Yesterday I was informed that my services as a storyteller would not be required at this year’s local music festival. I won’t lie, I came off the phone and wept. I’ve been part of this event since I set up the Tiree Story Tent in 2018 and its been a significant part of my development as a story teller. I’ve hosted meditation and story telling in the tent, and its cosy dimensions and colourful rugs have lent themselves to the Story Tent becoming a safe haven for those needing a momentary retreat from the boisterousness of the festival. People have confided all sorts of stories of their own to me too. I’ve heard of difficult births, sons gone to Ukraine to support the war effort, menopausal struggles, suicidal fantasies and domestic abuse. Teenagers have come to sleep off the revelries of the night before in between story sessions; those with learning difficulties have been welcomed out of the crowds to rest and play; children and adults have discovered the wonder of traditional tales and their capacity to speak to us with wisdom and humour. And I’ve had the pleasure of doing something I love in the place where I live serving people I care about.
The reason I’m sharing this here is because after my phone call, to get out of my children’s concerned gaze, I ran a bath. As I soaked and cried in a combination of Epsom salts and pine essence one of my daughters brought me a cup of tea and a biscuit. She’d opened my favourite packet of biscuits that were being saved for guests. This indicated how concerned about me she was and how anxious she was to cheer me up. I appreciated the victuals but what I needed more was to cry. I needed to lament and be noisy in my sorrow. This might sound like an over-reaction but I have learnt as I have danced with my grief over the years that when a heartfelt and unbidden response arises, the most healing course of action is to allow it expression. Only I held it in a little bit because I was conscious of the children’s presence in the house. I was concerned that my daughters were feeling wobbly because of my outburst. I sensed their worry that an important point of stability in our calendar had become unhinged, and with it their mother. The festival and my place in it with the Story Tent has been a central part of our summer social calendar as a family over the last few years. Years that have featured homelessness and struggle as the separation from their father caused a level of suffering that it has been a challenge to rise from.
As I heal from years of being told my work isn’t valuable – Ethiopian Studies being way too niche for my husband to grasp; I’m too ugly because I’ve allowed my white hair to be seen; I should do all the child tending because I am a mother, while he should take all the child benefit because … well, because he can, it’s an ongoing challenge to find ways of operating in the world that don’t come across as needy and pleading. The victim mindset is one I have inadvertently learned and honed over a lifetime and it’s treachously hard to upload a new operating system.
My response to being shafted from the music festival with such vapid indifference is so strong because being shafted and dismissed is what I am most grieving at the moment on all fronts of my life. So while my sense of myself and who I am in the world is knocked flat again, what about my children? I’ve been a vocal oponent of the myth in our culture that we should ‘be strong for others’ and give the impression that we’re coping. It’s not uncommon for the grief-stricken to be advised on the death or departure of a family member, ‘be strong for your mum…’, ‘be strong for your spouse…’. By sucking in my sobs have I unwittingly slipped on the ‘be strong’ mask, thereby teaching my children that sadness is not an acceptable or appropriate response to being treated callously?
As with all things parenting, this is a matter of gentle discernment. A child needs a parent who is capable of parenting. They need an adult who can guide, support, make appropriate decisions and be relied upon to meet all their emotional needs as well as their core physical requirements. When our lives are falling apart, it is important for our children’s wellbeing that they are still parented whether that’s by you or by another adult who steps in to support you. Life is such, however, that there might not be another adult who can put that sheltering arm around you and your children. Isolation is a common feature of grief experiences. I have found my extended family’s indifference and lack of empathy about the impact the fracturing of my family has had on me and the children to be another source of grief and reflection about where I learnt to tolerate abuse with such patience and timerousness. My friendship group has diminished over the years as a casualty of an abusive relationship and the spiritual circle where I have found meaning and solace operates online and doesn’t translate into a nurturing in-the-flesh community.
This means that there’s no-one on the ground to step in so, while I do cry in front of the children, I also save my rawest mourning for the interstices when they’re out or abed. It would be wholly appropriate at a funeral or times of extremity for children to witness an outpouring of raw grief. It’s also appropriate that it doesn’t become a daily feature of their childhood. Grieving a lifetime of harm takes attention and care which I must find for myself and not expect my children to hold for me. What’s important is that while they see me feeling hurt and victimised, they also see me developing the skills I need to operate in the world as an adult and not just an adultified child, a term I recently learnt in therapy and love because it expresses so succinctly how I’ve been getting by up until now. I want my daughters to know that it’s ok to feel vulnerable and bruised and make a wrong turn or say something amiss and still love yourself. I want them to see from my example that there are tools and support systems that can be used to recover from adversity. It would be easy to let them believe that the world treats me badly because its a big frightening scary place where nice people aren’t welcome or safe. That’s the messaging I grew up with which, through the behaviours I learnt at my mother’s knee, I have actualized.
As I reflect on how to navigate a path through grief that doesn’t result in my children feeling the need to parent me, I’ve come up with a few pointers:
- The work of mourning is necessary for healing and children will learn the wisdom of this when they see the adults in their lives demonstrating it.
- It is untended grief that turns into depression or habits like drinking and drug taking that are detrimental to a child’s wellbeing. When our sadness has become an illness or an addiction, we need professional help.
- Children can cope witnessing a parent’s vulnerability as long as it doesn’t become their identity. When we find ourselves repeating a victim story, we must take ourselves in hand and call upon all the resources at our disposal to pivot into a more empowered identity.
- Children grieve by dipping in and out of dark emotions. We can facilitate this for our children by providing opportunities for them to play and laugh even when we’re not feeling much like levity ourselves.
- Saying sorry to our children for times when we haven’t fully attended their needs or been overly negative, will help them relate to you as a human being who cares about them and doesn’t get it right all the time.
- Being attentive to our children is the most important part of parenting a child and that is particularly so when you are distracted by grief and overwhelm. Gently monitor their responses to you, notice if they seem to be fretting about things that are rightly your business and take whatever action you can to resource them more. If they seem dismissive of you by contrast, open up a little more to encourage empathy and caring. I love the image of the tightrope: when you find yourself leaning too far one way, straighten up a little by leaning the other way, go too far, just lean back a little. It’s non-judgemental, responsive and simple.
Today, as I journey through this turmoil of grief, I’m finding Krishnamurti’s invitation to look within is prompting me to carefully observe the emotions as they come and go in relation to the thoughts I have about myself, the festival and my work as a storyteller. I share with the children some of this process so they get a feel for how self-inquiry creates a little bit of distance between you, your response and a provocative situation allowing you to breath, let go, surrender, forgive, be at ease. I also sent an email to the events manager avering that it’s appropriate for a CIC to treat local artists with as much respect and courtesy as those who are being courted from further afield. I left a tearful message for my coach and followed up on some suggestions she had made for community cafes where my work might be well received. I’ve made a decision to search out places where my craft is welcomed and celebrated so I’m not left pleading to be admitted by organisers who are all mouth and no trousers when it comes to honouring their commitments to support local businesses. I’ve also begun exploring how to incorporate into my telling some of the breathing techniques from the Comprehensive Resource Model that I’m using to ground and soothe my nervous system, for my monthly online storytelling event, Echoes of Shadow and Light.
My answer to how authentic we should be with our children is, 100%. It’s not authenticity that will parentify them. Disclosure, however, is more nuanced and it is our responsibility to monitor how much of our grief we allow our children to witness by noticing how they respond, what story it is we are telling about it and how to include them in the practices we are using to heal and grow.
If you would like support to move through grief or engage with stimulating stories, you can check out my offerings here: