By Jenni Baden Howard
The podcast currently has 52 episodes available.
Hi, friends! Happy weekend, and happy May!
How are you? I hope everyone’s well, and has had a good start to the month.
I’m doing something a bit different today, in recording an audio version of an essay posted at my other, beauty and lifestyle Substack, The Midlife Life Beauty Edit.
I’m super-aware that subscribers to one Substack won’t necessarily find the other relevant or of interest, which is why I keep the two separate. But, sometimes, there will be an obvious crossover, and this feels like one of those times.
SO much more to say, but for now, I hope you’ll enjoy this “crossover experiment”. Lastly, if you enjoy listening to and reading Life Stories, by hitting the ❤️ Like button below this post, Substack is more likely to spread the word through its Explore and Search functions. Thank you so much!
Sending much love, and especially thinking of friends Stateside for Mother’s Day on Sunday. Jen XX
Thank you for reading Life Stories, with Jenni Baden Howard. This post is public so feel free to share it.
Thanks for reading Life Stories, with Jenni Baden Howard! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Hello (and welcome to new friends here!) How are you and how has your week been?
I’ve spent much of mine picking up the bazillion balls I’ve dropped over the past month since we said goodbye to my mother (I still can’t write those words in a way that feels real). Just over a week ago — ten days maybe? It’s all a blur — we gathered as family and friends for a service that a cousin kindly and beautifully described in a card as “honouring and joyful, despite the sadness involved (what an oxymoron!)”.
And yet, not. It’s that “both/and” thing, again, at its most poignant.
That evening, I shared just one photo on Insta, of my mum and dad on their wedding day. Because, really, it was always all about them, their love, the family they made and the love they showed others.
It was, also, about getting my dad to the service — which wasn’t a given, right up until the last minute. But he made it. That the service coincidentally fell on the day of Our Lady of Sorrows, in the Catholic church of the Italian side of my family — even though it is not the tradition I was brought up in — brought deep comfort.
On Insta I wrote:
Mummy. We said goodbye today and the sun shone though the stained glass windows of the Lady Chapel and it was beautiful. The miracle was my dad being there for her and honestly I have no words for how much it meant to us all, and how grateful we are and how amazed … but this picture says it all. Thank you to all those who’ve held my mum and dad and us all in your thoughts and prayers.“If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me … even the darkness is not dark to you;the night is bright as the day,for darkness is as light with you.” - Psalm 139: 11-12)
I had a shrine lamp burn for my mother at the Oratory, something I’ve never done before, but felt drawn to doing.
My mother loved summer and sunlight, which made us extra grateful — especially given September’s typical, wildly unpredictable British weather (trench coats for the win!)— as it flooded through the church windows, illuminating the scenes from Jesus’ life with his mother, Mary, while we did our best to honour a mother who loved us so well.
Unstoppably, like the light.
Their wedding day was in October 1958 - more than ten years before I came into their lives (no wonder my mum looks so relaxed, ha!).
We had the photo album out on display at the gathering afterwards, and that particular picture jumped out at me as if I was seeing it for the first time. As if I was seeing my mother again after the longest time, and as she once was - the mummy I miss now more than ever, and in a way I wonder if I didn’t feel I could miss fully before now.
One of the loveliest comments on Insta was left by the church where my parents were married, in leafy south west London and the same one in which I was Christened, went to Sunday school (sporadically) and, somewhat randomly, remember singing along to Johnny Mathis’ When A child is Born with my class one Christmas.
Their condolences and prayers would have meant so much to my mother,and says something about the significance of a sacred place where people have gathered in faith over the years — centuries, in some cases - in joy and sorrow, celebration and lament. As James K A Smith puts it in You Are What You Love: The Spiritual Power of Habit, to “worship with the communion of the saints across the centuries”.
It brought another deep, unexpected comfort. And I’m so grateful.
Thanks for reading Life Stories. Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Kindling the fire
I got talking to some friends the other night about Taizé services, which originated in a French monastic community of Catholic and Protestant brothers in Burgundy. Have you come across them, or ever been to one?
Candlelit, reflective and atmospheric, the ecumenical services are held all over the world and now include chants and prayers from other traditions, including Eastern Orthodox. I’ve only ever been once, to a service in the UK; I imagine attending one in France would be amazing.
Jacques Berthier, a Parisian composer and church organist, began writing for the first French monastic community of Catholic and Protestant brothers, when they formed in 1955.
Within our darkest night,you kindle the firethat never dies away.
— Jacques Berthier, for The Taizé Community
Here’s a classic example of their meditative simplicity, which is famous for its repetition.
I’m closing with some words of St John Henry Newman, set to a piece of music by Elgar and featured on the album A Meditation by The Sixteen.
I’m sharing it in full, in case it might bring comfort to someone reading this, or who might want to pass it on.
They are at rest.
They are at rest.
We may not stir the heav'n of their repose
By rude invoking voice, or prayer addrest
In waywardness to those
Who in the mountain grots of Eden lie,
And hear the fourfold river as it murmurs by.
And soothing sounds ….
Angelic forms abide,
Echoing, as words of watch, o'er lawn and grove
The verses of that hymn which Seraphs chant above.
They are at rest.
—St John Henry Newman
With love, and more very soon - I want to come back on the Tessa Kiros book I mentioned last time (it released today, and I’m diving in tonight!), amongst other things.
Wishing you a lovely end to this week,
Jen xx
I shared this today, after madam jumped into a surprise delivery from a thoughtful friend (who was the more grateful? Tough call).
This week’s header comes with apologies to food writer Emiko Davies, whose wonderful Tortellini at Midnight is on our kitchen bookshelf.
(And more about Emiko, and reading cookbooks like memoirs, in a moment).
But back to tiramisu.
“The name says it all. Tirami-su means “pick me up”. It means that if you’re feeling down, listless … this dessert will lighten your spirits.”
—Sophia Loren, Recipes and Memories.
And so it was that, on Friday night, I found myself standing in front of our open fridge, eating tiramisu at midnight. Straight from the box.
As I explained in my last post, we’ve had a sad, hard few weeks here — and thank you for all your kind thoughts, prayers and messages, we’ve felt them all! But, in true “both/and” tradition, there have been some beautifully timed joys, too - our eldest returning home after years away at university, and a milestone-y wedding anniversary for Will and I.
So, shop-bought tiramisu and New York cheesecake were the order of the weekend, when no one had the energy to bake but the urge to celebrate and be thankful for the good things, too.
Sophia Loren dedicates Recipes and Memories (long out of print, but you can still track down copies) to her Nonna Luisa, “not only for the many things I’ve learned from her, but for her ability to transform even the most ordinary food into something delectable.” Her take on tiramisu, though, came via Sophia’s Italian-American secretary.
Nevertheless, a tray of factory-made tiramisu, with its perfectly uniform peaks, will always remind me of one of the first summers we took our youngest to visit my birth papa and the family in Italy. One evening, papa, with full Tour Guide Mode activated (it always was), insisted on taking us to a friend’s restaurant a few miles along the Ligurian coast from our small town.
On our arrival, the centre seemed pretty quiet (maybe it was a Sunday or public holiday - I don’t remember). Crossing the cobbled street, it was clear that the restaurant, its shutters pulled down, was closed.
Not to be deterred (he never was), papa buzzed the intercom, announced our arrival and got his friend, the owner, to open just for us.
All I remember about the meal was the joy and pride on papa’s face as he watched the granddaughter he adored power through her first tiramusu, which she picked out from the dessert selection in the restaurant’s tall freezer. The original pick-me-up pudding remains her favourite, and she makes a mean one herself.
I can’t get enough of the kind of cookbooks that read like memoirs, illustrated by family stories and photos that transport you to the location that inspired them. Homes with billowing curtains and kitchens with porcelain sinks and bottles of washing up liquid jostling for position next to the extra virgin olive oil.
So I couldn’t be more excited that two of my favourite writers, Tessa Kiros and Emiko Davies have new books coming out this month (links go to their instagrams, because, well, also obsessed).
More about Tessa’s Now and Then: A Collection of Recipes for Always and Emiko’s Gohan: Everyday Japanese Cooking: Memories and stories from my family's kitchen — soon.
Thinking of all things Italy, have you seen the new Blue Zones series on Netflix?
I’ve been following writer and researcher Dan Buettner on Insta for some time now, so was all in to watch his deep-dive into the habits, diets and notably longer lives of those living in the so-called Blue Zones around the world.
What’s striking is how much seems to come down to community, face-to-face connection and faith. I’m just one episode in — we watched the one about Sardinia and also Okinawa, Japan, at the weekend — and I’m hooked. (There’s a cheat sheet here).
If you’re a fan of all things Med-living and Blue Zones, I think you might love The Blue Memo on Substack, by Alki Gerassimou - just reading about her gorgeously photographed travels, feels like a mini-break. Go, soak up some end-of-summer sun!
Finally, all of that talk of tiramisu reminded me of something I posted to Insta a couple of summers back, of Bar Italia in Soho — a London landmark where I spent a disproportionate amount of time in my twenties — when my daughter and I got TIRAMISU IN A COFFEE CUP.
Sending much love as you sink a spoon into the new week,
Jen XOXO
All pics taken in my family’s hometown in Liguria, northern Italy.
Thank you for reading Life Stories. This post is public so please do share it (like a good tiramisu).
Show Notes
The original essay, Lessons In Presence: On what I've learned a year on, and staying hopeful.
A fully updated list of tips for caring for elderly parents and loved ones (including those with memory loss and dementia), incorporating tips from the Life Stories community, below.
I like the idea of making this some kind of living resource, which others can add to and anyone can forward and refer to.
Please share this special episode and post with anyone who you think might find it helpful!
To whom it might help, with love, including tips from the Life Stories community:
• When reading isn’t possible or easy, help an elderly parent or loved one to get plugged in.
Offer audio versions of books or podcasts for them to listen to.
—
• Inhabit the time they’re in, at any given moment.
You have to be willing to playfully enter whatever part of their memory they are inhabiting at the moment. When we oversaw the care for my husband's grandmother, and we eventually moved her to a memory ward near us. I learned to play along to whatever role she assigned me that day. Sometimes I was her daughter or my sister-in-law. Sometimes I was the best friend in her wedding. (Having heard the story many times, I could fill in the details she didn't remember.) Sometimes I was a 3rd grader in her class.
—
• Take favourite treats on visits.
They’re a comfort and a nod to the past and memories, which you can talk about (“Remember I always gave you a Terry’s Chocolate Orange at Christmas, dad?”).
If you’re offered a chocolate/biscuit/wedge of chocolate orange, say yes! It’s one small way a loved one can get a sense that they’re treating and hosting you. (Ask me how I know, having said “no thanks” many a time, before this occurred to me).
If you’re gluten-free, as points out, grab something you can enjoy during your visit, too.
• Get arty-crafty.
When I taught art, I volunteered at an assisted living facility and brought creative activities to do with them. They often mirrored the type of activities I would do with my preschoolers. Their ages were late seventies up to 99 and many had dementia/Alzheimer’s. They loved art days with Mrs. Kelly and they would come alive! One day in particular, I brought clay so they could freely sculpt. One gentleman, in his 90’s, was so incredibly engaged and he continued to sculpt an entire little village of people. After he had finished, he broke out his harmonica and began playing a tune for all of us. This opportunity to create brought so much joy, he couldn’t contain himself. It was the sweetest moment.
—
• Hydration, hydration, hydration.
Sooo important, especially in the heat. It’s been unusually hot here in the UK, and dehydration can cause things to escalate (or, rather, deteriorate) shockingly fast in the elderly. One of the first signs of the urinary tract infections (UTIs) they are extra-prone to is an increase in confusion and, accordingly, dementia-like symptoms (who knew? We didn’t).
What can look like a sudden cognitive nosedive could be due to an undiagnosed infection, and might resolve or improve after antibiotic treatment.
(I feel like I need to insert the totally obvious disclaimer here that, with all these points, I’m very-much-not-in-any-way medically trained or placed to offer such advice - although the Italian hypochondriac mama in me likes to think otherwise. I know that, like me, you’ll always seek advice from a doctor or other qualified medical professional).
If a loved one is reluctant to drink, try adding crushed ice. Making the water refreshingly cold can be a game-changer. (I bashed up ice cubes in a trusty IKEA ziplock bag with the giant wooden potato masher we purchased years ago and I’m not sure we’ve used once.)
If you’re concerned about dehydration, ask if fluid intake is being monitored and/or if a chart is in place. And if you’re worried about a sudden increase in confusion, ask if a urine dip test can be carried out.
• Advocate for all you’re worth.
It’s all too easy to start to feel that you’re asking too many questions. Or for too much (I’ve felt both, SO MANY TIMES). You’re not. What’s helped me is doing a little research first, so I’m better able to express my concerns and be specific with doctors, nurses and carers.
