The last one standing.

Cec wanders in and sits with the staff as they focus on the trainer. She nestles into a chair, in amongst everyone, and once comfortable she falls asleep. Blissfully unaware through the soft veil of dementia, she is oblivious to what everyone is doing here, her primary need simply to seek the comfort of connection.

Over the past few months I have come to love this feisty little lady. She is 93, and every afternoon at the same time, she appears in front of me with her pal Miss K, and they head out for a walk around the block together before dinner. I started to call them the Bobsy Twins when I saw them together, hoping to get a smile. They never let me down. Sometimes one appears without the other, reflecting the stomping ground of the elderly and often fluctuating health.

A few weeks ago Cec swung past looking a bit down. When I asked if she was ok, she told me her pal wasn't feeling too well, and hadn't been out of bed for a few days. She stated very clearly she was a bit lost without her. We discussed how long it might take for Miss K might be up and at 'em again, and we both hoped it would be soon.

Fast forward a few days and Miss K came by without Cec. When I enquired after Cec she told me matter of factly she was at the hospital for treatment, and kept on going, a spring in her step, not wanting to dwell on the matter and making the most of her own newly regained health.

There is an ebb and flow in a retirement home; the rhythms of the day are consistent and mostly predictable. So when they both turned up early on another day, I knew this was something new and different. Cec told me they were going out in a taxi. When I asked if she could advise me where so I could sign them out, she told me that she thought Miss K would like a day out, so she was taking her to the hospital with her whilst she received her treatment. Cec was smiling and asking me to hurry up: an outing is an outing and when you and your pal are both feeling good it’s something to smile about and important not to waste time. Smiling at this lovely pair and their friendship, I bid them farewell.

Another day arrived as did Cec. She leaned into the counter and matter-of -factly tells me that she has cancer of the vagina, and that's why she goes for treatment. I like this forthrightness in older people, it can be a bit confronting when they tell it like it is but it’s refreshing and real. When I say I'm sorry to hear this, Cec just shrugs and says what can you expect over 90? She then looks me straight in the eyes and tells me that if it had’ve been 20 years earlier she would have been extremely disappointed, as she well and truly needed her vagina back then. I smile broadly, soaking up her humour and honesty, but I also I acknowledge her frustration and discomfort and say I hope she isn't suffering. In her very pragmatic way she doesn't dwell on her pain or treatment, but she indicates it's not great, and that she's just getting on with it. I’m developing a bigger love and respect for her each time we see each other. And then, as quickly as she has delivered this information, she is gone again.

Last week Miss K became unwell. The story unfolded that she came in two years ago with her husband, but he died soon after. He had been waiting for their placement, to take care of Miss K and ensure she was settled in, and only then did he let go. Apparently his loss hit her very hard, and she was depressed for some time. People thought she might not hang around too long in this world either. That was until her friendship developed with Cec. Everyone believes their friendship has kept them both going. Seeing them together I believe this is true.

Miss K died on Saturday. As I look at Cec snoozing beside me, I reflect on our need for comfort gained though loving connection. Having a sense of connection is nourishing and life-sustaining, it expands us, bringing us joy and comfort - no matter what stage of life we are at. The grief we experience and the loss we feel when someone dies is a tribute to the depth and meaning of that connection. Elderly people are experiencing loss on a much broader scale than the rest of us, by the very nature of their stage of life. They might give up their home to go into care, lose their car, they might lose physical function, perhaps memory, they certainly lose independence, and they lose life partners and friends. Some even outlive their children, which is a loss most of us cannot fathom. I wonder what all of this loss must feel like, as I have certainly experienced loss in my life but nowhere near that scale. I place my hand on Cec’s. It’s clear she is lost without her friend, and her own memory and function seems to be in a faster decline, as if she’s lost her compass. I’m not Miss K, but I still want her to feel the comfort from being here and being held by the world around her.

People start leaving the training session, and I gently wake her up. She's lost for a few seconds, so I explain what's happening, and ask her what she'd like to do. She wants to go back to her room for a rest, so I stand to assist her. As she gets to her feet she tells me that she really misses her pal, with deep sadness etched into her face. I acknowledge this fully, and enquire about Miss K’s funeral as we walk to her room. Cec's memory is a bit shaky at times, but not when it comes to her pal. She recites the details clearly, and tells me how important it is to say goodbye. Cec has her outfit chosen and talks me though what she has chosen and why: the meaning in connection. This is a farewell to her closest friend and so every detail is important. She is such a spunky old gal. I give her a hug and confirm someone will be here to take her to the funeral on the day.

