Happy Birthday to my Little Brother

Who would have been 62 today.

Grief is a powerful emotion. It can be debilitating and overwhelming. It can consume people, preventing them from living their lives.

Although it sounds a fictional cliché, In some societies ‘professional’ mourners will attend funerals, intentionally provoking powerful outpourings of grief by almost theatrical displays of wailing and crying; perhaps ripping their clothing, throwing themselves to the ground, and thrashing around in distress. This helps to move the bereaved through the process of loss, by bringing feelings and emotions to the surface, rather than allowing them to linger unexpressed for months or years. It helps the mourners to move on – not to forget, but to allow life to continue.

I can understand this, having met people who have been unable to move through grief, seemingly trapped in an ‘I’m okay’ situation, refusing or unable to display their emotions but presumably storing their grief up inside, unexpressed. Refusing help. People who have appeared unable or unwilling to move on. I was fortunate, my grief striking me like a clenched fist and, for periods, I had no choice but to allow myself to weep and rail at fate. But this allowed me to eventually move on, my grief evolved into sadness.

And for anyone struggling with grief themselves, something that helped me at the time was to write a letter to my brother. In my case after remarking it had been a while since I had heard from him, I filled it with humour, using in-jokes we had shared, although other people might have found a different approach beneficial. And the letter sits on my computer still and every once in a while I read it, and it helps me to smile and remember and, of course it makes me feel sad.

But that’s good.

I shall read it again today, and remember.

Happy…Birthday?

I know I’ve already checked back in since Christmas, but, well, just to say it was slightly quiet and fairly peaceful. Hope you all had a nice Christmas and New Year. We didn’t do much, but that suited us just fine.

We didn’t do much at all.

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Anyway, back to business. It was my cousin’s birthday, recently. So I sent her a card.

But most shops seem to think you only want Christmas cards, that close to Christmas, and make it really difficult for you find a birthday card.

‘You’ve got thousands of Christmas cards on display, what about birthday cards?’

‘Birthday cards? There’s a couple in the cellar at the back of the shop, I think, on the top shelf in the toilet, underneath the anvils. Old Harry will have the key, but I’ve no idea where Old Harry is. On holiday, probably. Beware the steps are broken, too. And slippery. And there’s no light. And there was an oil-spill there recently. You’d better watch out for the hyenas as well. In fact, why don’t you just go away? Unless you’d like some Christmas tat, that is…’

‘A couple?’

Well, there’s no call for them at this time of year.’

‘No call for them? What about all those people with birthdays in December?’

Birthdays? They shouldn’t be doing that!’

‘Well what about those that do?’

‘That’s their lookout, I’m afraid. Should be ashamed of themselves, coming round here in December and having birthdays. Shouldn’t be allowed. What sort of month is December for birthdays, eh? It’s not right.’

So I sent one of my own greetings cards. I send quite a few, actually. It’s not just to save some money, or to avoid hand to hand combat in shops near Christmas. I’m quite pleased with my hand-made cards, usually with small paintings on them. What? Oh, certainly. Yes, I do. No, not very expensive, thank you for asking. Thank you so much.

But then I had to post it, and the cost of that is ridiculous, now. God knows how we can afford to send the Christmas cards.

Ah…we didn’t. I was forgetting, for a moment.

But, I was talking to my wife about that and said ‘I think if we really want to save some money, it’s not cards I should be turning my artistic endeavours to.’

‘No? What then?’

‘Postage stamps. There, that would save us a few quid.’

‘It’s an idea I suppose. Hmm…or, you could just cut out the middleman altogether.’

‘Ah, twenty pound notes, you mean? That’s an idea.’

‘Yes, we don’t want to be greedy. And everyone forges fifty pound notes, anyway.’

‘No, that’s right. I suppose about ten or twelve a day would do us. That’s not greedy, is it?’

‘It would be a good use of your time, I suppose.’

Anyway, I’ve been busy the last few days. Just don’t ask any awkward questions.

4th February 2017

I was reading through my travel journal for 2005, yesterday.

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The Bodhi Tree at the Mahabodhi Temple, Bodhgaya

On 16th March I arrived at Bodhgaya, for my second visit to this lovely small town. Because I was going to be away from England for my eldest daughter’s birthday, she had asked me to write and send her a poem. I wrote this in the evening after visiting the Mahabodhi Temple, and after meeting with Indian friends I had not seen for a year, and thought it entirely suitable to dedicate to her and to send her.

There is a crazy wisdom here;

I am at the heart of all things Buddhist.

Good friends make life bearable.

Gentle people give me hope.

An unexpected friend gives me unlooked-for joy.

I am here,

This is the eye of the hurricane.

The still point in the centre of the universe.

My hope for the world,

My hope for you.

Unquenchable love.

I don’t write a great deal of poetry, because I don’t feel it is really my forte, but in the light of current events around the world, it seems worth posting here. I revised it a little before I sent it, but this was the original draft.

Sending everyone hopes and thoughts of friendship, peace and tolerance.