3 tcf.org.uk Hello TCF Friends I wonder what this year, a quarter way through the century, will bring for us all? I may be overly optimistic, but my hope is that 2025 will be a less turbulent year for the world, with more gentle acts, kindness and love sprinkled around! The image of the parent and child that I am including on this page is, to me, evocative of love. I have photographed the sculpture several times where it lives in the garden of Mill House, Westleigh, Devon – a retreat house that is in the process of being sold and will soon be reverting to a domestic dwelling. Mill House has offered many people, me included, significant peaceful, nurturing times and I really enjoyed hosting occasional creative writing days there. What strikes me about the statue is the tender closeness; heads touching together, arms encircling and enfolding – what can be better than a close hug with someone you love? I feel that the sculptor must have a great understanding of love. I like the softness of the moss against the hard stone and the fact that it has been allowed to grow unchecked. Sometimes, when grief threatens to overwhelm, it can help to focus on an image or a piece of writing that resonates. Perhaps you may wish to study the image and imagine you are having a conversation with the child. What are you saying to him or her? What is his or her reply? How are you feeling now, in this moment, in this place? Can you take comfort from remembering your special hugs and cuddles with your child? Rain your kisses down upon that precious head! Alternatively, you may enjoy reading this contemplative piece of prose which I find particularly useful. If you are on your own, you can try reading it out loud. ‘Sometimes, sitting down is the most important thing we can do. Sitting down is a very sensible thing to do when you find yourself in a strange place. It is even more essential when life is in turmoil. Sitting still is vital because we need a point to start from. If we are going to get anywhere, we need to start from somewhere. Physically sitting down and being still is the most practical way of becoming present to who and where we are. From this place will emerge the discernment of how and in what ways we may respond to what is going on. But first we must just stop. At such times tears will often flow. They may be part of our arriving, expressing what the journey has demanded of us, or perhaps a grieving over what has been left behind. But here we are. And although, this may be the last place on earth that we want to be, the first thing asked of us is an acceptance of the present’. Taken from David Runcorn’s book ‘The Language of Tears’, the piece makes me think that being in the present and coping with each moment as it happens is a gift, the value of which cannot be underestimated. Our children have gone, but we are still here to live on for them in the best ways that we are able. Letter from the Editor Andrea Corrie
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