There's No Wrong Way to Grieve: Thoughts on Loss and Mourning for National Grief Awareness Week

I cherish the boat we built together.
It keeps me afloat
when the waves of grief come rolling in.

— Dances with Dan: Embracing Grief

National Grief Awareness Week is dedicated to raising awareness about grief, offering support to those grieving, and building understanding around the grieving process. It recognises that grief is a natural response to loss and works to break down the stigma that often surrounds what is a deeply personal journey. It’s an opportunity to foster compassion, encourage open conversations, and create a more supportive environment for everyone affected by loss. The theme for Grief Awareness Week 2024 (December 2 – 8) is Shine a Light. The light I’d like to shine is that there’s no wrong way to grieve. It’s important to remember this, because it’s easy to fall into thinking we’re doing it wrong, too much, or not enough.

Part of the problem is we’re taught there are right ways of grieving, without acknowledging that these may not work for everyone. There are cultural, social, and religious conventions which may be relevant to our upbringing, values, or beliefs, but I’ve never found them relevant to me personally. At a psychological level, we’re told there are phases or stages to grief, such as those described in Five Stages of Grief by David Kessler and Elisabeth Kubler Ross. The five stages — denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance — “are a part of the framework that makes up our learning to live with the one we lost. They are tools to help us frame and identify what we may be feeling.” Such accounts are helpful to the extent that they remind us grief is a process rather than an event, but our experience may not fit the pattern. As the authors themselves make clear, “[these] are not stops on some linear timeline in grief. Not everyone goes through all of them or in a prescribed order. [...] Just remember your grief is an unique as you are.”

No matter our expectations or past experience, it’s impossible to know in advance how we’ll respond to the loss of someone dear to us. Grief may take us dramatically, gently, or scarcely at all. We may be overwhelmed by our feelings or utterly numb. We may cycle through the gamut of emotions, find ourselves mired in one place, or simply carry on with the business of life as though nothing has happened. There’s no right way to do this. No wrong way. It’s not something we choose. It’s what happens to and within us in the aftermath of loss.

The death of a friend affected me far more than either my father’s death when I was eighteen or my mother’s, decades later. There’s no record of how I felt when my father died, but I didn’t cry until years later when a friend asked how he’d died. I wrote the following in March 2019 for a blog post that was to be titled “Death Is Different: Contemplating Bereavement and Loss on the Anniversary of My Mother’s Death.”

Last week saw the first anniversary of my mother’s death. You might imagine I would be feeling something. Loss. Pain. Guilt, perhaps. Relief, even. But there’s little I can name. Maybe you’re thinking, well he must be mourning and just not realising it. That feels a bit presumptuous to me, and in any case I’m not sure it’s right.

I never completed that article on bereavement and loss. It’s taken until now to know what to do with those feelings. Or rather, that lack of feeling. I didn’t recognise it at the time, but my inability to label my emotional state owes something to alexithymia. It was nevertheless a step in my understanding and processing of grief. Other steps included an open letter to my father and one to my mother. Things I never said to them when they were alive. I’m not ashamed of how I responded but it’s something I’ve kept to myself, aware that society expected more of me. I’ve felt other than for not grieving as others do, wary of being judged uncaring, unfeeling, and cold. The opening lines of Albert Camus’ novel The Stranger resonate strongly with me.

Mother died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can’t be sure. The telegram from the Home says: YOUR MOTHER PASSED AWAY. FUNERAL TOMORROW. DEEP SYMPATHY. Which leaves the matter doubtful; it could have been yesterday.

In the novel, Meursault’s lack of emotion at his mother’s death is held against him as indicating a cold and unfeeling character. I can relate, although I hope to escape his ultimate fate.

Too little emotion isn’t the only way to “do grief wrong” in the eyes of others. A friend told me how his partner told him off for being “too upset” at a loved one’s death. He was grieving more intensely and for longer than his partner deemed appropriate. It may be hard to be there for someone who’s going through the process of grief — especially if our own response is less intense — but it doesn’t help to tell them they’re doing it wrong. I remember being at a memorial event years ago. One friend castigated another in their absence for not attending. The intensity of the criticism shocked me. It was born of their own pain but it was cruel and unfair. I felt for the person who, for their own reasons, could not be there. I knew I’d have been judged no less harshly if I’d chosen to stay away. Two decades later, the memory still stings.

There’s no hierarchy of grief and no loss is unworthy of being mourned. The death of a parent, child, partner, family member, friend, or animal companion, may all be deeply felt and deserve respect, caring support, and compassion. This is true whether we were bereaved by old age, accident, suicide, illness, conflict, crime, or any other circumstance.

Grief isn’t limited to the immediate aftermath of loss. The turning of the year brings anniversaries, birthdays, and many other memories. It’s important to acknowledge and navigate our feelings in whatever ways feel meaningful and appropriate. We might embrace our loss with thoughts and words and tears, or need distracting so as not to fall apart. We might want company or to be alone. We might be moved to visit places of particular significance, or immerse ourselves in our favourite music, movies, or poetry. Planting a tree or arranging a memorial bench can be meaningful, as can fundraising or donating to charity. I’ve attended a tree planting ceremony for a beloved friend, and taken part in sponsored walks to raise funds for charities including Chris Lucas Trust and the Alzheimer’s Society. Fran and I recently attended a community evening of commemoration organised by a hospice in her home city.

A time will come, of course, when we are mourned by those we leave behind. As I described in Letting Go of the Balloon I’ve recently begun thinking about end of life planning and legacy. It’s hard to think about my friends, family, and loved ones, grieving my death but I hope they will feel able to do so as much or little, for as long, and in whatever ways they feel moved to.