• Honour the second childhood when it comes to cuddly toys and other comforts.
• Get an old-fashioned phone.
Something like this. If elderly parents are confusing the cordless with the TV remote, running down the battery in their mobile and even dementia-friendly models with big buttons and speed-dials are no longer cutting it, the deeply held, long-term muscle memory of using an old-fashioned, Bakelite-style model might be the solution. Better still, choose a colour close to the one your parents had in your childhood home (the kind your dad would temperature-check the receiver of when you insisted you hadn’t been chatting to your best friend for hours. Just me?).
• Take the biscuit (better still, take several).
If you need to encourage a loved one to eat a little more (or at all), try taking a favourite biccie, breaking it up and putting it on their lap, maybe, directly in reach. You might be amazed how, absentmindedly, they’ll take it to their mouth and have a nibble.
• Kindness trumps everything.
It sounds too obvious. But, in our experience, it’s so easy to get caught up with surface stuff when you’re looking at residential care or nursing homes at the expense of what matters most.
Pay attention to atmosphere - it speaks volumes. How happy do other residents seem? How warmly are you greeted both by the front of house team, and those working “on the ground” in the home?
• Be their storyteller.
As memories of the distant past can seem more present than what’s happening now, give those caring for your loved one - either live-in, at home, or in residential care - pointers to refer to and spark discussion.
• Photos can be portals to the past.
Just their presence in a new, unfamiliar setting can bring comfort and continuity, suddenly making it feel a little more like home. Even — surprise! — for you.
Old family albums, too, can be a good conversation point. Pack photos along with that first suitcase or travel bag. They are SO much more than decoration.
• A breath of fresh air.
Community and activities which involve “green space” are vital for mental health. If your loved one is going into residential care, are there opportunities for them to get out into the fresh air? What kind of activities are arranged?
• Go with your gut.
Trust that, if you feel something isn’t right, for whatever reason and in any situation, act on it. And pray. I didn’t put that part in my original list on this point, but I have never been more sure that we haven’t been able to navigate this in our own strength.
• Ask questions.
I re-covered this, up top, but it bears repeating: never worry about looking stupid, or something being “too much trouble” when talking to anyone caring for someone you love.
• Also, don’t ask questions.
Asking lots of questions of someone with memory loss of any kind can cause more frustration and, in turn, distress. It’s so easily done, though. This is something I’m still working on, more than a year since a dear friend gave me this advice. Gah.
• Maintain close communication with the medical team (doctors, specialists and consultants), both in the community and in a residential setting.
Follow up on test results, appointments, blood pressure checks, prescription tweaks, weigh-ins and more. If hospital appointments have been arranged, you might want to ask (if it’s possible and/or feasible for you), if you may accompany your loved one, to reassure them. Especially as they may be confused by new surroundings and wonder what’s happening.
• A dedicated notebook or page in your planner is your best friend (especially for easy access to hospital numbers, weight records and so on).
I wish I was better about this, although I do keep hospital numbers in one place and it’s a huge help.
• Take deep breaths, too. Lots of them.
Try doing Pilates, or any stretches to help with shoulders hunched through anxiety and shallow breathing. Open things up a little.
• Time of day is key.
Keep this in mind when planning visits. At the end of the day, energy levels might be flagging and confusion or agitation may be increased.
• Speaking of time, Google or Amazon-search “dementia clocks”.
They’re pricey, but absolutely worth it.
• Whiteboards and A4-sized, day-to-page desk diaries, too.
Grab a big one, and have it somewhere in plain sight for important phone numbers and other updates and info. Going through notebooks, let alone diaries or calendars, can prove too much.
• Short, frequent visits, if at all possible, might work better than longer, less regular ones.
• Call often.
One thing I’ve learned is that just a day or two without contact can feel like a week to someone with any kind of memory loss. Whilst they might not be able to articulate or even know how long it’s been, they feel it. They really do.
I know it’s hard, especially when life is busy and you’re plate spinning across the generations. I so, so understand. Which brings me to …
• … where we began, with kindness. Be extra kind to yourself, too.
Remember, you’re doing the best you can and hindsight is, as they say, a wonderful thing. Stay attentive, do the best you can, when you can, and be relentlessly kind to yourself along the way.
Thanks for listening to Life Stories. Subscribe for FREE to support my work, and never miss an essay or episode.
Where to find those mentioned in this episode on Substack:
Ruth Gaskovski writes School of the Unconformed.