We say goodnight. I wonder what it’s like to be the last person standing in your own life, and my heart feels a bit heavy. Elderly people are teaching us so much, just by living. Bless you Cec, and RIP Miss K xx

The Orange Tree

The old man sits quietly beside the orange tree, surveying the morning activities going on in the square, breathing slowly as if in meditation.  Directly opposite, an art gallery is setting up a mobile installation of a local artist outside the old Basilica. The building, built sometime in the 1500’s, provides a striking backdrop for the creative works being displayed.

The frenetic energy of the city’s businesses preparing for the day has always energised him. He watches, he feels connected, but he’s not caught in it. The peace and solitude that his soul has sought since he was a child is not always compatible with the vibrant, chaotic, passionate culture he was born into. But this? Somehow this works. It feeds his soul.

Despite his sensitivities, no-one would deny his passionate nature. The ancestral blood pumping through his veins comes from a long line of men – and women - whose instincts were born in passion. The man glances sideways and his eyes rest softly on the orange tree, a tree that one of his forefathers planted with his own hands. He marvels at how the orange tree flourishes despite the ongoing growth and evolution of the city, and the many footsteps passing by. He smiles, recalling the family folklore surrounding the orange tree, stories passed down through generations, almost as a roadmap or manual for life. As family legend has it, not long after the Basilica was completed, one of his forefathers planted the tree for his greatest love, his wife to be. He had worked hard to win the permission of her Father to marry, coming from much lesser means. She had captured his heart, and he would stop at nothing to prove his worth and have her by his side.

Here was an ancestral checkpoint on the roadmap of life: own your own worth.

So like a man possessed he planted their first orange tree for his love of their daughter. The planting of the tree was more than a symbol of his love for his wife. This self belief and impetus to follow his heart’s longing led him to pioneer and lead the orange growing industry of Andalucía. The old man’s family has been celebrated for his forefather’s contribution, and every family member since has been involved in the industry in some way as a way of paying homage to the ancestors. It has given them much.

The old man’s eyes move slowly as he watches another man wheel a trolley of oranges into a shopfront. The men exchange a wave. There is so much comfort in the familiar. He has had the same routine since he was married himself, sitting here in this chair each morning. The apartment building behind him sits on the original family property. Every generation has had a presence here, and have preserved and understood the importance of the orange tree next to him. It is their talisman, and a powerful reminder to them all of where they come from and who they are.

His own Father had been a traditionalist. His mother, borne of the family line, was strong and persuasive, also a passionate force to be reckoned with. His eyes fill with tears at this thought. He knows that without her he would not be here today. She chose his Father well, but the hardness in him did not always allow for flexible thinking or understanding of a boy with a sensitive nature. Without the ferocity of his mother’s orange-growing blood, he would not have thrived, nor had the confidence to pursue the opportunities that he has had, and is still looking forward to today.

Another checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap: be who you are.

He has worked hard to pass the essence of this onto his own children. They currently traverse all corners of the globe in pursuit of their dreams. His eyes fill again with tears as he pictures each of them. They are kind, intelligent, caring and passionate people. His wife would be proud.

The old man brushes away his tears as he allows the loss of her to wash over him. Like all men in his family, he chose his partner well. He had many lovers before her and thought he was immune, that the family orange-tree growing gene had bypassed him, and that his Father was right about his difference, that perhaps he had no substance - until she appeared. Then like a man possessed, and just like his forefathers, he pursued her as if nothing in life mattered. He closes his eyes savouring the memories, and to help bring the image of her forth. He takes a sharp breath, remembering her face, her smile. Her scent. The essence of his one great love.

His mind hones in on one memory in particular: the day he proposed, delivering her gift. He had captured an image of her one day in ecstatic joy, as she taught a child how to channel their own creativity in a painting. It was heart in action, and she was the living expression of ‘exquisite’. The image burned in his mind that day, and he worked day and night for weeks until it was complete. The portrait of his beloved is still one of his most celebrated works today.

Again, a checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap: pursue that which you love.

They lived together in the building behind him, raised their family, and partnered and supported each other in their pursuits, and in raising their own children. Both teachers and artists in their own right, they led a vibrant life at home, at times sharing their gifts and themselves across the globe. It was a union on all levels.

At times when he reflects, the pain drives him to wish he could go back in time and keep more of her to himself. He knows this isn’t rational. They didn’t live and love each other with an ounce of greediness, or to clip each other’s wings, which was part of their special formula. They gave each other love, respect, freedom, and they gave it freely.

Another checkpoint on the ancestral roadmap:  hold each other up, be generous and celebrate what you have.

He knows he needs to feel grateful for the time they had and the life they shared, he knows it was extraordinary. He is not there yet. The pain of her absence in his life still grips him like a cold hand around his heart. He is learning to ride the pain, and is starting to express it through his work. He knows this is the only way through it.