I’d like to close by sharing a poem that has come to mean a lot to me.

I needed a boat
To keep me afloat
When the waves of grief threatened to upend me and send me spiralling downwards
Into the darkness below the surface.

So I built one,
With all the beautiful thoughts and
Memories of you.
With all of your unique and funny ways.
With all you stood for and stood up for,
In your short life on earth.

And after a while,
I realised you were building it alongside me,
With all your devotion, strength and dedication...
With all your love for me.

I cherish the boat we built together.
It keeps me afloat
When the waves of grief come rolling in.

— Dances with Dan: Embracing Grief

 

Help and Resources

If you or someone you know would like more information or support, please check out the following resources.

Cruse Bereavement Support

The Good Grief Trust

Macmillan Cancer Support Loss and Bereavement Hub

Sue Ryder Online Bereavement Community

Blue Cross Pet Loss Support

 

Photo by Ben White at Unsplash.

 

Reasons to Celebrate? A Brit's Thoughts on Thanksgiving

When you go home, do you look around and wonder, “Who are these people, where did I even come from?” I mean, you look at them all, sitting there, you know... they look familiar, but who the hell are they?

— Claudia, Home for the Holidays

A few weeks ago I mentioned to Fran that I needed to find something to write about. Without hesitation, she suggested I write about what Thanksgiving means to me. I said I couldn’t really do that as I’m not an American, but I could imagine I’d feel somewhat the way I do celebrating Christmas as an atheist. That is, conflicted. Fran paused, smiling. I realised what she’d done. She’d led me into discovering an angle to explore. I reminded her she’d done the same twelve years ago when she suggested I write a book about being friends with someone with mental illness. Both ideas were too good for me to dismiss! Hopefully, I joked, the blog post wouldn’t take as long to write as our book had.

Christmas is a religious celebration of Christ’s birth, yet you’ll find no mention of god, church, or Jesus in my account of What Christmas Means to Me. I enjoy traditional carols and songs such as Here We Come a Wassailing by English folk singer-songwriter Kate Rusby. Steeleye Span’s Gaudete is another favourite, but the Pogues’ Fairytale of New York and Let it Go From the Disney movie Frozen evoke Christmas better for me nowadays. Food is also important, whether it’s dining out with friends or the family meal on Christmas Day. In short, I celebrate Christmas in ways I find meaningful, ignoring its underlying religious message. It’s hypocritical, I know, but I’m far from alone in that.

I can’t speak with any authority on the origins and meaning of Thanksgiving as celebrated in the United States. From Fran and other American friends, I know it’s one of the most important social celebrations of the year, second only — if that — to Christmas. It’s a time people gather with friends and family for company, thankfulness, and good food. It’s not a time people look to be alone. My friend Jen recommended I watch the 1995 movie Home for the Holidays, saying “it’s hilarious but also realistic.” I haven’t managed to watch it in full, but from the trailer I think I’d enjoy it.

The movie’s message seems to be that family gatherings are always going to be difficult but blood is thicker than water and we shouldn’t let differences divide us. As Henry Arson put it, “Opinions are like assholes, honey. Everybody’s got one and everybody thinks everybody else’s stinks.” That’s true up to a point. Some differences of opinion are to be tolerated in those we love. Pineapple on pizza, yes or no? is the classic example. Sometimes, though, differences are far more fundamental, and harder if not impossible to accept. That’s arguably more true this year than any other in recent history.

Despite the original settlers’ Protestant religion, modern Thanksgiving in the US is a secular holiday. As an atheist I’d have no qualms taking part, but there are other reasons to feel uneasy. The popular idea that the first Thanksgiving was a peaceful celebration by the pilgrim newcomers and the Native Americans has been challenged on historical as well as moral grounds. The pilgrims brought diseases previously unknown to the native people, who at times were kidnapped and enslaved, and ultimately displaced from their lands. The following is excerpted from a BBC article Thanksgiving: Why some push back against the holiday’s “mythology”.

The origin of the Thanksgiving holiday dates back to a harvest feast held in 1621 between the Wampanoag, a Native tribe who occupied the land long before, and the newly settled English colonists in America. The gathering is widely seen as a celebration of the alliance between the two groups, but leaves out the ways in which those ties were broken.

It’s unsurprising that some Native Americans and those cognisant of their history don’t celebrate Thanksgiving but observe it as a day of mourning.

The myth of the family coming together in peace and unity is exemplified by Norman Rockwell’s painting Freedom from Want (also known as The Thanksgiving Picture or I’ll Be Home for Christmas). Superficially wholesome and reassuring, such myths can place enormous demands on family members, whether they’re responsible for organising the gathering or expected to attend. We’ve shared guest posts on this topic in the past, including Let It Go: Reducing Holiday Triggers for Your Child, Season’s Greetings, and How I Unplugged the Christmas Machine and Created Stable Holidays.

The myths can ring very hollow for people finding themselves alone, or whose family situation is less than idyllic. This is viscerally expressed in the song December Hurts written by RØRY, Dan Lancaster, Sean McDonagh, and Dom Liu.

Hark the herald angels sing
To the ones who can’t go home tonight and got nobody to ring
Hark the herald angels sing
To the kids who hear their parents fight and miss out of everything
Oh, the Christmas song you never heard
Deck the halls with sadness
Cos for me December hurts

I mentioned that Thanksgiving was arguably more problematic this year. I’m observing things as a non-American from the other side of the Atlantic, but I see a great deal of anger, disappointment, and uncertainty about Thanksgiving being voiced on social media in the aftermath of the US presidential election. One person commented that this is either going to be the most uncomfortable Thanksgiving for many American families, or the most cancelled Thanksgiving. Another declared that this is the first year ever they won’t be attending Thanksgiving dinner with their family. How representative these comments are is impossible to guage, but the emotions expressed are intense, raw, and appear genuine.

