held by tender mercies

A brand new year. What do you wish for? No New Year’s resolutions for me, but a continued purposeful commitment towards a more quiet and gentle approach to living with whatever life challenges us with. I guess a renewed hope to deal better with bumps in the road.

We have just survived another Christmas. Fragile, stressful, bleak, even. Blighted by Covid like many others, but that’s another story. At least it gave me a legitimate reason to batten down the hatches, to retreat from the world and not come up for air. I haven’t worn contact lenses or makeup for over a week, nor worn civilian clothing. I did my first LFT this morning since being confirmed, and it is negative, so all being well I should be out of covid jail tomorrow, New Years Day, and in so many ways I am really ready for some air.  As I write this, thankfully we look to be coming through the other side of Covid under this roof, and I am well aware of those who have not.

The run up to Christmas is fraught in most households, more so, perhaps in households like ours. In the weeks leading up to it, I was tense, watchful. Being in a constant state of hyper-alert, never not vigilant is a classic trauma response. The constant, exhausting environmental scanning – that radar for discord, is irritatingly omnipresent. I wish I could unlearn it. Before Covid struck, by the morning of Christmas Eve I wanted to take to my bed and weep uncontrollably. I’m not going to share the details of what unfolded the day before save to say, despite all the warnings I gave to myself, I let my guard down and imagined things were perhaps getting better. Of course, they weren’t. Sometimes you simply cannot or will not see what is staring you right in the face. All made worse by the belief that in needing to save face, to hold it all together, you need to dry your tears and just get on with it. So we ventured out to Blenheim to see the Christmas lights, to toast marshmallows around a fire pit and drink hot spiced cider and even to slide down a fucking helter skelter and all the time I wanted to scream and lie face down on the gravel and sob noisily and ungracefully and without stopping until I exhausted myself. But instead, I dutifully followed the lights trail, smiling thinly whilst feeling violently sick. Blinking back tears (one or two may have escaped) until Little M slipped his hand into mine and whispered “Are you OK mummy?”. Yes, I replied, of course. And he said “I want to know what’s going on. I can cope with it. I’m nearly twelve now and I can look after you” and I looked away, to the giant illuminated moon hovering above the lake on the lights trail, and I thought yes, it is actually possible to feel your heart break in two. We hadn’t said a word to him and yet he knew. He is far too knowing. The silence of family secrets can sometimes be deafening. 

At the end of 2021, someone I have never met before wrote in response to my last post and said “may you be held by tender mercies this holiday….” 

I was and am continually struck by the kindness of strangers. This message has followed me around since I received it. Such a beautiful, gentle thing to say to someone. I am so grateful for those words. 

The term tender mercies is nearly always used ironically these days to refer to attention or treatment not in the best interests of its recipients (perhaps in biblical allusion to Proverbs 12:10, ‘the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel’). And yet. Its origin has the reverse meaning. It comes from Psalm 145:9 – The LORD is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works. I’ve said before, I vehemently wish I believed in God or a higher being. I have tried, but I don’t. However, that doesn’t mean that I am not spiritual, simply that I don’t have faith. How hollow that sounds. Still, I would very much like to be held by tender mercies, who wouldn’t?. David Bednar said in  2005, “tender mercies are very personal and individualised blessings, strength, protection assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation support and spiritual gifts”

What wonderful things to wish to bestow, one person to another. From one stranger to another. 

Recently, I read An Education by Lynn Barber. She wrote “I am a deep believer in the unknowability of other people” – it’s a thread that runs through much of the book. It struck me so much I marked the page and kept going back to it. Yes I thought, agreeing vigorously with this notion – but not when it applies to your own child, especially your vulnerable, fragile child. I do know them. I gave birth to them. I have nurtured them and watched them. I have stayed up all night tending to them when they are ill. I have mopped brows and dried tears and picked up and propped up and rescued – oh! I have rescued. So yes, the unknowability of other people is definitely a thing – but our children aren’t “other people” – are they? Except, I thought, in the dead of night, yes they are. Perhaps particularly no more so than in their teenage years. So it is not that I know my child – in fact by beginning to write I have come to the realisation that I actually know very, very little. Perhaps it is that I feel that as a mother, I feel I have a right to know my child. I have an entitlement to know my child and to know what is going on in his life, right? More so because I feel he is so ill equipped to deal with daily life. The slightest issue can send him spiralling this way or that, his choices are so poor, so ill informed, so reckless. I often wonder how it is I managed to produce a child so wildly lacking in resilience, but that is another question for another day. I have concluded that I am not entitled to know my child, or what is going on in his life, and in part that is a good thing sometimes. Not least as he is nineteen years old now, legally an adult, and therefore he has an absolute entitlement to privacy. And so it is that Lynn Barber has unwittingly bestowed a tender mercy on me, for it is one of my mental models of the world that I am going to try to give up, for his sake and for mine. I imagine she would probably give a derisory snort at that. And no, it’s not a resolution. 

Having spent the holidays self-isolating it has given me a lot of time ( far, far too much time!) to think about all the tender mercies I am lucky enough to be held by. Turns out there are many. 

For all the pain, heartache and despair in our family there is also extraordinary love, tolerance, understanding and kindness.

For much as my family is fractured in places, the support from my parents and sister builds a fortress around me. The gift of time with my mum and sister brings fun and laughter, escape and the freedom of never having to explain.

For as much as the chaos here can lead me to be an absent friend at times, given to having to switch plans at the last minute, those same friends would still walk over hot coals in a heartbeat to slip their hand into mine without word or judgement.

For as much as life here can mean that I can be distracted in my work some days, needing time off and time out, I have colleagues who value what I do, and accept my need for latitude.

For as much as I can feel broken some days, to the extent of feeling unwell, mad even, I have had access to an extraordinarily insightful, kind and purposeful counsellor, who has really helped me order my thinking.

For as much as I feel at times that I have no voice, or that I am not heard, by starting to write I am able to try and express myself and feel heard and seen. 

For as much as I live in a houseful of people but often feel alone, I have found an entire community of kindred spirits, tentatively, hopefully, despairingly travelling the same road, all at different stages. Many circling back – hello old friend – some daring to wonder if they have reached the finish line. Such solidarity is an incredible gift. It is a true tender mercy. 

I came across the seven C’s recently, I have yet to track down it’s origin but I thought I might share it here as I found it very useful:

• I didn’t CAUSE it
• I can’t CURE it
• I can’t CONTROL it
• I can help take CARE of myself by COMMUNICATING my feelings
• Making healthy CHOICES, and CONTINUING to live my own life

So what tender mercies do I wish for you, my friends?

The knowledge that you have immeasurable strength,even when you feel it is hidden in a dark, dark place. It hasn’t left you, it’s waiting, perhaps until you need it the most.

The resilience to deal with what is dealt to you, with grace, purpose and fortitude.Tomorrow is another day, and you’ll get through that too.

The acceptance of what is, and the absolute knowledge that even at the worst of times, those times pass as surely as day becomes night. It doesn’t feel like that sometimes, but the longer you are in it, the more you come to see this. 

To know that you haven’t failed. Far from it, you are still standing, and very few will understand the energy needed simply to do that. It makes you extraordinary.

A reminder that you matter too. You have your own life to lead and attend to, and other people who need and love you and want nothing more than to see you smile, however tentatively. You matter too. (You can remind me of that!).

So. May you be held by tender mercies. You might feel fragile, yet your strength knows no bounds.