1. Let your son make the cookies. Let him measure and pour the milk himself, even though it will go everywhere. Let him do the same with the flour. Hold the chair for him, with its back against the bench, so he’s tall enough to reach. Push the ball of your foot up against the leg so it doesn’t slip away. When he takes his finger into the mix and scoops it into his mouth, let him. Let him eat all of the sweetness and don’t make mention of teeth or tummies or dinner’s soon, or the fact it’s dripping all the way down his T-shirt. Hug him and smell the scent of last night’s woodfire from the fire pit they built and the night before that’s shampoo. When the cookies are ready, tell him they are the best cookies you’ve ever eaten. Mean it.
2. Collect the buckets for the horses. Arrange them in a row. They are all black rubber, look the same. Some are more flexible, easier to walk with. Find those ones and pull them to the front. Those will go to the paddocks the longest carry away. Take out your pink plastic scoop and make it half full. Pour the beet into the bucket. Repeat this for each one. Notice how they look like grey corn flakes. Take the hose, turn it on, and cover them with water. Think about your creations, now still lakes with river shale. Let them soak to become mountains.
3. Comb manes with your fingers. Undo the strands gently. Start at the bottom and gently feel your way up, taking apart any hairs that have found their way to knots. Take your palms, run them over the contours of their body. Notice the muscles and the bones. The breath. Notice yours. If you want to tell them of your heartache, you should do so. If you don’t, it’s ok. They know anyway.
4. Ring your friend. Promise yourself you will not cry, will not make it about you. Cry anyway. Make it all about you. Tell them how you promised yourself you wouldn’t cry, that you wouldn’t make it all about you. Let your friend laugh gently. Be a pool of tears and snot and shudder. Remind yourself, it’s ok, its ok, it’s ok, even though it doesn’t feel ok. It’s ok.
5. Remember M. Soledad Caballero’s poem, Someday, I will visit Hawk Mountain.
“…But, I am a bad birder. I care little about the exact rate
of a northern goshawk’s flight speed. I do not need
to know how many pounds of food an American kestrel
eats in winter. I have no interest in the feather types
on a turkey vulture. I have looked up and forgotten
these facts again and again and again. They float
out of my mind immediately. What I remember:
my breathless body as I look into the wildness above,
raptors flying, diving, stooping, bodies of light, talismans,
incantations, dust of the gods. Creatures of myth,
they hang in the sky like questions. They promise
nothing, indifferent to everything but death.
Still, still, I catch myself gasping, neck craned up,
follow the circles they build out of sky, reach
for their brutal mystery, the alien spark of more.”
Remember it every time you forget.
6. If you want to ride, ride. If you don’t want to ride, don’t ride. If you want to write, write. If you don’t, don’t. If you want to move, move. If you don’t, don’t. Do not worry about the Not Riding, the Not Writing, the Not Moving. It will come.
7. Keep the nectar feeders full. Even if it feels like lots of effort. Remember the Tuis, your beloved birds. Keep the nectar feeders full and watch the Tuis. Let yourself love to watch them.
8. Take your dog’s head in your hands. Her greying whiskers and soft, curly ears. Let your hands run over her, checking her for burrs. If you find them, pull them out. Let them sit in a little furry burr pile until they make an abstract work of art. Tell her how you remember collecting her when you were pregnant. All about the ride home with her in the cardboard box. How even though everyone said you were crazy to get a puppy at that time, but that it actually worked; you both needed to pee all night anyway. Think how you wished dogs lived forever. Tell her she’s the most beautiful dog in the world (but not to tell her sister that you said that).
9. Find ways of allowing for the feeling. Write it down, even if you feel crazy. You are not crazy. Read or don’t. Listen to music or don’t. Be a pile of mush or run ten miles. Do both, one after the other. Let yourself find a way through it. There are no rules.
As ever, onwards,
❤️ Jane
A side note: Somewhere on my reading travels, I found a list such as this written in a similar format. I lamentably can’t remember the original author or the writing itself, but I know I found inspiration in their words and decided to create a list of my own. I hope you find solace yourself in the words that I’ve shared with you here.
And perhaps you’d like to write a list of your own of nine ways or many ways or three ways or one…. of ways that you can keep going when your heart is hurt or bruised or broken.
Much love to you.
