My friend was diagnosed with terminal cancer at fifty-two. ‘Nasty. Inoperable. You’ve got twelve weeks. Put your affairs in order,’ said the oncologist, with an abominable lack of compassion. She defied him then, standing up in his office, with her green eyes blazing. And she continued to defy him and his prognosis for a further four years. She said that the only thing that kept her going was her love for her children. Over the next four years she said over and over, ‘I can’t die, I can’t leave the kids, I’ve got to look after my kids.’ She loved those children with the most enormous, awe-inspiring love, the kind that doesn’t die, even after the person has gone. And they loved her back.
When I was twenty, I believed in ‘true love’ – a vision made up of a man in a dinner suit who would write sonnets about me in romantic settings, and feed me handmade truffles and champagne. In short, all the symbols of feelings as defined by other people (usually selling those chocolates and champagne). Now I am forty, and she has taught me that the greatest affection is given – and received – without expectations. It’s in the cross-eyed clay elephant he made for me; it’s in the desk calendar from Randall, with the picture pasted on upside-down; it’s in a look, a gesture, a touch, a ‘Well done, I’m so proud of you’ from Mum. These quieter rituals are the things that give us the strength, comfort and security that we need to go back into the world, day after day.
I miss her, but I am grateful for her gift to me: she showed me that the only way to be loved is to love with abandon. Without love, life is a dry and heartless exercise. With it, your soul is nourished and your spirit soars. Every day, tell the people who matter to you that you love and appreciate them. And love your children unconditionally, no matter how messy their rooms are, how many exams they fail, how rude their friends are or how many lies they tell. Tell them you love them every day.
‘Teach me your mood, patient stars! Who climb each night the ancient sky, leaving no shade, no scars, no trace of age, no fear to die,’ wrote Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Like Emerson, generations of humans have stood silently beneath the stars on a clear night and looked up, wondering about the ancient, fathomless universe and their place in it. It is humbling to contemplate the endless distances and infinite potential of space, and to realise what a very tiny part you have in it.
Gazing at the night sky makes you feel more connected to the natural world. It also gives you a sense of the passage of time. The Native American Cree Indians have an expression, ‘I am the reason why my ancestors existed.’ Go outside before bedtime and look up at the stars.
Focus on one and just breathe quietly. Imagine your parents, your grandparents and generations of ancestors all flowing back and away, into time and space. These people are all around you, a part of the earth and sky, and a part of your body’s cells and unique spirit. Give thanks for your life and realise how insignificant your own problems really are. Then make a wish. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight … Close your eyes, take ten deep breaths and imagine yourself letting go. Trust in the Universe. Trust in yourself.
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1. Use the links between health and emotions for your own good
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