SEEKING LOVING INSPIRATION…

I seem to have spent the past few weeks focusing on lack, specifically, the lack of love and what it feels and looks like in my life.

A friend once said to me, that to be a deeply loving person myself, I must have learnt how to present love from someone. I think in essence that is true, there was a connection that certainly helped form the foundation of what I want love to look or to feel like. The connection I speak of is the one that I had with my paternal Grandma; her name was Theresa.

I think there are lots of different kinds of love, so clearly my Gran could only teach me so much, but it was the important kind of love that gave me roots to grow. Notably, a Spanish friend commented that he found it odd that in the English language we only have one word for love; he found that somewhat complicated, because in his language there are different terms for the level of love to be expressed. His observation is true. His thoughts also taught me to be more guarded about how I use the term ‘love’ and not to use it too freely. I say this because I have been known to express that I love chocolate, I love travel and I love shopping! If I use the word too freely it loses its meaning and therefore, the essence of love becomes meaningless; words are energy, so without pure intention behind the meaning, love becomes powerless. How can we heal ourselves or the world with love if love is comparative to buying a new dress or eating a box of chocolates?

So, I now only use the word love in relation to my deep affection for another person or in cases of true, heartfelt and soulful, creative work.

Therefore, I can say that I truly loved my Grandma, and even when I think of her now, it brings tears to my eyes because I doubt very much I ever told her to her face. But I guess she knew anyway and certainly, in Spirit, will definitely know now. My Grandma was the absolute epitome of what I feel a Gran should be like; or certainly, she was the kind of Gran I needed as a child.

She loved to cuddle and to sit me on her knee. Whenever I was with her, I felt like I was part of her world. She never shoved me in a corner so that she could get on with her day, but included me in whatever work she had to do. I would help her bake cakes by whisking the mixture; I would pass her pegs as she hung washing out to dry; I would help her roll up balls of wool when she was knitting and I got to peer into her jewellery box to help choose which brooch, necklace or clip-on earrings she was to put on before my Granddad Bill got home from work.

She loved and cared for me in a way that I never felt that my own mother was able. My Grandma would bathe me, lovingly apply prescribed lotions to my skin, which was often raw with eczema. She would gently brush my hair. Her love of baking ensured I was fed lots of cake! Her love of knitting meant that I was always kitted out with amazing colourful sweaters, as were the dolls, she loved to buy me. When I was tired, she would rock me to sleep on her lap, no matter how big I got. She would place a pillow under my head, when I got too heavy for her and still draw a figure of 8 around my eyes to help me fall asleep, while she sang Eidelweiss.

I loved being with her.

For a while, when I was a young teenager, she became my main carer. She put up with my teen moods and kept me grounded. She never judged the sharpness of my tongue when I lashed out in pain, because she knew the emotional struggle I had in knowing that neither of my parents wanted me. She addressed my abandonment by being at the school gates when I was younger and still being their, waiting at home, as I got older; always a warm meal, love and cuddles, ready to listen to stories about my day. Not once did she complain about her own tiredness. With grace she suffered the pain of experiencing what it felt like to have the younger me joyfully and excitedly running out of school to hug her, compared to the teen who would ignore her, and stomp off to her bedroom; I’d reached that stage whereby I didn’t want to be cared for by my Grandma, I wanted parents. I wanted to appear normal.

She continued to care for me with the same amount of love and dedication, while my Granddad lay in hospital in the final years of his life. She would juggle hospital visits while ensuring that I never returned to an empty house or that I was never left hungry. Sure, she could be opinionated and would tell me off when necessary, usually for not washing behind my ears, which she would claim were dirty enough to grow potatoes. But she offered the kind of love that I needed.

As I grew and passed through my early teenage years, I was the one sat at her side watching over my Granddad. I would travel with her to the hospital every day; a place that the elderly were sent back then when it was impossible to care for them at home. I would hold her hand when she lifted her glasses to wipe away tears, upset that he no longer recognised her. I would comfort her when she got upset that the overrun staff had not been able to take my Granddad to the bathroom; he would be sat in his own mess, his face a picture of confusion. At times, food would sit untouched infront of him, because again, there had not been enough staff to individually feed the patients. So, we would come up with ways between us to ensure that Granddad was taken to the bathroom and we would arrive whenever we could, at meal times, to feed him ourselves.

My granddad had been a coal miner. He had worked in the Yorkshire pits. One day he was injured when a mineshaft collapsed. A blow to his head was his eventual demise. He was just one of the many forgotten workers who gave his entire life to an industry that eventually became a shadowy blot on the landscape. One day he just collapsed and never walked again. On another day, he stopped talking. My Grandma cared for him for as long as she could, often to her own detriment. I would listen to her telling him that she loved him even though he was a ‘silly old fool.’ Even in his still silence, she would tell him that she loved him to the core of his bones. I wanted a love like that.

His death was long and slow. I was at my Grandma’s side and even then, she put me first, asked if I was okay and whether I needed to leave. Instead, I stayed with her and sat with my deceased Granddad, observed as she cried and said her final goodbyes; I said mine too.

I married my first ever boyfriend at the age of 17; it was my Grandma who dressed me on the day. We both cried buckets.

My father and his new wife and family made an appearance on my wedding day, which made my Grandma happy; she believed that her family would be together again. But it was all short-lived as life got in the way, and my father decided that he did not want to be connected with the offspring of his ex-wife; so I was cast out again..

For various reasons, I moved away, which inadvertently allowed my father and his new wife, to not permit me to see my Grandma again. By this time, she was too old and her grief so deep, she no longer had the energy to fight. We wrote to each for a while until that became too much for her. But every word she wrote was filled with love and encouragement to become the best woman I could.

I did not hear of her death until some years after the event. My love for this amazing woman ran so deep I could not imagine that she had lay cold in the ground for over a decade without me knowing. I remember the guilt of not even sensing the loss of her beautiful presence.

Many years later, a chance meeting with a half-sibling, the son of my father and his new wife, resulted in us having a brief friendship; a connection to make sense of our family history. On hearing my story, my half-brother said that he had been responsible for helping clear out my Grandma’s house when she died. There had been a box of what had been deemed as worthless jewellery, which had been intended for the bin, but he had held onto it as he had felt that they would mean something to someone and that someone was me.

I was given a box containing some of my Grandma’s jewellery, I recognised some of the pieces I had helped her pick out for when Granddad got home from the pit. It was simple costume jewellery, what we would now call vintage, but made with such precise and beautiful detail, that it looked precious to me. I loved the sparkles and the story that my Grandma had told me about my Granddad putting what money he could aside, to always express his love for her, by buying her a piece of jewellery for every birthday or Christmas. It did not matter to her that she was not wearing real diamonds, but what mattered was the loving sentiment behind the gift.

My Grandma Theresa taught me what selfless love looked like.

As I find the essence of my Self, I see her within me and for that I am proud. It’s thanks to her that my heart is big and bursting with love to give, starting with my Self; loving my curly hair, my boho dresses, which I like to finish off with one of my Gran’s brooches.

Love you Grandma xx

With love & gratitude,

Sally Jayne xxx