3 tcf.org.uk Hello everyone! When we think about where we are today, we might find this description strikes a chord: we could be wintering. Author Katherine May describes it as ‘those moments when life turns cold through crisis or loss, and we find ourselves living at a different, slower pace to everyone else. As winter is a time of retreat and hibernation for much of the natural world, wintering is the process by which our bodies and souls seek rest and recuperation when the clouds descend and light fades’. I have paraphrased some of what she says as it feels fitting for this season: ‘Wintering is a time of withdrawing from the world, maximizing scant resources, carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight; but that’s where the transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but its crucible. It’s a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order. Doing these deeply unfashionable things — slowing down, letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting — is a radical act now, but it’s essential’. I think this is particularly appropriate once the clocks go back and we have shorter days, greyer weather, and another Christmas and New Year, to be faced without our children. However you choose to spend your Christmas and New Year, remember that it is important to do whatever feels right for you and your family. It’s OK to do things differently – and to ask for help. Aside from that, how can we push ourselves out of wintering when the time is right? It is central for each of us to reaffirm a sense of identity when we feel that our grief has driven us into this hibernating state. I read what may be an apocryphal tale, that goes like this: “There was a story in an Old National Geographic magazine about a photojournalist who was returning, after many years absence, to Papa New Guinea where she’d grown up. She had taken pictures of a remote area of jungle. When she’d lived there as a child, her parents had worked among a nomadic tribal group who moved between different homelands depending on the season. She recalled the language of her youth, a language she had learned from her friends. There was no word for ‘hello’ in this local language in Papua New Guinea. Instead, upon seeing someone, one simply said, ‘You are here’. The answer was equally straightforward. ‘Yes, I am’.” Whether or not this is true, it has a beautiful simplicity that we can hold close. We are here, despite our loss. We are still parents, whether we have living children, or not. We are present in the moment, whether it holds joy or sorrow. It is challenging to motivate ourselves in these darker days but carrying the baton for those who are no longer here is an achievement to aim for, in whatever ways we can manage. Often when we look back at the early stages of loss, particularly if we have kept journals and diaries that express our anguish, we can see how far we have come – changed, forever altered, but still living this new life. In this issue we honour our friend Gina Claye, who gave so much to TCF and indeed, this magazine. The tributes are just a tiny reflection of the love and esteem in which Gina was held by so many. We all send our love to her daughter Rachael, and we hope that she is comforted in some small measure by the heartfelt messages she reads about her very special mum. Go gently, Andrea Letter from the Editor
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