To state the obvious, these comments are by people on the political left, who are variously shocked, appalled, and scared by the election result and what it will mean for them, their friends and loved ones, and the nation they love. Those on the political right likely feel they have everything to celebrate, of course. Whatever your politics, it’s clear to me that American society is more polarised and entrenched right now than at any time in living memory. Falling so soon after the election, Thanksgiving is the first and most obvious demonstration of this division, but Christmas isn’t far behind. To quote Adele in Home for the Holidays, “I’m giving thanks that we don’t have to go through this for another year. Except we do, because those bastards went and put Christmas right in the middle, just to punish us.” These fractures may prove difficult to heal.

We’ve witnessed something of that polarisation on this side of the Atlantic. Brexit in particular cut across traditional political lines and exacerbated divisions between friends and within families. Notwithstanding this year’s election of a Labour government, politics in the UK appears to be shifting to the right as it is elsewhwere. I’m not aware of an equivalent boycotting of family gatherings here, but I imagine some difficult decisions are being made. Full disclosure: if I was American I would vote Democrat. I could no more countenance voting Republican than I could vote Conservative here in the UK.

I asked Fran what she thought about Thanksgiving this year. She said she still sees it as an opportunity to celebrate. Despite all I’ve written, I agree with her. I’d want to spend Thanksgiving with those I feel closest to and safest with. This is a time when coming together with those most important to us is especially important. How and with whom we do that is up to us. We don’t have to buy into all the hype. There’s no need to stress out or put ourselves into debt buying lavish gifts and catering for large groups of people just because that’s how we’re told it should be done. We’re not required to give our attention, time, and presence to people whose opinions and choices are fundamentally at odds with ours. We don’t have to compromise our values, beliefs, and wellbeing to keep the peace.

Rather than despairing that things have changed, we can take it as an opportunity to focus on the things — and people — most important to us. One comment I saw on social media expressed this perfectly for me. “Family dynamics are supposed to change as people grow up, move out, marry and die. Start new traditions. We don’t live in a Hallmark movie or turkey commercial after all.”

I think that’s worth celebrating. And there’s always pie.

 

Photo by Preslie Hirsch at Unsplash.

 

Six Qualities and Twelve Men I Admire: Positive Thoughts for International Men’s Day

We are all perfectly imperfect.

— Fran Houston

Observed each year on November 19, International Men’s Day (IMD) celebrates the positive value men bring to the world, their families and communities, and raises awareness of men’s health and well-being. The theme for 2024 is “Positive Male Role Models.” As I explained in a 2022 article on gender identity, I’ve never been big on heroes or role models. I nevertheless explored my relationship with some of the most influential men in my life. These included my father, uncles, one of my male cousins, as well as two characters from fiction: Sam Gamgee (JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings) and Jimmy Perez from the TV detective series Shetland. I’ve also written about four men who inspire me in different ways: my son Michael Baker, Johnny Benjamin MBE, and friends Quinn Brown and Peter McDonnell.

I covered less savoury aspects of what it means to be a man in last year’s IMD post: Big Boys Cry Too: Challenging Toxic Masculinity for International Men’s Day. The question of toxic masculinity raises the counter question: what is non-toxic masculinity? I came across a short video recently by Steve Bartlett in which he challenged the concept on the basis that behaviours people consider non-toxic such as caring, empathy, and nurturing are conventionally attributed to women. Furthermore, healthy expressions of traditionally male traits such as competitiveness, ambition, courage, and strength are valid irrespective of gender. “Non-toxic masculinity is basically an empty set,” Bartlett claimed. “[Masculinity] is either bad, or nothing.”

I have some sympathy for this perspective. I don’t see men and women require different sets of “good” and “bad” behaviours. I might struggle to define “good” and “bad” behaviours (moral relativism is a topic for another time) but there’s no reason a person’s ability to demonstrate them need depend on their gender, no matter how that’s defined or attested. Rather than write about positive male role models, I’ve decided to pick six qualities and behaviours I admire in others and endeavour to emulate. I’ll illustrate each with men who for me exemplify those qualities and behaviours. I’m confident each of the people I include would affirm or have affirmed their gender as male, but that is an assumption on my part.

The qualities and behaviours are: Independent Thought, Effective Communication, Assertiveness and Self-Confidence, Open Enquiry and Respectful Disagreement, Leadership and Endurance, and Devotion and Sacrifice. The men I’ve chosen to illustrate these are: Sir Roger Penrose, Sam Harris, Albert Camus, James Grime, Neil Degrasse Tyson, Brian Cox, Sir David Attenborough, Christopher Hitchens, Alex O’Connor, Robert Falcon Scott, Sir Ernest Shackleton, and Anatoli Boukreev.

Independent Thought

Sir Roger Penrose, Sam Harris, Albert Camus

I find independent thinkers refreshing. By that, I mean people prepared to go beyond what is considered conventional or convenient truth. I’ve selected three men who in different ways have helped me challenge my beliefs and assumptions.

The first is British mathematician, physicist, and Nobel Laureate, Sir Roger Penrose. I can’t claim to have more than a (very) sketchy grasp of his contributions to mathematics, science, and philosophy. The aspect of his work which has caught my attention and interest is conformal cyclic cosmology (CCC). It’s a theory which proposes that the ultimate fate of the current universe is — or will be, after unthinkably long periods of time have elapsed — equivalent to the the start of the next. According to CCC, this cyclicity extends not only into the future, but into the past. The big bang in which our current universe began was conformally equivalent to the ultimate fate of the previous universe. CCC is not without its critics, but for me the point is less the objective truth of a given theory, and more its value in encouraging us to think in new ways.

My second example is American philosopher and neuroscientist Sam Harris. His work encompasses religion, ethics, neuroscience, psychedelics, and artificial intelligence amongst others, but it’s his proposition that free will is an illusion that engages me most. So much of how we operate as individuals and how society works is based on the assumption that we have free will. That is, we are more or less free to decide what we will do and say, and are thus to be held responsible for our decisions and actions. The idea that free will is an illusion is intellectually and ethically challenging, to say the least.

My third example is French-Algerian philosopher Albert Camus. I’ve written about Camus previously, focusing on his philosophy of Absurdism. In brief, Camus describes as absurd the contradiction between our inbuilt search for purpose and meaning and the universe’s lack of response on the matter. I find the brutal realism of Absurdism liberating, not least because it validates and explains how I’ve felt most of my life. Rather than falling into nihilism, Absurdism challenges us to find our personal sense of purpose and delight in life, without looking for it beyond ourselves.

Effective Communication

James Grime, Neil Degrasse Tyson, Brian Cox, David Attenborough

Having great ideas is one thing, but being able to communicate them effectively is a separate skill. We all remember that one teacher at school who engaged us in their specialist subject, or the co-worker who could always be relied on to explain the difficult bits. My first example is mathematician and public speaker James Grime, best known through the Numberphile YouTube channel. His enthusiasm and excitement is unrivalled, and a delight to watch, whatever your level of interest and knowledge of mathematics.

In the area of science and cosmology, I include American astrophysicist and science communicator Neil Degrasse Tyson, and English physicist and broadcaster Brian Cox (the latter is not to be confused with either the Scottish actor or the American film director, both of the same name). I personally find Brian Cox hard to watch, but there’s no doubt he’s an accomplished communicator. Tyson can come across as condescending but I find him eminently watchable.

My final example is Sir David Attenborough. The veteran broadcaster, natural historian, author, and presenter needs little introduction. The seminal nine part Life series and documentaries including The Blue Planet and Planet Earth brought the wonder of the natural world — and the impact of human society on it — to a world-wide audience.

Assertiveness and Self-Confidence

Christopher Hitchens

Assertiveness and self-confidence are valuable qualities when employed to ensure our voice, opinions, and warnings are heard. As the saying goes, “Shy bairns get nowt.” This proverb, popular in the North East of England, reminds us that if we’re too shy, or don’t speak up, we won’t get what we want. Someone who could never be described as a shy bairn is (was, he died in December 2011) Christopher Hitchens. Born in England, Hitchens emigrated to the United States in the 1980s and adopted dual citizenship. He was a prolific writer, journalist, and educator. I first came across him a few years ago in his role as one of the so-called “four horsemen” of New Atheism, along with Richard Dawkins, Sam Harris, and Daniel Dennett. I’ve watched many of Hitchens’ public debates, discussions, and conversations. His approach could be described as combative and unrelenting. The term “hitch-slapped” arose amongst his admirers to label occasions when he used his formidable wit and encyclopedic knowledge to put down his debating opponents. I discovered Hitchens at a time when I was exploring my own relationship with atheism, politics, and world affairs. I don’t agree with him on all points, but his anti-religion, anti-monarchy, and pro-democracy positions affirm many of my own.

More than his specific beliefs, though, it’s Hitchens’ self-confidence and willingness to put those beliefs to the test against other — and often extremely hostile — opinions which I most admire. He rejoiced in being, in Jeremy Paxman’s words, a contrarian and polemicist, asserting in a 2010 interview that “only division can bring progress.” Challenged by Paxman on his uncompromising atheist and anti-religion stance, Hitchens claimed “One of the beginnings of human emancipation is the ability to laugh at authority.” I respect Hitchens also for his attitude regarding his own approaching death from throat cancer. In that same interview, he stated “I’m not afraid of being dead. I’m afraid of a sordid death. [...] I feel a sense of waste about it, because I’m not ready. I feel a sense of betrayal to my family and to some of my friends who would miss me.” As I begin exploring end of life planning and legacy for myself, his matter-of-fact approach to death, and his refusal to succumb to mawkish sentimentality or religious bet-hedging sets a high yet potentially reachable bar. To the end, Hitchens was unapplogetically himself. I could wish no finer obituary for myself.

Open Enquiry and Respectful Disagreement

Alex O’Connor

Where Christopher Hitchens was abrasive and confrontational, Alex O’Connor exemplifies the qualities of open enquiry and respectful disagreement. I first came across Alex a few years ago, through his YouTube channel Cosmic Skeptic. His videos cover topics that interest me a great deal, including philosophy, atheism, free will, ethics, and morality. His many guests, opponents, and discussion partners have included William Lane Craig, Jordan Peterson. Sam Harris, Ben Shapiro, and Richard Dawkins. Through all of these conversations, discussions, and debates, I’ve never heard Alex raise his voice or appear angry or aggressive. He has a refreshing ability to hold his ground in the face of challenge, yet remain open, curious, and respectful towards contrary argument. In an age where so much is presented to us in soundbites as black or white, right or wrong, yes or no, Alex reminds me that things are rarely simple or clear-cut. He exemplifies a gentle yet nonetheless intellectually honest and rigourous approach to issues that matter to me a great deal.