Kelly Pittman writes Becoming with Kelly B. Pittman.
Fiona Woodifield writes Mum in the Middle.
Christine Langford writes and podcasts at Traveling with the Father.
Keep all your comments and tips coming!
And please do share this with anyone for whom you think it might be helpful.
With so much love,
Jen XO
Oh wow, where to begin?
First of all, how are you?
I really hope you’re doing OK and have had a good week-and-a-bit! Yesterday (Sunday) was Mother’s Day here in the UK, but Father’s Day in Italy—I know, funny, right?—and, honestly, I’ve been spinning.
My dad had a fall last week, which resulted in his admission to hospital and lots of to-ing, fro-ing, fretting and praying ever since.
Before visiting my mother for Mother’s Day, we made it to the Oratory for its morning service—but only just—where, in his sermon, the Brother confessed that, at this half-time mark in Lent (how are we halfway through already?), it hadn’t gone as he’d anticipated. That it had proved challenging in unexpected ways. When he got to the part about both of his in-laws having dementia, calling for specialist residential care, and needing to clear out their home and all that memory-sifting … I blinked back tears and wondered at what St Augustine would have called another “coincidence of time and place” that connects us.
At how powerful and important it is to keep sharing our stories.
The sacred solidarity it brings.
My dad is doing OK—I just visited him today, which also happens to be St Joseph’s feast day.
Visiting Brittany last summer, I was struck by a statue in Quimper Cathedral of Joseph holding an infant Jesus in his arms. There was just something about the totally natural way he is cradling Jesus that moved me.
You can almost feel the weight of the child’s body in his father’s arms, as he instinctively and protectively draws him close to his chest.
As an adopted daughter, I find it fascinating to read or hear St Joseph described as the foster or adoptive father of Jesus; of his loyalty and love.
I wrote here about the foster father I got chatting to at a fundraiser last autumn. It would never have occurred to me that he wasn’t simply another dad watching the two young boys roar around the garden who, it transpired, he and his wife were providing respite care for.
There are as many beautiful, sacred ways to be a father as there are to be a mother.
As I shared on Instagram, a little while ago:
The “nature versus nurture” debate wages on, but I believe that what makes us family and who we are cannot be categorised in this way. What brings and bonds us together, and what it means to belong, is complex, mysterious, sacred ground.
(You can watch the full video here).
In the past week or so, I’ve thought a lot about my dad and how, over the years, he has has loved me with a loyal, fierce father’s love.
And, given it was Mother’s Day yesterday, I couldn’t resist sharing this photo of him in hospital, on the day my daughter, our eldest, was born.
(The Breton stripes indoctrination started early.)
One last thing: I just zoomed in on that photo of the statue of St Joseph and noticed something. Do you see that handwritten envelope, perched on the altar of the chapel? Looking more closely, doesn’t it appear to be addressed to “Saint Joseph?”.
Left, perhaps, with a prayer of petition or thanks. How beautiful is that?
I hadn’t noticed it before today.
Whatever you’re juggling, grieving or giving thanks for at the start of this new week, sending love and, right here with you, looking out for those “coincidences of time” and chance connection.
Hi everyone!
Regular readers and subscribers who’ve been with me for a while (and pre-Substack!) know that I'm always one to change things up a bit. I’m the girl who swapped out our Christmas wreath maybe four times last year. This might have been excessive.
So, consider this a spring clean of sorts—a shift of Substack furniture, maybe?
The newsletter stays the same, but the content will now fall into sections.
At the website, I hope this will make it easier for you to find content you’re looking for more quickly.
Going forward, too, when you get a new post (by email or in the app), it’ll be clear, at a glance, what section it falls under.
All in one place
When it comes to writing, I know the platform pros say it’s all about the niche, with good reason, but this has always been a tricky one for me. My background is as a lifestyle journalist and freelance features writer, which has covered a lot of different areas.
I started out doing movie reviews for a UK teen weekly. Film is, hands-down, my first love. It’s why, even when I was a features writer on a health and fitness title, I found a way to interview actors and actresses by asking them how they worked out for specific roles (but always went off-topic …).
I then fell into writing on health, beauty and wellbeing when a magazine needed someone to interview a hair care guru at Harrods (cue more of the same for others, with lots of interviews with actresses about their wellbeing habits. Are you seeing a theme here?).
