The Healing Power of Nature
Alfie and I were out early this morning for a walk, leaving Andrew behind to work as he has a tight deadline to meet next week. The morning, like so many here in Andalucia, was indescribably perfect. The sky was cloudless and the endless blue had that pastel softness that complements perfectly the miraculous shades of intense greens, yellows, reds and whites that carpet the landscapes below at this time of the year. There was no breeze and no sound, apart from the occasional chirrup of a bird as it flitted between the almond trees, and in the distance there was the dull knock, knock of two ibex locking horns; an eery sound filtering through the thick forest that skirts the Castillo de Moclín.
At one point on the walk, as we weaved our way through wild flowers, past the old Civil War trenches and out onto a promontory from where there are vast views towards Alcalá la Real, I had my closest encounter with a large female ibex; there must have only been around 10 feet between us. As I groped to unlock my phone and find the camera, Alfie became aware of the presence and with much bluster he managed to scare the ibex off, down into the trees. Despite not being able to take a snap, it was a moment for the memory, and a connection with nature that is rare and almost impossible to replicate.
As we made our way back towards the village, a further group of ibex clustered on the battered battlements of the castle, looking down at us, silhouetted against the blue sky.
It’s been a strange old weekend. Without wanting to sound too philosophical, we have been reminded of the fragility and fleeting nature of life, with the funeral of Prince Philip and the death of Helen McCrory. The media did its utmost to whip everyone up into a frenzy of grief following the death of the Duke of Edinburgh but I am not sure that sadness was universally appropriate. Of course, the death of a parent, spouse, partner, friend or relative is deeply sad, but Prince Philip enjoyed a hugely full, rich and valued life. You only need to read, too, Damian Lewis’ tribute to his wife to realise how rich a life Helen McCrory led, and what an impact she had on those people who knew her.
At 3am on 18th April last year, my darling Mum died. She was on her own in a room in her care home, possibly with a member of staff beside her, but certainly she had no member of the family to hold her hand. She was locked away in the enclosed world created by dementia, but she had clearly decided that she had had enough of this life; a life that had rapidly become constrained by Covid-19, and had prevented contact. We can’t fully understand that strange, increasingly absent life that so affects people living with Alzheimers and Dementia, and I can only hope that my Mum was not aware that she was alone. The family all miss her dreadfully, but we were fortunate that she lived until she was 91. She had a full life, filled with adventures that I am sure she could not have contemplated when she was a child. As a Mum and a Nanna, she left an unfillable void in our lives that had been filled with smiles and laughter. It’s a gift when someone can, by their very nature alone, leave such an indelible mark behind when they are no longer physically here. Over the past 12 months, waves of grief have washed up from nowhere, uninvited and seemingly indiscriminate. These waves do diminish in size, and become less frequent, and Mum would have hated the thought that her family lived in perpetual grief. She lived for the simple pleasures in life, and loved being surrounded by nature, her family, watching birds tapping at the food she left out for them, sitting in the sun reading the Sunday newspapers, or the latest book she had borrowed from the library. She loved nothing more than taking a stroll up the lane with her grandchildren to show them the cattle in the fields of the nearby farm, or to see the spring bulbs popping up through the fresh grass.
Part of me is thankful that Mum no longer had to go on living through the ghastliness of the past 12 months. We, Andrew and I, are reminded by our older relatives how cruel this pandemic has been when it has all but erased a year of their lives, when time becomes increasingly important.
Much has been said in the press today of the tragic image of the Queen sitting on her own in St George’s Chapel to say goodbye to her husband. This type of funeral has been a traumatic fact of life for many grieving families this past year. I had to endure watching my own Mum’s funeral over an erratic video link, watching on a screen the backs of my gorgeous children who were there without me by their sides and who, like the Queen, had to sit with distance between them - too young, still, to be separated at that time when comfort of others is vital. We must remember that the Queen is fortunate to be surrounded by her family at this time, and those moments in the chapel would have given her her own time for much needed remembrance and tranquillity. Let us not feel sorry for her, but rather consider how lucky she has been to have had a companion beside her for so long, and who has left a remarkable legacy.
If this pandemic has taught Andrew and I anything it is that we have to look forward. Our grief is not for our own mothers who are no longer here, but it is for the absence of the people who are still here but with whom we cannot be. For all of us, this has been an immensely difficult time and we all thrive on the need for freedom, to be with those people we love, to laugh, to be outside, feel the sun on our faces and the breezes in our hair and forget about the tribulations of life.
At the moment, we have to be thankful for the glimmers of hope that promise a way towards a life beyond the fear of illness and grief.
Taking a walk this morning, with that ridiculous little scrap Alfie trotting along beside me, was everything I needed to remind me that we are surrounded by so much perennial beauty that it almost becomes selfish and overly-indulgent to dwell on the sorrows of the past. We will never forget the people who have been important in our lives but, right now, the most important people to us both are our families and friends here now, vital and optimistic, waiting to reignite that sense of adventure, build new memories so that we don’t just fade away when we are no longer here.
So, to my dear Mum, to Andrew’s Mum, both very much with us in the memory, to my hero of a brother and everyone we have lost, you’ll never be far way. However, now, as we walk through our breathtaking and heartbreakingly beautiful landscapes, we are looking forward to the day, soon, when we can enjoy the hugest of hugs, the catching up on gossip, the filling in of 12 months of gaps, the easy insults and gin-induced giggles, all helped down by snacks and the warm sun.