Leadership and Endurance

Robert Falcon Scott, Ernest Shackleton

I’ve been interested in polar exploration since childhood, when I was gifted a small book about the exploits of Robert Peary, Robert Falcon Scott, Roald Amunsen, and Ernest Shackleton. Of these, Shackleton and Scott still stand for me as exemplars of leadership and endurance. Scott is a controversial figure. He’s often characterised as a romantic hero cheated of his prize by fate (and Amunsen) yet ultimately victorious in the noblest tradition of epic failure. Revisionist historians portray him as a naive and foolish amateur whose poor decisions endangered his expedition and led to the death of the final party of five, including Scott himself. Whatever the truth of the matter, it’s clear he was an inspirational leader able to encourage and motivate those under his command though adversities that would paralyse others.

My awareness of Sir Ernest Shackleton is based on the 2002 TV miniseries Shackleton starring Kenneth Branagh in the title role. It tells the story of his 1914 expedition on the ship Endurance, the intention being to cross the Antarctic continent from one side to the other. After overwintering on the ice, the Endurance sank, forcing Shackleton to lead his men on what would prove to be a journey fully worthy of their former ship’s name. After months floating on the ice and five days at sea, the party reached Elephant Island but discovery and rescue were unlikely. With five companions, Shackleton undertook a harrowing fifteen day journey in the one remaining lifeboat, eventually reaching South Georgia. Crossing the island on foot to reach the whaling station, Shackleton raised the alarm. All twenty-two men left behind on Elephant Island were eventually rescued, after a total of four and a half months. Despite failing in his goal to cross the Antarctic continent, Shackleton’s adventure remains one of the most staggering tales of courage, leadership, and perseverance in the face of apparently overwhelming odds.

Devotion and Sacrifice

Anatoli Boukreev

The sixth behaviour I admire can be described as devotion and sacrifice, putting one’s own situation aside temporarily in order to help someone in need. I say temporarily, because always putting other people’s needs before our own is unhealthy, exhausting, and ultimately unsustainable. Shackleton would have served as a great example, but the person I’ve chosen is the late Soviet and Kazakh climber Anatoli Boukreev. Anyone familiar with the 2016 movie Everest which covers the 1996 Mount Everest disaster, will recall Boukreev’s role as lead guide for the Mountain Madness expedition headed by Scott Fischer. After blizzards closed in, Boukreev rescued three climbers stranded above 8,000 metres. His behaviour and choices that day have been the subject of considerable controversy, most notably in the account of the disaster in Jon Krakauer’s book Into Thin Air. I’m ill equiped to dissect the rights and wrongs of the situation, but Boukreev was subsequently awarded the David A. Sowles Memorial Award by the American Alpine Club. The award recognizes people “who have distinguished themselves, with unselfish devotion at personal risk or sacrifice of a major objective, in going to the assistance of fellow climbers imperiled in the mountains.” Boukreev died three weeks after receiving the award, attempting to climb the south face of Annapurna.

Conclusion and Controversy

Many of the men I’ve mentioned have been considered controversial, or worse. This is one of the reasons I struggle with the concept of heroes or role-models. We’re all flawed, some more so than others. It’s also true that we only ever know people partially, especially the famous or apperently successful. Holding someone up exhibiting behaviours or attitudes we admire — as I have done here — doesn’t mean we think they’re perfect. It would be wrong to assume I agree with or admire these men in all aspects of their life, beliefs, thinking, and behaviours.

I’ve mentioned some of these controversies and flaws already. It wasn’t hard to find others. Sam Harris has been accused of Islamophobia. Albert Camus’ life and writing are frequently categorised as colonialist and sexist. In 2018 Neil Degrasse Tyson was accused of rape and inappropriate sexual advances. David Attenborough has been criticised for promoting an overly romanticised view of the natural world, and for his warnings on the impact of overpopulation and other human activities on the environment. Christopher Hitchens has been variously condemned for his heavy drinking, bigotry, antisemitism, support for the military invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, and his ascerbic criticism of such prominent figures as Mother Theresa, President Bill Clinton, and Henry Kissinger. Ernest Shackleton has been described “as a deeply flawed man, a poorly-organised adventurer obsessed with fame and wealth, a congenital womaniser who habitually cheated on his wife, and whose repeated business failures left him the equivalent of £1.5million in debt when he died.”

It might seem as though there are no positive male role models to be had, and that’s partly my purpose in writing this piece. Rather than putting people — regardless of their gender — on pedestals, we do better to acknowledge when they exhibit behaviours and attitudes we admire, hold them to account where they fall short, but above all remember that like us they are human, complex, and perfectly imperfect.

 

Photo by Dawid Zawiła at Unsplash.

 

Togetherness Apart: Walking on the Beach With Friends

I need the sea because it teaches me.

— Pablo Neruda

Being out in nature is often advanced as a counter to depression and other mental health difficulties. I’d never go so far. Mental illness can have many different causes and its symptoms are not so readily lifted. Having said that, spending time in the natural world can take us out of our present situation, both literally and figuratively. Alone or in trusted company, such times afford us the opportunity to gain distance from, and perspective on, whatever may be going on for us.

I was reminded of this the other day. Fran was telling me of the great time she’d spent the day before with a mutual friend of ours on Ferry Beach in Scarborough, Maine. The setting itself, the companionship, the conversation, had meant a lot to Fran. I thought back to when she lived on Peaks Island, when we were first friends. She’d walk on the beach there, occasionally sharing her location with me so I could follow along virtually. She’d return home and tell me about what she’d seen and heard and thought about. One spring, as she emerged from a crippling episode of depression, she’d bring me haiku-form poems that came to her on the shore, holding the words on her fingers until she could write them down. The title of the book we’d later write was born in the lines she brought home from Centennial Beach.

high tide
low tide
edgeness..

