretrievably ended, as all things must end. A relationship that was, looking back, I believe very special in many ways. 

I was very fortunate to have had her as a “mate” in every sense of that word. She would, I believe, have stood by me to “man the battlements” had she been called on to do so. And I can’t think of anything I would not have done for her. I am aware that distance lends enchantment – and she is now four years distant from me – but I still believe that. 

As I mentioned the old fairy tale about the flute that sent everything back to its “proper place” has come to mind. I like to imagine that forty-two years ago, when we first met, we each subconsciously heard the echo of that first note of the magic flute and were blown together by the accompanying wind. That we were now in our proper place. 

Then the end came, the inevitable end that bookends all life. We are born and we will die. 

But then maybe, just maybe, that too is our “proper place”?

I’m going to quote the poet Shelley, from his poem “Adonais” – an elegy written about Keats, after he heard of Keats’ death. I will quote some of this poem, admittedly out of context, remembering that it was written about a man, because I like the sentiments expressed – what follows is from parts of stanzas 38 (XXXVIII), 39 (XXXIX) and 53 (LIII):

“ ….. but the pure spirit shall flow

Back to the burning fountain whence it came,

A portion of the Eternal, which must glow

Through time and change, unquenchably the same, ….”

Also:-

“Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep –

He hath awakened from the dream of life –”

Also:-

“Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here

They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!”

Does all this mean that this life is but a small part of the “real Life” and that that place, wherever it is, is the “Proper place”?

It pleases me to think so, that she is now in her “Proper place” – that Magucha has now “awakened from the dream of life”. That she is out of sight and has gone on ahead of me. But that one day I too will be in my "proper place" with her. 

Maybe!!!

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.