two women

As a physically able woman I can't help but notice people struggling with heavy bags or shopping trollies on London Underground stairways. I've never learnt to drive so am used to heaving belongs on public transport, my arms dropping off with the weight, my shoulders aching with the effort of dragging a loaded trolly up steps. Fortunately I am strong enough to do this. Maybe, also, since my Mum died I particularly notice older or elderly solo ladies simply getting on with it, so after a moments observation I offer to help. At Stratford Station recently I assisted a woman navigating busy downwards steps with a trolly. Taking the trolly I lifted it with my right arm so it rested against my back, and the lady walked ahead as I descended the stairs swiftly behind her. When handing her the trolly, she said in an Irish accent, 'Thank you, you are a real lady'. The crowds were swarming around us and we parted, and I wished I'd had the opportunity for a quick chat. Being called a real lady brightened my heart with its old fashioned sound, I felt a harking back to her childhood and family values... and smiled inwardly.

One winter morning while waiting at the bus stop for the W14 I spotted a diminutive elderly woman dressed in black on the other side of the road. Leytonstone High Road can be difficult to cross for the fleet of foot, and this woman had a stick and was unable to rush. She patiently awaited her chance. I watched as a young woman stood beside her and crossed the road, I willed her to notice my lady but she didn't. So I crossed and asked if she needed help. Luckily this timed with a break in the traffic, and as we walked she placed her black gloved hand in mine. Her smallness, her trust, her need of assistance moved me, my eyes became wet and I felt a wave of emotion in my chest... for mothers, for daughters, for trust, for loss. On a later bus journey I learnt that her name is Rosina, and as I approached the bus stop on another occasion I witnessed a young woman with two small daughters giving Rosina and kiss on each cheek. It is wonderful to see that she is connected and known in our community.

cactus

Among the row of plants on my bedroom windowsill is a cactus that has fallen to the floor on two occasions. Each time parts of it have broken away and now it sits, precarious and lop sided in its pot. I've always eyed it with a little sadness, remembering how it was, its potential and promise. My friend saw it last week and called it dramatic. Her clear vision has totally reframed how I look at my cactus, now I see its beauty rather than its missing parts. I've reflected upon this all week, and have observed my joy when gazing at this flourishing survivor. Words are so powerful, my response altered with a single one. 

getting my hands dirty

My day was spent volunteering at OrganicLea, a workers cooperative growing food on London's edge in the Lea Valley. There is a pleasant ache and tiredness in my body after weeding and mulching rhubarb crowns and potting on rooted blackcurrant cuttings. 

Being close to the soil, helping in simple ways, chatting to my companions while working together on a shared goal is mulch to my soul. 

Being the first to step outside after lunch I watched as a fox in beautiful condition sauntered through the grounds. At first it was accompanied by a solitary magpie but this flew gracefully into the bare trees. Walking on and partly obscured by bushes the fox leapt playfully in the grass and then disappeared from view. 

It was a rewarding day in many ways.  

 Blackcurrant Ben Nevis 

 2/2/18

 Rhubarb

  Productive space

 Structure and approaching dusk

 Greenhouses 

Gateway to Hawkwood

hello 2018

Goodbye 2017, you are a year I'll never forget.  Friendships strengthened, friendships lost, standing shoulder to shoulder with my sibling, grief, joy, challenges, choices, doldrums, endurance and a glimmer of hope. The only constant is change. This time next year I'll be in a different place geographically and emotionally. I'm ready for a positive and chosen uprooting into new ground, in hope that I find my home. 

Welcome 2018, you have a pleasing sound and shape. 

christmas gravy

My sister and I are spending our first Christmas together without Mum. My small offering towards our festive feast is the gravy. Vegan, easy to make and delicious, we had it last year at Mum's house and enjoyed it. Merry Christmas!

