Children

Today's post has been brewing a long, long time. I've scribbled thoughts on paper, fleshed them out on my phone and now am going after them with my mind open and my heart willing. (Aside , it can be a strange process sharing all this sometimes - the actual nuts and bolts of how these pieces come together changes. There's times I want to write and can't and other times I don't want to sit down and face it but my minds churning out thoughts, memories, words and more).  

Ive always loved spending time with children. The energy they have, the purity of their love, the endless intrigue, the simplicity and the unwavering loyalty. Ever since I was a young adult people told me how good I am with kids - "he'll make a great dad someday" - and to me it's something I really enjoy. I think if you show honesty, openness and love to any child their response will reflect that.  

My dreams to father children with Liane are over now.  Our children were going to be long-haired, barefoot, cheeky and wild blurs tearing around the house in a lovable tornado of song, dance and mischief. Carefree, imaginative readers. Feisty, independent thinkers with a thirst for fun, for art and for the outdoors. Grandchildren to doting grandparents. Cousins to my godchild. Friends to our friends children. Brothers and sisters to each other - protective, proud, quarrelsome, loud and happy. 

Instead I'm left behind. I've four godchildren and I love them more dearly than most things in this world. Spending time with them (and with other children) is uplifting and special. The bond I feel growing is so full and unquestioned. I wonder somewhere deep in this cosmic ballet if that was part of the plan for me? Or if the chance to parent will come back years/decades down the line?

Either way, the fact is that spending time with children brings me great heart and happiness. Life is so straightforward. They help me reset, much like a cold morning swim. Cherish them. 

I miss you completely

Over the course of the next three days I'll be throwing myself into the frisbee tournament I organise every summer. 350 players, 20 teams, 6 pitches and over 120 games played. It's fun, it's intense, it's exhausting and this year it's without Liane's support. Events like this crystallise how much she's missing and how much I miss her.

I crossed the line of a sprint triathlon a few weekends ago and collapsed in floods of tears on a friend's shoulder, her absence so total. I walked through an empty supermarket on Thursday night and cried as I shopped for one, no more dinners shared or cooked for each other. I saw David Kitt's setlist for Castlepalooza included his cover Dancing in the Moonlight and wept at my computer - a song tied to her in every way.

Everything is so raw sometimes. So many steps forward then a lurch backwards. Here's to surviving. 

Clearing

The spare room in our house became Liane's room over the years - a walk in wardrobe of sorts with a desk of makeup and clothes across most surfaces. It was a busy, warm and messy room - a microcosm of our house- and a little haven of procrastination. This week with Liane's mum and her sister I emptied the room.

I'd feared the room for so long - piles of memories, clothes I love on her, make up that won't be used again, books we'd shared, her little CD player with "mixtape" CDs I'd given her way back when... But when we got in to it and started the weight fell off my shoulders. It became an exercise in group therapy almost - laughing, crying, sorting, chatting. It helped. Like many of the obstacles I've faced, attacking it head on and with others helped enormously. It even became cathartic watching the clothes go into bags and thinking they'll help other people done the line. Before we realised it we'd cleared drawers, a wardrobe, tables, chairs and the floor (!) of everything. We'd done it. We'd faced something hard and come out the other side. 

There's many difficult parts to the process I am going through, some of them predicted - pain, sorrow, anger, helplessness - but there are also purely positive moments of strength, humour, love, growth and more. Standing amongst her clothes holding an old photograph with the warmth of two of the most important people in her life standing beside me was one such moment. We got through a really tough task together and through tears with a smile. It was an evening I won't forget for a long time. 

"She'd hate to see us all upset" is something I cling to as I bundle on forwards and it's as true an ideal as any I've got. She was always a bright and positive shoulder to lean on and that is what I want to be for those around me. Another brick in the new wall. 

A long, long month

Toughness, pain, strength, determination, loneliness, stubbornness, support, numbness.

I look back at July and wonder how I got through it. How did I weave my way through the many obstacles? Did I do the occasions justice? Was I hard on myself? What did I gain from my head-on approach to birthdays, anniversaries and other landmark moments? How will I do it all again? What would Liane think? What do her friends and family think?

From my birthday on the 7th it was clear what a difficult month lay ahead. I decided to spend that weekend with my brother and some friends in Clonmel. We'd a really positive weekend - lots of fun, some gigs, a couple of great (and bizarre) boozers and good time spent with each other talking and reminiscing. It brought home how much I enjoyed Liane's company, how easy it was between us and how comfortable we were together. There were many times I turned and felt her absence so keenly and times I went to call/text her... I wonder when that will fade or if I ever want it to fade. 

