Sunday ~ I could hear the drum beats once again from over the field in my back garden. I got the same nostalgic feel haunting me that I'd gotten previously. This time more so with the passing of my love. The passing of time shot through my consciousness like an arrow speeding in one fell swoop to it's target, all happening in one day, maybe it did!
Tuesday ~ They are packing away now, though I can occasionally hear the drums, and as usual I feel regret not having taken hold of those sticks in the circle, or the true spirit of Stainsby Festival come to that! Every year it seems like alternative nomads are transported to my village to play out a magical scene among our summer fields, they come to tempt me with some other kind of freedom, then before I can get my bearings as the wind blows through dandelion seed-heads it all drifts off away into the ether for one more orbit around the sun.
I'm still a babe on the grief path, totally inexperienced and untaught, though they do say there is no right or wrong way to grieve I'm painfully aware that I am largely ignorant of the whole dying process. Our society shields us and has largely fed us fear stories about death and too many happy ever afters in our childhood, we push death as far away as possible instead of integrating the inevitable into our lives.
Death is very big, HUGE, the subject is difficult to deal with and truth be known it scares the hell out of me but the painful experience of my love's passing has beautiful parts too, ones I want to relate as part of my grief path story. I think my annual rendezvous with Stainsby reminds me of a forgotten time where people lived much closer to the earth, life and death. Where drumming and story telling were part and parcel of this sacred life. I always mean to get closer to that life, I think my love's death is a wake up call for me...