A truck makes its way into the square and the driver honks the horn contunously, breaking the man’s reverie. The driver sees the old man sitting next to the orange tree and waves excitedly. The old man breaks into a generous smile and waves in return. His son insisted on driving today with the same enthusiasm he has shown for everything in his life since the day he was born. His son is a living expression of his Mother, and this is something he can easily feel grateful for. The warmth of these thoughts floods his healing heart, the cold hand easing its grip.

He stands to stretch his body. Today he is the celebrated artist of the installation being erected before him. He will share the experience with his children who are all here to be by his side. He will dedicate it to his one great love, as many of the works were born out of the pain of losing her - and thank the passionate and loving forces that have placed him here in this moment.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes briefly, connecting to his inner stillness as the Basilica bells begin to chime. His son reaches him and they embrace without restraint. Although it agonises him, he can do this without her. This is but one moment in time in the fabric of his life, in the greater tapestry of his ancestral story.

In the absence of 'I Love You'...

As I put down the phone on Father’s Day, I am struck once again by my father’s response to the words: I love you.

Or I should really say non-response.

I take a few moments to drink it in again. The silence is unmistakeable, and like an echo through time. In the past, I was regularly crushed by this occurrence. I couldn’t tell you how many, from childhood to now. In a life that spans almost 50 years, suffice to say it’s quite a few.

What I understand now is that parent’s, and their responses to you, act as a mirror – reflecting back to you your basic sense of worth. When a child is naturally open and loving, and this is not reciprocated, the child experiences a number of things: confusion, hurt, anxiety….longer term they can experience feelings of insecurity, poor self-esteem, emotionally shutting down, constantly striving for approval, never feeling quite good enough, despair.

In the extreme, there may be feelings of not wanting to be here. As your family is your world for those early years, these are the mirrors that reflect back to you who you are. Sometimes it can leave you feeling like you are ‘wrong’; not that your opinions are wrong, but that YOU are wrong, right down to your bones. Or perhaps the experience leaves you feeling that you are nothing much at all. It’s complex, and our unique childhood experiences manifest differently and uniquely for everyone.

As an adult who has put a reasonable effort into reconciling feelings from the past, I’ve come a long way from that wounded place of hurt and nothingness. Despite operating from a fairly damaged place at times, I know for certain my Dad did the very best he could with what he had been given, and what he had cultivated within himself. He had 8 other siblings, 4 others who didn't make it, and a hard working mother who took in other people's washing to keep her large family fed. His father was an alcoholic, mostly absent and non-contributing on all levels. He died under a truck after being expelled from the family home by his young adult sons who were trying to deal with their own childhood wounds, a lack of love and security, and to protect their mother. He didn’t have the luxury of fulfilling his dreams; in fact conversations with him later in life reveal that he didn’t have the luxury of dreaming much at all. 

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The practicality of supporting a poor, large family without a father took precedence. He has told us that he wasn’t able to go to high school, because that required formal shoes, which were beyond the financial situation of his family. Goodbye elementary school, hello school of hard knocks – literally. I have a photo of him, at around 7 years old, where he is on a horse in the school yard. Apparently the photographer did this in local schools to try and drum up business. I can see my Dad’s smile in this photo. He is shy, but he is beaming. He found a way to have horses in his life at various times, and made that happen for us too. We had the exact same saddle that is on that pony. I know that little kid definitely had dreams once upon a time.

Playing as a child my Dad had his toes crushed on one foot by a boat docked on a jetty. In an era where you simply wouldn’t want to have a serious accident, he was in hospital, miles away from home, isolated by the distance and a mother who had to continue working to feed a big family, and a father who was drunk in a pub somewhere, never to visit. His guilt, even now, at his mother having to interrupt her work schedule to get across Melbourne to visit him is palpable. I’ve been in hospital as a kid – it’s scary, aside from the pain you’re in, and it’s usually the first time you’ve been away from home.

Through his own strength of spirit, and a life and era that did not allow for dwelling on one’s sorrows, he somehow mastered golf, squash and tennis. He had extraordinarily beautiful handwriting. He could work with numbers quicker than I could reach for a calculator. He could read people well. He had strong family values that were at times solid and beautiful and at other times warped, controlling and outrageously unreasonable with accusations of disloyalty. He was always there when people needed a hand, and gave freely and generously of what he had, despite being suspicious of anything or anyone who was different. He was at times gentle and compassionate and at others angry, frustrated and scary. He was kind, caring and understanding at times, yet could plummet easily into regular judgment, criticism and put downs in the harshest ways.

For an emotionally sensitive child, his angry and frustrated state reverberated a threat of violence, even though he was not a physically violent person. He was generous, especially in practical ways, even though he didn’t have a brass razoo to his name. He could be so charming, kind and warm hearted, and yet so cruel, negative and bitter. He complimented his children to all and sundry, but could not deliver those compliments directly, where they were most needed. He loved animals, even though he didn’t know how to show his love much beyond their physical needs. He helped birth me, with no medical knowledge, when I couldn’t wait for the ambulance. For a long time I saw him as angry, scary, controlling, to be obeyed – basically one dimensional. I know now he’s not.

