I sat down today to write a totally different thought but, just as I placed this drawing at the top, the person depicted in it came into my living room; my community neighbour Hannah, holding a lamp of mine that was broken that I had placed to the side, now mended and restored without my asking. It’s not the only blessing she has delivered to me today by far, either.
We have lived in community together along with several others for more than seven years now, enough time to know one another very deeply. We share many threads of values and upbringing, and she knows exactly the amounts of support and space to offer me. I created this drawing of her to celebrate the moment she became a painter in her seventies, and the spark of healing that preceded it.
The sight of her holding my now upright-again lamp reminded me of another person, the grandad I have written of here before, who would polish and repair my shoes, quietly replacing them at the door during my visits to him, the kind of man to move worms out of the way of his garden shovel. There is something so special about these totally quiet acts of repair, and about people who carry them out without asking for a shred of credit.
Both of these people remind me of another little mender, my youngest daughter. When she was five or six, she was very captivated by the tears shed by her class teacher as she described the lives of young soldiers from our village sent to the first and second world wars; so captivated, in fact, that she has taken it upon herself to tidy their blown-over crosses at the memorial every time she passes ever since; a tiny act of mending from a young soul, which spans almost half of her lifetime already. It is no coincidence, I think, that she carries the DNA of my grandad and that she lives with and observes the values and behaviour of Hannah.
Thinking of these three in parallel makes me see more clearly just how often the same love comes back around, embodied by different people. Losing grandad was a seismic event, around the same time my littlest was born and when I also met Hannah, and yet some of their energy is very similar, some of the characteristics of their love feel like home in the same sort of ways, almost as if a baton of light was passed. When none of us are here, perhaps my wee daughter will be a woman who carries forward that care inside of her too, who speaks words to her children and grandchildren about her great grandad and her community neighbours and their influence on her. Perhaps she’ll say nothing at all, but people will know by the way she mends things.
May more of us be menders.
There are many big things in my own life that I do not know quite how to mend at present, but that’s ok. There is peace in midst of the unknown. I handed my car keys over to the scrap man this week and felt an unusual calm for some reason, despite the loss of a wee bit of freedom. The same day, I burned the drawing hand that I rely on for work. These situations I cannot mend, but I can mend my attitude towards discomfort, I can remember what privileges these things are.
In this former coal-mining village, the kind where generations of families have remained for long periods, the memorial monument where my littlest does her mending is engraved with the surnames of young lads from a hundred years ago, the same as the families who still live around its perimeter.
I like to sit out here and watch the world go by a bit sometimes. The perimeter of the green is lined by stately village elders in the form of oaks and horse chestnuts, who no doubt wept as they watched those young lads go to wars, who witnessed men go down the coal pits day after day and hopefully come back up again, although not always.
And if you sat here a while, not more than ten minutes usually, a story will come along. Today a man in a wheelchair with his wee dog came past me and said hello and, without any real prompting, a life story emerged; multiple sclerosis, brain lesions, a new puppy, a giddy joy at still being alive and outside to enjoy the sun. A ten minute chat and being called ‘a lovely lass’ in a warm Northern accent and then on his way. I suppose a lot of folks don’t have nearly enough connection and people to talk to. I suppose he had no notion that he brightened my day. Look at what tiny acts of mending are possible just by sitting still.
The memorial says ‘for the men who gave their lives so that we might live in peace’. So that we might live peace. How do we even begin to mend that at the moment, really? But still, there are versions of village greens everywhere, neighbours everywhere, opportunities everywhere to make peace, to look at the sky together and say ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day?’.
It can still be beautiful. As the spring now has, love returns and repairs.
Dear Gillian, what a beautiful letter! The softness of your words mended me too, feeling a bit out of balance today. Thank you.
I read this and the tears welled up. You too are a mender.