The Process

This week I have been reading about the Aboriginal concept of the three brains: gutbrain, heartbrain, and headbrain. In a state of nature, they co-operate impeccably in our survival decision making, and mostly in that specific order. In our complex modern social constructs of time and targets, we defer to the head honcho, who mostly acknowledges, but strives to override, the lower rebel organs. Herein, no doubt, the source of so much of our superfluous stress and anxiety. 

My own three old dears are always at odds, and frequently keep me awake through the night.  Sometimes, however, the very best solutions have been cunningly hatched in dreamtime, whilst old smartypants is comatose.

This week, I have been trying to practice the art of being a 21st century domestic Three Brainer. I have a collection of large shoeboxes that have, during the past fifty years, served as a painfully slow filtration system. They have been fed by impetuous clearances of homeless knick-knacks, postcards, cuttings, souvenirs, photos, and sentimental debris. The odd unmanageable or unhappy bits also contrive to hop in, in order to cool off in the pretend unseen. 

The random and spasmodic management of these boxes is a notch up from an afternoon drawer clearance event, and requires much deeper focus. Much of this is down to the fact that the boxes are regularly plumped up by the more frequent drawer sessions. But once initiated, either through guilt or curiosity, my inner and increasingly amnesiac squirrel is guaranteed an entertaining three brain rollercoaster, depending on the vintage of the box.

Yesterday, I decided to conscientiously tackle a hybrid box that I knew to conceal a layer or two of archaeological ouch. First up, a crumpled bundle of vintage Valentines, which promptly brought the guts and heart team lungeing into the arena . And yet, with time they had become miraculously distilled to their bittersweet essences, and made my trio unite and smile, before transferring them to a newly appointed Happy Box.

The tone was thus set as we three contentedly worked through this rich vein of our shared history and experiences. Surprisingly, at least half had become comfortably disposable; some remained homeless but acknowledged, a few finally found a new placement. One joyous treasure was a longlost photo of my old dog - now proud in a handsome frame. 

And then - brainly unconscious of the date, it seemed wildly coincidental to unfold a yellowing page written by Liz, one of my cluster of precious soul sisters. Ours a unique friendship, in that we shared absolutely no common interests whatsoever. Indeed, they were frequently in direct opposition. Our compatibility was essentially our vintage, our shared joy of language and laughter, silly voices, and standing stones.

We first met at a small Greenpeace festival where she had a fortune-telling booth. She read my palm in a quirky but alarmingly perceptive way, and told me I should always have a pen to hand. Then my two-year old son shyly proffered his tiny pudgy hand. In a few light-hearted moments, she foresaw the very man he would become, alluding to an unusual and talented style of teaching, and the call of circus. And the likelihood of a honey ice cream before the day was over. 

Regardless of distance, our paths would cross again more and more frequently. Pursuing none of her many interests by halves, she was a gifted intellectual, journalist, astrologer, author, storyteller, dramatist, and community councillor. People from all walks of life were touched and inspired by her convivial olde soul, who had used this lifetime so well.

Cancer cruelly snatched both her husbands, before eventually coming for her too. I visited her and her sons as often as I could, before sharing the painful privilege of attending her last hours exactly seven years ago. Hardest of all, I then helped them dismantle her home and her life, before her ashes were returned to the elements at Gors Fawr stone circle, high in the Preseli mountains. All in all, an experience that exhausted all three of my aboriginal brains, and my headbrain’s coping strategy of choice was to shut it all away in the subconscious for the other two to deal with.

But yesterday,  we three brains together transformed the bleak acceptance of her absence into a celebration of her presence. Liz hailed from Yorkshire, and it was she who taught me the Failsworth lisp, knowing how I delight in quirky accents. This morning I distinctly heard her voice: " C’mon chook - don’t know what to wrrrrite about? Why not wrrrite sommat about me.” 

She so frequently spoke of the milestone significance of seven year cycles …

Today, October 6th, is National Poetry Day. Liz didn’t write poetry. But when she was dying, she wrote this, which I was honoured to read at her funeral. This is what lay folded in the box:

The Dancer on the River of Light

The skiff is still.

Not even a whisper of a breeze chases across the high water

to disturb its calm.

If there were a whisper it would surely not be the sound of air or water,

but of emanations, vibrations, oozing up from somewhere

Deep and dark.

The boatman stands within the small circle of his skiff,
and raising his walnut hard forearm with the power of his calling
Releases what lies hidden. 

Across the silver, the gold and red, the stippled colours come racing. 

Dancing themselves to life.

A throng of blue as of kingfishers in convoy flight, lift her high, 

as she takes his proffered hand and calls to him through tears of joy.

‘Watch me, watch me!’
And she dances on the river of Light as though it was always firm
beneath those twirling steps,
always the first dance, always the last.
Stories, beginnings and endings.
And only for a moment does she pause
When the colours change and like every heroine ever spoken of,
She is off into the River of Light and her open oceanic home.

Liz Whittaker 2015