When my children were little, I wrote a lot about motherhood and family for a range of glossies and online.
Home is a topic I love reading and writing about—not on design, but from the perspective of what it means to be home and to feel that we belong.
This is especially close to my heart, having came home to my family through the gift of adoption, as a baby. I first wrote about my story for British Vogue, years ago, and I’ve shared more here, too.
I still write about all these things.
Increasingly, I’ve written more about the intersection of family and faith, and, over the last year, I’ve covered the challenges of caring for my beloved parents and our family’s journey with my mother’s memory loss. I’ve been so touched and humbled by the response in the comments, direct messages and on Instagram (I’ve taken a break there for a while, but I’ll let you know here as and when I hop back in).
If you’ve ever told me that something I’ve written here has resonated, or shared a story of your own (I’m humbled), thank you. Thank you SO much.
But woven through all these non-niched categories is a common thread: the stories that connect us.
“Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who, by accidents of time, or place, or circumstance, are brought into closer connection with you.”
―Saint Augustine
I love this quote on connection by St Augustine.
As I start to devote more of my writing (and reading!) time here, it felt right to split posts into sections. I value your time and inbox space and only want to send you posts that are of interest to you. I love that Substack offers this kind of flexibility for writers and readers.
Here’s how I’ve split things (for now!), but I’ll tweak and add to sections as we go:
* Motherhood
* On Home
* My Adoption Story
* Faith Notes
* Life + Style
* Family
* Podcast
As ever, THANK YOU, so much for reading and being here. I hope you like the new look and format, and—a small favour!—if you like what I’m doing in this little corner of Substack, would you help me to get the word out even more and share this newsletter? Thank you so much!
If I could, I’d split a Danish with you.
Thanks for reading Jen's Place! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
Housekeeping/tech stuff:
When you subscribe to the newsletter, you’ll automatically receive all posts (as it’s always been). However, email subscribers can now tick or untick specific sections. You just need to be logged in to Substack, then go to your Account Settings, find Jen’s Place and curate your feed in Email Notifications.
I really hope that works, anyway! I 100% rely on Substack’s under-the-bonnet genius to make it all happen. (If something doesn’t, just shout! I’ll ask Will to help and he’ll tell me to stop pressing buttons. No, seriously, do let me know and I’ll get onto it.)
This week, I’m summarising a few posts I wrote on Instagram. While life has been busy over here (almost certainly with you, too?), I’ve been writing in the gaps there.
I’ve recorded them, too, to make this an audio newsletter/pod. Many friends, I know, like to have this option (so do I, and I wish more of my favourite newsletter writers would do it because I’d LOVE to hear them read them!). Also, I’m having a BIG audiobook thing right now—I especially love listening to memoir on Audible. More about that soon.
The photo above was taken a few years ago on holiday in France, when Will humoured me by setting out to find the same stretch of beach in Brittany which I visited as a child.
Please marvel at the plastic beach Pétanque set—those pastels!I remember that waffle fabric swimsuit feeling heavy when it got wet with seawater, and how the scooped back sometimes left my shoulders sore after an afternoon spent rock-pooling with my brother—despite the suncream dispensed by my mother from a sandy-nozzled tube of Ambre Solaire (I can still smell it).Decades later, clambering over the mossy rocks with my own children, I found myself yelling out “Watch your step!' and 'Not so fast! Slow down!", as I'm sure my mother did.Do you remember returning to a magical spot, maybe decades later, in the hopes that, in making a new memory, you might relive the old one again, just a little? To somehow find the past in the present, and wonder at it all?Rocks, tides and time.
Carrying each other
This month I will … continue to wonder at all the ways we that we get to carry each other, and how we take it in turns to do so.
Never more so than during those times which are hard in a way Will describes as “shifting our tectonic plates” a little, on a deep, deep level. The ones that leave us feeling aftershocks for a while.In recent months-maybe you, too?-I’ve been so grateful for the way others have carried us (including this gorgeous, now grown-up girl in the pink mac).Also? I’m rubbish at giving piggybacks, so never ask me. I’ll drop you in approximately 3.5 seconds and you’ll need a soft landing.
And finally, for Mother’s Day in the US this weekend.
My beautiful mothers.
Both have loved me bravely and fiercely, through the hardest of circumstances: the first, heartbreak and loss, the second through longing and waiting and loving me just as if I’d been born of her body.