After our conversation ended, I thought of times I’ve walked by the sea with friends over the years. In its own way, each was deeply meaningful to me and is fondly remembered. I explored several of these occasions in poems, connecting my experiences across three decades and three thousand miles with Fran’s walks on Peaks Island.

Silverdale

January 1981

My first vivid memory of being on the beach with friends dates from January 1981, two months before my twentieth birthday. Somehow, I found myself sitting with friends by a driftwood fire on the shore of Morecambe Bay at Silverdale in Lancashire. I say “somehow” and “found myself” delberately, because that’s how it seemed to me at the time. I felt welcome, but these were mostly recent friends and being with them was new and strange to me. I was content go with the flow, experiencing things as they unfolded, but my amazement and delight came with an equal dose of uncertainty. A reality, a way of being, was being shown to me that I’d scarce imagined possible. I have no photographs of the day, but I wrote the following poem shortly afterwards.

Driftwood (no sunset)

No sunset flares breathless and photogenic
In the skies over Silverdale
As we light our little fire amongst the sheep and pebbles.

Nothing but these few flames to dare the dark
Gathering, oozing velvet from every rocky pore,
Caressing the shadows
Fluttering mothly where the firelight fails.

Few would share our vigil
Lost in a blaze to which we feed
Our driftwood dreams, our precious pasts,
In fire to purge ourselves of fear or false regret.
Dry and tear-damp — crack — in fragments burst
And burn, or shower their sad sparks skyward
With a little sigh
— Hot ashes scattered by a west wind.

Nothing to dare the dark …
But silver in the shallows
And high stars trembling

and the mercury constellations of the bay
map flights of fancy beyond Heysham Head.

What I recall most clearly is everyone sitting around the fire we’d built with wood collected along the shoreline. I lent one of my friends my coat and walked with her to the water’s edge. For reasons I never understood, she suddenly lay down in the water, still wearing my coat. It was a lesson in acceptance, emblematic of the in-the-moment approach to life I was being offered. I travelled home on the train next day wearing a coat that was still damp and smelled strongly of wood smoke.

That evening and the night that followed are among my most precious memories. One year later I recorded in my diary that “The memory is still deep within me, but it seems removed beyond the claim of Time, somehow. It isn’t really meaningful to say ‘a year ago’ because it is a part of me — then and now.”

Sheringham

November 1982

The second walk on the shore I want to share happened in 1982. I was on a six-month placement from university, working at the regional hospital in Norwich, Norfolk. One Sunday in November I accepted an invitation from Janet, one of the friends I’d made there and a fellow pharmacy student.

After lunch I went out to post Dawn’s letter. Later, Janet and I went out for a run in her car to Sheringham for a walk along the shore. It was quite wild and cold, but very Romantic [...] no less so because we were both thinking of Other People.

Those few lines from my diary belie the significance of the event, which is more fully commemorated by the poem I wrote at the time.

(In the depths of) singing

Down the western reaches of the sea i
Findme walking with a friend,
Wind and seasalt wildly in the sky, you on
My mind. Late november: pebbles in a
Wilderness of oceans and a fulling moon.

Something like the flesh of friends too
Raw for touching walkwe. Two
Investigating puddles. Our togetherness apart
We wander down our dreams while all the
Waves one water can involve strike
Sparks about our feet. From flints we
Gather in the night.
We gather. In the

(o i love the waves that break upon me like you)

nightly

Janet and I weren’t close friends and we didn’t keep in touch after completing our respective placements. I’ll always be grateful to her, though, for our afternoon on the shore. The “other people” I was thinking of, the “you on my mind,” was my best friend and first love, Dawn. Leaving her and other friends behind in Bradford for six months, but we kept in touch by letter and phone call. Walks in and around Norwich, and by the shore that afternoon, allowed me space to think, and not think, to feel, and to let my feelings go. The phrase “togetherness apart” was my attempt to express the paradox of sharing time with someone yet experiencing it in an intensely personal way. My friend Janet and I walked the shore together, talked together, but also took time to wander separately or in mutual silence. Each of the memories I’m sharing here was like that.

West Wittering

October 1985

I described the background to this walk in a recent post on mental health in the workplace. Here, I want to focus on the walk itself and what it meant to me. I was working in London at the time, unhappy with how things were going and on the verge of giving it all up. Frustrated and uncertain about my future, I took time out to visit a dear friend from university. We spent the evening watching English singer-songwriter Judy Tzuke in concert in Guildford. That was a beautiful and intense experience in itself. I’d seen Judie Tzuke previously in Bradford and her music was part of my emotional landscape. The concert in Guildford reconnected me with my friend, with the years I’d spent at university, and with the people I’d known there.

Next day, I was supposed to head into work but I wasn’t ready to return. My friend suggested a trip to the seaside and I was happy to abscond with her for the day. After a little deliberation we settled on Wittering on the south coast. The hours we spent walking and talking on the beach are amongst the most impactful I’ve ever spent. The following is excepted from my diary.

For us both, shores are very personal places and we separated; [she] plotting the height of the waves with pebbles on one of the breakwaters, me just wandering along the beach.

The break away from everything I’d been going through and stressing about was exactly what I needed to gain perspective. I wrote to my friend afterwards.

Eloping with you gave me the opportunity to find some calm, and to remember that there are more important things than whether or not I’m 100% happy in work. Like people.

At the end of the year I was able to look back and write of that day on the beach:

All this [the concert and our time on the shore] brought me to the edge of decision. Suddenly, in a moment, all the months of anguish, distress, planning and indecision evaporated: and I realised (in that moment) that my reasons (legion) for leaving did not exceed the single, small, terrifyingly potent reason to stay. The love and support and Reality of friends and family: my life in London.