His emotionally armoured non-response paved a long, hard road – both for me and for my siblings. It has been a road that gave me a few options: lie down, crawl, or start walking. Looking back, I’ve done all three.

I walked away and down this road, for self-preservation. A road that has led me at critical points in my life into various realms of therapeutic support, and a working life that is intricately connected to supporting others. The road however also paved the way of self-discovery. It has taught me immense lessons in this life. Of acceptance, most importantly of myself, but also of others.

This includes the powerful sense of freedom that arises, knowing that there’s a different truth beyond those early mirrors.

The journey of finding out who I am beyond those mirrors, has at times been fuelled with terror and excruciatingly painful. Acknowledging this pain has also been highly transformational - and for me it was pretty much the only way through it and out the other side. I can appreciate now what this experience being in relationship with my Dad has given me - my first, primary relationship with a man.

I’m a very gentle and compassionate person, who has strength in being emotionally sensitive. My anxiety and hyper vigilance has given way to a keen sense of observation and an ability to read people and situations very clearly, which has been channelled into therapeutic work. I have courage. To break free and live the way I need to, to be able to breathe and be true to myself. I still grapple with projections, but I have the capacity to own them, to understand how they manifest, and do the hard yards to resolve them. I can say sorry, but no longer continually apologise for being here or the space that I occupy, or modify myself beyond recognition in the face of someone’s disapproval.

I have learned to express anger, after growing up in a tense and controlled environment that did not allow it - and I mostly do it appropriately. I continue to practice non-judgment, even when I don’t get it quite right, and I appreciate difference. I recognise the voice of the inner critic and the saboteur - eventually. Thankfully, I also recognise the voice of the warrior, goddess and the emerging signs of a competent human being. The relief in feeling competent, as apposed to continually feeling a fraud, is still beyond words.

I feel joy, and gratitude. I have traded passive compliance and feelings of being ‘less than’, for an easy going nature with stronger boundaries and opinions, expressed when necessary. I try my hardest not to project resentment onto others when I feel frightened, or lose confidence and give my own power away. I no longer feel ‘wrong’ as a person all the time, or wish to exit this life stage left. I continue to navigate all of my relationships, including those with men, with immense awareness of this blueprint, and my growing sense of Self. It’s not foolproof, I am at times highly fallible, but I keep trying to understand, improve, and find the solid ground of self-awareness. More and more I understand my unique and fundamental nature – which is less and less reliant on the feedback or responses from others. I embrace my sensitive essential being, my loving essence, my unique spirit.

It's impossible for me to break down how I have achieved this. I describe it as intersections - life constantly present us with situations and people who trigger our unresolved pain. This is not psychological or esoteric mumbo jumbo - this is fact. We are faced with a left or right turn; as in: bury the pain and face the growing consequences of ill-health across mind-body-emotions-spirit, or tune into the questions that are arising and find the appropriate support to delve in. I know my internal questioning started early, albeit in the softest whisper. I have followed my personal line of inquiry as old and new pain has arisen. I have studied areas of Psychology, Counseling and Chinese Medicine, with in an undying quest to understand. I've worked alongside the most amazing professionals in western medicine, and experienced the most extraordinary insights from alternative medicine healers. I've gravitated towards mentors who have overcome their own pain and who I can therefore trust to hold mine as I face what's behind it. It's messy, no doubt about it. It's also the greatest gift that we can give ourselves. So far, it's my greatest achievement in this lifetime.

My process is just that - uniquely mine. Everyone has to find their own unique way, their unique combination of support that helps them translate this early language conveyed to them in childhood, this early imprint - and to discover their own truth about who they are.

This story is not about blame. It's about the precious gift my parents have given me, especially my father. This is why I ring him to say thankyou for various things and sign off with I love you – even in the face of no response. I hear and sense his awkwardness as my words clink against his armour. It’s ok. I know now it’s not about me, and that it doesn’t define my existence. I say a little blessing for him, another precious child who grew into a man, not knowing how to fully receive or express his love – who was given his own set of mirrors to deal with. I stand strongly now in the face of his silence and provide a different mirror. At the same time, I reinforce my intention in life: that I continue to deal with any residual fears arising from my family blueprint, and that I live a full, joyful, expressive and loving life. As an adult, I’m responsible for myself, my feelings, my actions and the way I live. As the special people in my life will attest, my heart is strong, and there is no absence of ‘I love you’.

To my siblings, who are dealing with this in their own ways, traveling down their own roads: I’m sorry for our fragmented relationships, and our challenges. To my sister specifically, your efforts on behalf of both of our parents in their twilight years is nothing short of profound.

I love you.

Thank you Dad. I love you too.