From that weekend the month just seemed to barrel through me. I went out west for our wedding anniversary and spent time in Galway before staying in the inn where we got married. It was a beautifully sad experience, part gut-wrenching, part comforting. I wandered through the town of Clifden and memories cascaded back - shops we'd been to, meals we'd shared, the excitement of the wedding planning, the late night wanders full of Guinness, the early morning strolls, all the guesthouses we tested in the months before our marriage. It's a place that will be forever in my heart. 

On her birthday a week later I went swimming with a big gang of friends and ended up having 25 people to dinner for Indian takeaway. She'd have loved it. I spent time at her grave reading to her, talking to her, listening to music with her. It's a beautiful place - serene, natural, pretty. She'd love to see it. Her 3 month anniversary came and went. How can it be so long? It feels like it was just yesterday and at the same time it feels like I've done so much without her. I miss her every day - its like a constant part of me now - the rawness of her being not here. 

People told me I could prepare for occasions. That they'd be difficult but you can line them up and see them coming. Brace yourself I was advised. I waited, I braced, I planned and I wasn't ready. I couldn't process it all - not mentally, not physically. It was all so much and all the time. I left July shattered - a numb, drained and underslept wreck. I survived it but with scars. This journey is going to be long one. 
 

Happy Birthday Pannie

To the most beautiful, kindest, warmest and special person I have ever met - I hope if there's part of you somewhere watching over me that you know how much you are missed every passing day. We celebrated birthdays in our own haphazard and funny way, it's crazy to think that that is now a thing of the past. I'll miss your handmade cards, your birthday energy and your randomly brilliant presents so much. 

You'd be happy and proud to see how clean and uncluttered the place is. I'm trying to put my own touch on the house without changing too much; all those plans we had hatched will come into fruition soon. I even bought myself a hammock for the yard, hung all the art we'd left around the floors and finished the DIY stuff you'd started for me getting home from Oz in April.

I'm meeting your dad for a swim today. I don't think he's been in the 40 Foot for a long time. We're closer than ever; you'd love it. I've a big crowd of friends coming for another swim tonight and then we're ordering in Indian in your honour. Saag Paneers and Peshwaris Naans all round... Jane organised a big get together on Saturday where we celebrated you as a family in Mary & Anthony's house. It was so nice to see the Deasy clan out in force including the latest addition - Jane & Mark have an amazing pup called Einstein. You'd love her. Your family is so kind to me. 

These occasions aren't getting any easier and there's only been three of them so far PT. The thought of Halloweens, Christmases, NYEs and so on is so, so daunting...

I've so much more to share but this is too difficult today. I love you and I always will. X
 

The tapestry of life

Sometimes my mind is capable of rare moments of clarity where everything seems to make sense in a sort of broad arcing way that ties a lot of ideas and thoughts together. It is as if life has slowed down and clicked into place in a way I don't see very often. When this happens I find relief in it, a sort of comfort and control that eases me. 

So often in the past 3 months I have looked at my purpose in life. What am I here for? What is my aim? Do I have a predestined purpose? Is there even such a thing? Is someone else or something else in charge of my fate or am I? Are we all part of a design? Is life about living then that's it? 

Perhaps more frequently I've been asking myself if the many coincidences are signs of some sort or just a simple yearning from my psyche/heart for signs of the person I miss so much. So many things have happened that feel like Liane has had a hand in them - events, meeting people, token finds, conversations, moments in nature and more. It can really feel like she's communicating with me (and others), which sounds utterly crazy. I think this is a natural feeling that some people cherish and hold on to. It's hard not to look for hope and love when all around you is chaos and fear. 

Then comes the hard and cold realisation that she's gone. It is a fact that I need to face, both with others and on my own. I've come home to our house a few times this week and had an uplifting feeling of her being here only to walk up the stairs or open a door and be alone. I spent a really special day with her family on Saturday and felt her there but not there. So often the phrase "Liane would love this" was said...

I'm not sure what life is about or why we are here but what I am sure of is of how rich a tapestry life weaves around us. So much of what happens to us all is linked. So much of the coincidence, the joy, the pain and the daily struggle is shared. In the hard times and the unhappy times this gives me some measure of comfort - to know that others have survived what I'm going through and that others can gain from what I am sharing and learning. Somebody recently told me that after the all-enveloping pain come small shards of light - little signs of hope. Maybe this shared existence is beginning to send some of those shards my way.