● 1 onion, finely chopped

● 1 tbsp olive oil

● 1 tsp mustard seeds

● 2 cloves garlic, chopped

● 1 stick celery, chopped

● 5 cherry tomatoes

● 600ml vegan vegetable stock

● 2 tsp cranberry sauce

● 3 tbsp vegan red wine

● 1 tsp dried mixed herbs

● Salt & pepper

● Gently fry the onion in the oil for 5 minutes

● Add mustard seeds, garlic, celery and tomatoes and cook for another 5 minutes, stirring occasionally

● Add stock, cranberry sauce, wine and herbs, season and simmer for 15 minutes

● Purée with a stick blender until smooth

 Fry

 Simmer

Blend
Will keep for up to 3 days in the fridge. Can be frozen for up to 3 months.

things that break my heart - candlelight

Doreen Edna Logan (née Furmage)

The evening of the day Mum died I lit a candle and let it burn down in the darkness of my bedroom. I set it in front of a photo taken on her 70th birthday in 2005, me to her right, my sister to her left: the same positions as at the moment of her death. The candle illuminated her photo, so if I woke in the night she was smiling out at me. I'm very grateful that Mum died with 'her girls' present. My memory is muddled but Clare's voice is clear, simply stating  'it's happening!' as we simultaneously leaned in close to stroke her face and hair and say, 'goodbye Mum, goodbye' as she died. Her colour change was dramatic, in the instance her heart stopped beating she was yellow, the effect of liver failure shockingly apparent - poor thing.

Each night before I sleep, I say out loud, 'night Mum', and in her voice answer, 'night dear'. I'm trying to retain her voice, as my Dad's is long forgotten. It is important that I do this for a year, the last night lighting will be on the 1st May 2018. I'll buy a special candle to burn on the 2nd May, lightening it at 5.45pm, the time of her death. I mentioned my ritual to a friend who's husband is from Ghana. His father died last year and she told me the first year of bereavement is honoured in his culture, marked by family gatherings and a celebration and remembering of the loved ones life. This first year feels sacred. My first year with no father, no mother. 

things that break my heart - lipstick

Mum was clearly very ill, and on 13th April we visited the doctors on Pyrles Lane for her second round of blood test results. It had been a challenge getting her to the doctors, her legs so swollen she couldn't bend them at the knee, so getting in and out of the taxi and walking to the surgery was a monumental effort.

While waiting for the taxi, Mum sat in the living room, having applied her pink lipstick. It was a heart stopping moment, seeing her pink lips against yellowing skin and, as happened repeatedly throughout each day, witnessing how dreadful she looked, how ill she was. Her routine and pride in her appearance existed throughout the last weeks of her life. In the doctors waiting room, I remained outwardly cheerful while my chest ached at her obvious decline. It was at this appointment that cancer was first mentioned and I wanted to shield her, protect her from THAT word. I wanted the doctor to whisper it to me, I would carry it.

Mum lived for 19 more days, dying at 5.45pm on Tuesday 2nd May 2017.

The last few weeks of our lives together were one of a before unknown level of physical intimacy. Each morning I soaked her swollen feet in a bowl of scented water. My sister and I had visited Brighton in April, Mum giving us £20 to treat ourselves to lunch. In a health food shop I'd bought her a sachet of lavender bath salts, thinking she would enjoy a foot soak. The smell was indeed lovely, and I washed her feet and swollen legs, gently exfoliating her dry and flaking skin, carefully drying then moisturising with E45. I remember looking up at her from my position on the floor one morning and seeing her resting with her eyes closed as her feet soaked in the warm water. I hope I was able to give her some comfort in her last days.

6 days before she died, I washed Mum's hair, my first time doing so. As she was chair bound, the process began with covering her in towels, wrapping one around her neck, draping one across her shoulders. She held a bowl of warm water on her lap, and I wet her fine grey hair, soaping it into a lather. She leaned her head towards the bowl and I poured clean water from a plastic jug over her head, watching as it ran over the contours of her face and dripped from her nose. That day I also washed her face and arms. Seeing her in her vest, much reduced from the round soft Mum I'd known, her shoulders small, arms thin with skin hanging was unspeakably painful, a shock to the child in me, her daughter. 

I'd selected an outfit from her wardrobe and helped her dress. Her fine straight hair had never been to her liking, so Mum asked for her curlers and she twisted them into her hair for the last time. Automatic, no mirror needed. There was one strand of hair that misbehaved and I tucked it around a curler for her. This whole performance exhausted Mum. I think she was glad when I left her in peace.