I thought I’d start my blog with where it all began. The first
article I tried to write eighteen months ago about how I was feeling. I guess
negotiating life is working out which things we should let go of and which
people and core values are worth fighting for. Anyway here it is.


Death comes to every house in the land although it never stays

When death row prisoners are shown on the TV news do people
cling to denial wondering what it must feel like for them? Knowing and waiting
in their small cells?

I watched you receive your sentence. Your skilful art of
concealing pain failed you as you asked,“What’s the life

The cold clinical reply,“We think in terms of months not

I was not prepared. There was no acceptance. God was an
unpredictable psychopath. This was October.

I watched half dazed as you looked at us all. I could see you
trying to comprehend that you were not going to see these young people, grouped
around your bed grow up.

How unfair I supposed. When you lose a parent you’re supposed to
have a family of your own, supposed to have matured into adulthood, supposed to
be better prepared. Death was supposed to happen at the end of a long life fully

How unfair I thought. There would be no Mother to call to say I
was pregnant. No Grandma to spoil my unborn child. No one to hear me say “I
understand what I put you through and I’m sorry.”

I trusted you. You would not die until I was ready. That was

You came home from hospital on Christmas Eve but you brought an
uninvited guest with you called denial. We played a game. We played it hard. It
was called, “Let’s pretend Mum isn’t dying.”

I played the game so well I didn’t have time to face all that
was repressed inside. To understand life itself and help you to say,

How could I say a final goodbye to you when I was still trying
to find my independence from you?

How could I find humour when you said, “After a lifetime of
dieting I’ve finally achieved my desired

How could I not be angry when you said, “I’ll never see my grand

How could I understand when you said, “There are so few things
in life that really matter?”

I lay at your side furious holding the plastic container to
catch your vomit. Watching as you relinquished your attachment to life. That was

New Years Eve I accompanied you in the ambulance back to
hospital. You were ready. You lay there for a further six days. All that was
left was a still breathing body. You were gone. I was an orphan experiencing my
first moments as a motherless child.

I knew you were ready to let go. My heart broke. I felt it
physically. I did not know I could grow so quickly with the broken pieces of my
heart ground to sand. I stayed by your side. I did my best to comfort you on a
journey I could not see. I held your hand and said, “It won’t be long now.” I
realised the only way left I had to love you was to whisper, “Let go. Don’t
worry about us.”

Suddenly it all stopped. You were gone. I had no plan. No map to
guide me. It was over. Emptiness so stark and wide, beyond any imagination
filled me. That was January.

I thought I’d learnt the lesson your death taught me. I knew how
to let go. I was no longer enslaved by ego. Grasping to hold on to the things I
thought I wanted. Insist things were the way I thought I wanted them to be. Not
to hang on to misunderstanding, hurt pride and thoughts of self importance. Not
to allow myself to become the willing captive in somebody else’s game.

All I wanted was to fill the void you left behind, with
compassion for my own anguish and the pain in others.

But then cancer visited my home again. It came more gently this
time but it came all the same. It came to show me I’d allowed self denial to
creep back in. It brought its friend stubborn defiance along. I forgot all I
learnt. I forgot to let go.

Did you send them to help me?  To remind me to practice surrendering in
life, mentally and emotionally? To be at peace with myself and all around by not
holding on tight to things that are not important. Not to shield myself from
pain. But instead to stand and face my sorrow, look squarely into the unknown
and jump saying, “Yes” without waiting to be pushed.

Please have a little patience with me Mum. I am still

There is one thing I can’t let go of. Death is the most common
thing. It happens to everyone. Death comes to every home. But it came to our
home too soon.


I live in Frampton and call myself a writer because I write stories down.
But we all write stories every day.We write stories, put
ourselves in the centre and call it our life. Sometimes our stories are true,
other times when the all important “I” feels threatened or at risk of exposure,
the stories become distorted.

We may not save the world with heroic deeds but we are the hero
of our own story. Sometimes the greatest courage is plodding through each day
staying true to the small voice within, writing our honest tale word by word and
persevering until the end. But in our cowardice we put on our stories along with
our clothes to hide what is underneath. We disguise the truth that threatens to
overwhelm us. We write a false story and then destroy our true worth trying to
justify the fable we’ve created. Through fear of exposure we remain stuck on the
first page or we make the journey but only from the safety of our heated car.
Occasionally we find the courage to leave the safe interior and allow the icy
February rain to soak through our clothes and tell the true story.

My interest in writing stems from my love of reading. Reading is
an under rated past time as it widens perspective. The reader enters the mind of
another and discovers how we all suffer and experience joy and we all get scared
and confused. It involves dethroning ourselves from the centre of our story
which teaches us greater compassion and understanding. If we have compassion we
enter into somebody else’s perspective and have no need for conflict and
selfishness. We understand if we harm others we harm ourselves. Without
  compassion we approach people from a position of separateness and impose our
  own thoughts, feelings and prejudices on to them. Only when we feel separate
from others can we be unkind to them.

Stories need ego and conflict but the world needs compassion.

By Diana J Febry. 


    Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.


    June 2012