Finding Words

I'm sitting here at the kitchen table in my house trying to gear myself up for a 1500m open sea swimming race at lunch time. I'm a bit tired, feeling flat and a little guilty about not having written here recently. I've so much to say and yet right now my thoughts are short on clarity and passion, a jumbled mess of half ideas and unclear expressions.

For a change I'm fighting to find the words I need to express myself. Maybe it's the fact I was out drinking yesterday or haven't slept too well. Maybe the emotional toll of this month is too much - the incessant hits of birthdays, anniversaries and milestones. Maybe I need to step away from the laptop and do something else... But that would be giving in. Part of the idea behind this website was to share my emotions to show what I'm going through - a window into grief and it's baggage. To not post seems to me like an easy way out. And yet, pressurising myself doesn't do me any good. Self-awareness; a double-edged sword. 

I'm going to take today in simple blocks. I think the clutter in my mind is a mental reflection of the clutter in my house and the lack of routine in my days - a sense of drifting pervading my thought process. I can simplify things and clear my brain. Food. Swim. Start work on one room in the house. Then to Dunkirk. Clarity through simplicity and singularity. Easy, right? We'll see. 

Moving home

Since I came home from Australia on Friday April 21st I've lived in my parent's house in Glenageary, not far from myself and Liane's place in Glasthule. They've been incredible in so many ways. They've both been understanding, loving, thoughtful and positive. Whenever I've come home and collapsed they've picked me up. When I've needed space they've stepped back. They helped me through the toughest part of all at the start and shared tears with me throughout. I can't think of how I'd possibly have made it this far without them.

Since Tuesday night I've been living back in my house where myself and Liane had built a warm and cosy home. It's been tough. She permeates every room and most of our belongings in the house. Before I came home she'd made a point of rearranging the place, hanging some long forgotten artwork and even replacing the broken kettle (subject of an ongoing and impressive standoff between us). The house looked like she'd just popped out for a while - her bags where they usually sit and her jackets hanging under the stairs...

So much of who we are and what we made is all around me here. And with it comes comfort and a sense of grounding. I don't know if I'll always feel this way but for now home is very much where my heart is. I feel like being here and I think rebuilding here will be good for me. I plan on changing things - in fact we had summer plans together to paint the front of the house, replace the front door, change the bathroom, revamp the yard, get new furniture - and I feel like following through on those plans will help me and be a nod towards Liane; a sort of completion of plans for the two of us.

There are so many steps on this journey, but the smaller I make them the easier it gets. One day at a time, one meal here at a time, one room at a time and soon home will be somewhere different, but hopefully as warm and as welcoming. Time will tell. 

Never-ending Paperwork

Our house is not a house where you can immediately put your hands on any given bill, document or certificate. There are a number of places these pieces of paper might be - the filing boxes, the magical coffee table, the make-up desk, the catch all kitchen table - but there is no guarantee that they will reside where they should. Looking for something requires a certain amount of patience and a large pinch of good luck. Since Liane has died I've been expected to know where everything from birth certs to car ownership manuals live. Each search makes me smile and sad in equal measure.

What I've found much more tough about the whole administrative and numbingly practical side of her death is the amount of paperwork needed. First up was the funeral planning, then the burial, then closing bank accounts, then cancelling insurances, then shutting down her phone, then selling the car and now dealing with the Revenue. Each step has presented another set of choices/demands to be made by a person deep in grieving, with a vague focus and an unsteady hand; me.

Despite offers of support from every friend and family member I feel these things need to be tackled head on for two reasons - 1) I'm her husband. I think it is part of that role for me to be doing this. That sounds odd when I write it down but there's a stubborn loyalty and possessiveness about me doing it. 2) It will make me stronger.

When all dust settles I will need to be able to function alone - to do my shopping, to clean my house, to go to work, to live a life like the people around me. The more I face that now, the more I get closer to being able to live that life. And while it is not a life I wanted it is the life I have got and I'm going to make a damn good go of it, albeit swamped in paper with the same filing systems that failed me as a teenager/young adult. 

From favourite month to one of fear...

From early on in our relationship July was always a favourite month. Being slap bang in the middle of the summer (i.e. my school holidays) we usually went away at this time of year. Add to that the fact that the 7th (today) is my birthday and that the 26th is Liane's birthday it was always a month we looked forward to, enjoyed and celebrated. We chose the 17th of July as our wedding date because it was a third reason to celebrate us and sat in the middle of the two birthdays. And this year we'd booked a week long yoga retreat on the Adriatic Coast (via Ashtanga Yoga Dublin - Paula and David are incredible people and excellent teachers) which was ending today before a trip around the Italian coast. Dreams eh...

