Under the aching light of the full moon, I feel soft and small and very, very awake.
It is a subtle thing, this moonlight; a delicate weight on my heart. It brings a slight lassitude, a disinclination to move. I’m tired. Sadness curls and coils through the beauty of the day, and the moonsong at night is a sweet lament. There is poignancy in the sounds of life, and I have the thankful ears to hear it.
Paddling on the bay, I wonder that the sea can still shout in such impossible blues, and the sky answer back with such a peal of colour, when my little one is gone from the world.
Life moves all around. For me it's a little surreal, watching families with no apparent inkling of the sorrow hovering a heartbeat away from their happy chaos, the silent strand in their web of love.
To love is to live. We cannot know when that risk will be tested.
I want to shout... Kiss your children! Cherish your mate!
Tell them you love them! Witness their soul's fire, now!
Sometimes there is no tomorrow.
All around me there is life, there are ceaseless waves and flickering wings. I can see it all and appreciate it and feel its loveliness… but today there is a chill at my edges, a thickening of my throat. I am sad. Of course I am sad.
I feel like the arctic peoples, with their myriad words for snow. I wear all the beautiful colours of sadness, each with its own flavour, its own perfect time. My snow cloak.
Last night a blood moon rose swollen and magnificent over the water. Four moons ago, Blaise and I sat on the grassy verge overlooking the beach, waiting for the full moon to rise in a pink sky. Her cheeks were flushed and her nose was clogged.
‘Got a bit of a cold,’ I said, wiping her nose. She snuggled into the faux leopard blanket, in my lap.
‘Mama,’ she said, in her baby voice, which she used when she was a bit sooky. She looked up at me and smiled, and my heart melted.
‘What are we doing?’ I asked, cuddling her.
She pointed at the horizon.
‘Grandmother moon,’ she said, and snuggled deeper into my arms and my lap.
That sniffily nose, that innocent cold, was a message far deeper; her body was starting to collapse. A week later she was on life support. Two weeks later, she was gone.
The full moon, with all its gravity and uncanny light, has always seen me restless. Now each moon takes me further from that last twilight before her illness began to truly carry her away. Our last cuddle before my mother-knowing realised that this wasn’t just a cold; she was sick, proper-sick. A few days later I looked at her in stark terror and thought, ‘My god, she’s dying. My child is dying.’
Thank you, grandmother moon, for casting your net of light along the land, and with it stirring the exquisite edges of my sadness, and my yearning; the answering deep pulse of the feminine reminding me of all the bereft mothers, everywhere, wearing their cloaks of snow, finding their way in the moonlight.
And oh, my little one, I miss you so much.
Gina Chick facilitates women's retreats which she runs through her business Wild Heart. She also created Sacred Grooves Dance Meditation, a conscious dance practice, after the death of her daughter Blaise, as a way of processing grief. She works one on one with people, helping them shine light on obstacles preventing them listening to their internal authority, stepping into their power, being creative in the world.
Together with her husband Lee Trew she runs the rewilding business Bluegum Bushcraft, (bluegumbushcraft.com.au). Bluegum's programme takes families into the wilderness for lifechanging camps, teaching kids to be at home in the wild and parents how to engage with their kids in wild nature. Gina blogged her grief on facebook and can be followed at Gigi Amazonia, or contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org. This post was taken from her facebook page, dated January 2014.