Now, as her memory fragments, she forgets that I wasn’t. All she knows is that I am her daughter, and she is my mother.It has come to that, and that is everything. And I’ve never loved them both more, with the deepest, fiercest daughter love.
Much love for your weekend,
Jen XXX
Thanks for reading and listening to The Story So Far! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and pods.
;
This post and podcast was first published and recorded a year ago, in January 2022.
As I do some spring housekeeping on the newsletter, I’m adding it to the AoT podcast section as it pertains to the essays I’ve written on caring for elderly parents and loved ones suffering from dementia (if you or anyone you know might find these helpful, they now have their own, dedicated section here).
Thank you so much for all your kind words and for continuing to share your stories with me and us all here. It means so much.
“Happy New Year!”
(Can we still say that, so long as we’re still in January? I know, I’m pushing it.)
How are you, after a Christmas and holiday season which, again, looked different for so many? I’ve loved seeing all those posts on Instagram of postponed family gatherings, Christmas trees left up a little longer, crackers pulled and paper crowns (inevitably) slipping, long after the New Year’s corks had popped.
Late entries, of sorts. Yet all the more precious for it.
I’d love to hear how these first few weeks of the year have been for you, and if your holiday get togethers spilled into this month.
If they couldn’t happen at all—or things have been unbelievably hard—I’m so sorry.
When it matters not
When I wrote, in my last newsletter, that I just wanted to finish last year “with love”, I could never have envisaged how that would look. My mother ended up in hospital after a fall on Christmas Day, needing surgery and we couldn’t be with her (or my dad), as we all went down with Covid.
Thank you so much to those who've left lovely and kind messages, here, by email and on Instagram. She is healing well, for which we’re so grateful, it’s been super- hard and my heart goes out to all those who have experienced similar trials and continue to.
I want to share one comment on a post I wrote, the first time I made it to the hospital to visit my mum.
I’d tapped it on my phone, while waiting in a corridor.
Sunday best. As in, truly the best and only place I would want to be in this moment, visiting my dear mum in hospital for the first time since she fell on Christmas Day. Everyone here, from the healthcare assistants and nurses to the kindest lady on reception, have been wonderful. And I’ve never been happier to be wearing such a last minute, throw-it-on-and-run outfit combo - even if I slightly feel like I should be doing someone’s foil highlights.
In replying, writer Crystal Hammon made the following observation:
“You know you’re in important space when what you have on your body matters not.”
Oof.
I’ve been thinking about that ever since. Flimsy plastic apron and blue gloves aside, I was just so happy to be at bed 8, overlooking the harbour, and seeing her eyes light up (literally). I have a ridiculous selfie of us on my phone of that moment that I will treasure always.
Other links from this episode
Pilates instructor Nicole Field focuses on the mind/body connection in her work and the role of movement in recovering from trauma. Some links and loves
As much as possible, I’m embedding pics and pasting captions from social media when I mention them, so you don’t need to click onto social if you don’t want to, don’t use it or are taking a break. More about this soon, but on that note, I 100% recommend listening to this episode of A Drink With A Friend, and following the ongoing conversation between co-hosts Seth Haines (of The Examined Life) and Tsh Oxenreider(of The Commonplace).
I’ve also been enjoying the new season of Joy Clarkson's podcast Speaking With Joy—especially the launch episode, in which she makes a defence, of sorts, for being “Aggressively Happy”, the title of her upcoming book.
Coincidentally, I’m reading Joy’s sister, Sarah Clarkson’s book This beautiful truth, on the recommendation of a friend who said I’d love it. She was right.
In a similar vein to Joy’s defence of “aggressive” happiness, Kelly Corrigan’s latest pod interview with science journalist Catherine Price, about The Power of Fun, left me wanting to take singing classes.
I’ve linked here before to Florence-based tour guide Denya Pandolfi’s Instagram page, which I love for the way she captures the city, its light, colours and everyday buzz.
On Thursday this week, she posted these beautiful photos from Venice to mark Holocaust Remembrance Day.
Finally, these words, by St Gianna Beretta Molla, helped me to take a deep breath at the end of a long week of wanting to honour and care for family and it’s difficult. I’m sharing them, in case they might speak to you, too
“As to the past, let us entrust it to God’s mercy, the future to divine providence. Our task is to live holy the present moment.’
—St. Gianna Beretta Molla
Much love, and more soon.
The podcast currently has 52 episodes available.