A year later as I was about to leave London for a new life in the north, I put it more clearly if less poetically. “It wasn’t just [my friend] it was the release she gave me from the terrors of the department.” She’s unnamed here because we’re no longer in contact and I can’t ask for or assume permission, but I will always be grateful for that day, and much more. In a spirit of disclosure I’ll note it’s the same friend who rolled in the sea wearing my coat at Silverdale four years earlier. Some friendships, some people, some lessons, are more important than a ruined parka.

King Edward’s Bay

January 2019

This story isn’t mine to tell, but it’s impossible to write of significant moments I’ve spent with friends on the shore without including it. “Togetherness apart” captures the day as I experienced it. Walking together and on our own. Words spoken and unspoken. Trust offered and accepted. Being there for a friend.

Other Times and Other Shores

Those are my key walking on the shore with friends moments, but others are worthy of mention.

PJ (Pamela Jane) and I never walked together on the beach, but one day in September 2005 I took a day off work and spent it at the coast. At the Rendezvous Cafe in Whitley Bay I wrote my friend a letter, as I’d done almost every day for two years, as her world contracted due to illness. I never posted the letter. That evening I got the news that PJ had died the night before. A month or so afterwards I repeated my walk along the shore, allowing myself to remember and re-feel all she’d meant to me.

I’m reminded of walking along the promenade at Crosby beach in Liverpool the evening before my mother’s funeral, and again the next evening. The following short poem came to me on the latter walk.

Wandering
Wondering

How do I feel
What do I feel

Release
Relief

Re birth

Stillness
Silence

Un known
Un homed

Un tethered

Still
Calm

Centred (thank you

— Liverpool, March 26, 2018

When Fran lived on Peaks she’d take me with her virtually on walks around the island. I’ve likewise shared many calls with her by the sea over the years. I specifically remember calls at Prior’s Haven at Tynemouth, along the shore on Holy Island (Lindisfarne), and the promenade at Whitley Bay.

My most recent coastal walk was this July when I visited Blyth Beach with my friend and fellow blogger Aimee. We didn’t venture onto the sand but had a marvellous time walking, talking, and taking photos. It would be good to visit there again and maybe go paddling together!

 

Photo by Yuliia Herasymchuk at Unsplash.

 

Teardrops and Waterfalls: Holding Space for a Friend

Every teardrop is a waterfall.

― Coldplay

It’s almost a commonplace that it helps to talk things over with someone. From Time to Talk Day to ITV’s current Take Your Mate on Date campaign we’re encouraged to reach out when we need support and to be there for friends who need us. Fran and I are passionate advocates for mutually supportive friendships. We know first-hand the value of sharing openly and honestly with people we trust.

As important as the message is it overlooks one fact. It’s not always easy to be there for someone who’s going through difficult times, especially if it’s someone we know well and care about. It can be hard to listen without interrupting or offering suggestions and fixes. We may also find we’ve taken some of the other person’s stress, anxiety, or worry onto ourselves. These responses are understandable but in general they’re counter-productive. They get in the way of providing genuine help and support.

Fran and I were discussing this a few weeks ago. Fran mentioned that she worries she puts people off by oversharing, and this affects her response when other people want to talk to her about their issues. It’s true that oversharing can be problematic, as can being vulnerable with people unable or unwilling to accept the gift of trust it represents. On the other hand, the benefits of holding space for someone are often overlooked. For me, it’s invariably a positive experience. I almost always learn something about myself in the process.

I invited Fran to think of it as a valuable social service, rather than something to be wary of. “Being an empathy buddy or space holder,” I told her, inventing those terms on the fly, “isn’t about taking the other person’s problems onto yourself. What they’re sharing doesn’t have to fall on you or stick to you afterwards.” I thought for a moment about the term holding space. We use it a lot, but I’d never really considered what it means. “The idea,” I continued, “is to hold a space open for everything that’s being shared to flow into.”

I offered an analogy. “Imagine you’re standing beside a waterfall. If it’s a small waterfall with a small pool, you can stand close by. If it’s a big waterfall it will have a bigger pool and more spray and splashing. You would stand further back so you can appreciate it without getting wet.”

Depending what and how much is being shared, you can hold a smaller or larger space between you and the other person. Everything they are sharing flows into that space, like the pool below the waterfall. You both get to acknowledge it, observe it, then allow it to flow away. It was a small insight but we both recognised its importance. Before we finished our conversation I knew I’d blog about it, to develop the idea and share it in the hope others might find it helpful too.

Whatever their size, waterfalls demonstrate the transformational potential of movement. Waterfalls aren’t static features of the landscape. They are the result and embodiment of changes they’ve played a role in shaping and continue to shape. Likewise, our thoughts and emotions are part of the process, the flow, of what we’re living with and through. Sharing them is the equivalent of taking a friend by the hand to visit a secret waterfall we’ve found hidden away in the landscape of our life.

And if we’re changed in the process, this is no cause for regret or fear. In the words of poet and author Munia Khan, “Do not feel sad for your tears, as rocks never regret the waterfalls.”

 

Photo by Jared Erondu at Unsplash.

 

Our Top Posts of the Month (October 2024)

Check out our top posts for the past month. Posts are listed by the number of page views they attracted during the month, most popular first.

1. It’s Not Enough / Never Enough
2. Shhhhhhh! A Friend’s Guide to Secrets
3. The Box on the Shelf: A Strategy for Handling Difficult Issues and Situations
4. One Must Imagine Sisyphus Happy: Encounters With the Absurd Man
5. It’s Time to Talk. But What If You Don’t Want To?
6. Thank You Anyway: The Gift of Ingratitude
7. I’m on My Way: Thoughts Inspired by Ed Sheeran’s “Castle on the Hill”
8. Being a Man: Exploring My Gender Identity for International Men’s Day
9. Big Boys Cry Too: Challenging Toxic Masculinity for International Men’s Day
10. Do More of What You’re Good at and Keep Good People Close: What I’ve Learned about Prioritising Mental Health in the Workplace

Our most visited pages were:

1. Contact Us
2. Resources
3. Our books
4. News and Appearances
5. About Us
6. Testimonials

 

Photo of Cullercoats by Martin Baker.

 

How Much Do You Want to Know Me? Preparing to Write My Obituary

Our friends — how distant, how mute, how seldom visited and little known. And I, too, am dim to my friends and unknown; a phantom, sometimes seen, often not. Life is a dream surely.

— Virginia Woolf, The Waves

As we shared in a recent blog post, Fran and I have been looking into end of life planning. I’m particularly interested in legacy work, which focuses on what we wish to leave behind. It can include physical items, but also writing, photographs, videos, and more. In the words of end of life doula Leona Oceania of Die Well Death Education, “legacy work is perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can provide to your friends, family, and loved ones.”

Fran and I were talking recently about her mother who is in her nineties. She commented that she knew her mom “maybe 10 percent.” This caught my attention. “Legacy work,” I ventured, “is so the people we leave behind will know more than 10 percent.” Fran asked how much I knew her. I thought a moment before answering. “It depends what kind of knowing you mean. If you mean all the events of your life, the things you’ve done and everything that’s happened to you, not so much. You’ve told me lots but I don’t remember the details. If you mean knowing how you think and feel, what’s important to you, how you react to what’s going on, I think I know you pretty well.”

I’ve thought a lot about that conversation and its relevance to legacy. What and how much do we want others to know of us, in the here-and-now and once we’re no longer around? What and how much do we want to know of those we love? I’ve never attached much importance to the historic details of life, my own included. I made many good friends at university, deep connections born of mutual respect and regard, and an ongoing commitment to one another. I’d say I had a decent idea what my friends were going through at the time — who they were, in other words. But I knew almost nothing of what they’d done, where they’d lived, or what had happened in their lives before we met. If they told me, it scarcely registered. If they didn’t, it never occurred to me to ask.

It’s not only friends from long ago. I know facts about Fran’s life before we met, including events, experiences, and situations that impacted her profoundly. I’d nevertheless struggle to say when they happened or even in what order they occurred. It’s a mutual situation. When I asked how much she knows me, Fran said she knows a lot about who I am as a person, but much less about the things I’ve done or have happened to me. For good and bad, our experiences shape who we are. They’re part of the you I want to know, the me I want you to know. But precisely when they happened, the timeline of your life or mine? That can be interesting to explore, but it’s not who we are now. For similar reasons, I’ve never been motivated to trace my family tree. My ancestors’ lives have no relevance to mine.

Such thoughts inform my end of life planning and legacy work. There’s a great deal to get my head around, decide, and put in place, but I’ve decided to start by writing my obituary. As a first step, I’m collecting the bare details of my life into a timeline. Birth, family, education, employment history, interests, achievements, activities. It will serve as a useful reference. It occurs to me that an obituary is no more or less than our final resume. Here I am (was) in two pages. A few hundred words. Everything you need to know. The best bits. The selling points. Give me a job. Employ me. Mourn me.

In many places I’m struggling to recall just what happened when and in what order. The timeline outlines the path that led me here, but it’s not me. It’s rich in facts, but light on the essence, value, or quality of those facts. Who cares about such details, anyway? Think of someone dear to you who has passed, or someone whose future death you can scarcely countenance. What do you wish you knew about them? What would help shape your memories of them, and your future without them? What schools they attended? Where they travelled or resided? Their employment history? Pay grade? Maybe such details are important to you. If so, that’s fine. But maybe you’d rather know what moved your loved one. What brought them to tears and to anger. The music they sang and danced to. The books, poetry, movies, loves unrequited and lost, photographs, treasured memories and dreams, interests, and passions that drenched their life with meaning. Who they were, rather than what they did. I think that’s what most of us want and would want to leave. It’s what I want to leave.

But how much do I want to share? Which bits are most important to me, speak most eloquently of who I am and have been and still yearn to be? What do I want to hide, for fear or dread or shame? And why does it matter at all when I won’t be around? These are questions I’m asking myself for the first time. I’ve not figured it all out yet. Hopefully, I have plenty of time to do so. But in making a start I’ve come to understand the responsibility such work entails.

I can leave YouTube links and playlists but no one will ever feel what I feel when listening to the music that’s threaded my life with meaning. My words will be an important part of my legacy but no one will ever feel what I feel reading my poetry, my short stories, our book, my blog posts. I can write of my people, past and present, but no one will ever ache the way I ache, love as I love and have loved. There’s sadness in realising that, but if it were otherwise, if we could capture the totality of a life for those left behind, it would cheapen the significance of death and the experience of losing those we love.

I’d like people to know more than 10 percent of Marty but there has to be room for what can only be mourned. What’s lost is as important as what’s preserved. I’m recognising that legacy work is a creative process. I get to be selective, to shine a light on this and that, leaving other parts in the shadows. I see it as curating my life as one might curate an art exhibition or anthology. Not everything will make the final cut. I’d settle for 40 percent. (Ah, but which 40 percent?)

 

If you’re interested in legacy work or would like more information about end of life planning, check out the Die Well Death Education website. (“You’re going to die. Why not die well?”)

 

Photo by Marina Shatskih at Unsplash.