So many people have spoken to me in person/online/via messages about the occasions being the toughest part of this new journey I am on. Birthdays, anniversaries, events and so on. It's strange - you take partners for granted on those days - rushing to be on time, fussing over gifts,  worried about booking the right restaurant etc. - what I'd do just to hold her hand today. To be given one of her handmade cards. To laugh at another quirky and thoughtful gift. To argue over a trivial detail. 

(I'm sitting on my parents' couch eyes full and throat tight, trying to articulate a maelstrom of thoughts for this post and in runs my ecstatic three year old niece - "Mark, look I got a jelly! I did a wee in my potty!" - kids are amazing and have helped me more than I can express. That's another day's post).

I've a simple approach to these events - launch myself at them with positivity and surrounded by friends and family. The phrase "it's what she would've wanted" gets said with ease but it remains a staple of my current mood. "What would Liane actually want me to do here?" - I can tell you what she wouldn't want - moping, self-pity, withdrawal, hiding, dishonesty, fear. She'd want me to be strong, to believe in myself and to reach out and lean on others. And that, that is exactly what I intend to do.

I'll celebrate my birthday with my twin brother and some friends in Clonmel this weekend at a festival she'd have loved. I'll celebrate our wedding anniversary in Clifden, where we were married, amongst the wild charms of Connemara. I'll visit her grave, I'll swim, I'll eat Indian and I'll meet our friends/family on her birthday. Each day will be difficult in different ways. Each day I'll face knowing others are with me. Each day I'll miss her with all my heart. And each day I'll persevere. What else is there to do? 

Born in Dublin, Alive in Galway

As all of her friends and family know Liane adored the city of Galway. A bustling, open, friendly city full of character and heart, nestled on the blue sea and surrounded by some of the prettiest scenery in the country; it fit her like a warm glove. The laid back pace, the warm pubs, the wild water, the gentle people, the walks, the fireside conversations, soft days, those first clinches on hill tops and piers... 

We met at a fancy dress party in Galway in December of 2007 and by Easter of the following year we were both pretty smitten. Late nights dancing in the Áras, bike rides on our matching orange bikes, home cooked dinners with friends, aimless wanders through parks, shared meals in Kashmir, gigs in the Roisín, hours in bookshops, too much tea and long mornings and nights cocooned away from the world. 

We've visited Galway often since we moved home to Dublin. Most recently spending weekends with Aran & Kate in their beautiful home, inspired by what they'd built together. Whenever we went to visit we'd get off the bus and Liane's whole demeanour would change. You could see the weight visibly leave her shoulders - work left behind, Dublin's rabid pace of life left behind, fresh western air filling her lungs, not a care in the wide world. She practically floated down Shop Street, that beam of a smile spread wide across her pretty face. 

I walked down the same street yesterday in tears. Being there without her warm arm (and cold, purple hands!) linked through mine felt strange, foreign, wrong. I felt her with me and yet nowhere to be seen. My throat constricted, my breath quickened and my palms sweated. I tried changing my mood with music, with distraction but resigned myself to letting it out. I sat and stared out to the sea near the Claddagh and bawled.

One thing for it - head to Blackrock and jump off the top ropes into the sea. The ocean will know me and help me. The sea will wash away my pain, at least giving me a momentary respite. The long walk was longer than usual, Xavier Rudd on my earphones and my mind scrolling through a  vast catalogue of Liane memories - football in the park with Jonathan, night time wanders on the shore, learning how to hold each other, meeting her friends, sharing my friends... By the time I got there I'd been walking for 40 mins and was sweaty, tearful but excited. The swim was perfect as was the company - a group of weather beaten, world wise Galway men chatting me back to full strength. 

I don't think I've ever met anyone so linked to a place without having been reared there. It was like Liane was purpose built for a life in Galway. We often spoke about returning there, inspired by the life/home/family we saw friends building on the west coast. I always thought we'd take the plunge some day, maybe jump into photography and take a career break if we'd a young family. While that won't happen I'll still have part of me rooted in Galway and with it will remain her sweet, gentle Galwegian soul, lying back on the soft grass after a bracing dip with full hearts and unforgettable smiles. 

Finding your tribe

I’m writing this piece on a train carriage. There’s a topless man drinking a can of Devil’s Bit cider sitting in the next row of seats. The smell of cigarettes from him is as powerful as it is disgusting.

I started a new book on this journey, one I picked up on a thought-filled, aimless wander around Blackrock shopping centre. My mind was worlds away, unsure where I was or what I was feeling but my feet took me a shop Liane loved – Dubrays Bookshop.

The book sat in front of me as soon as I walked in the door, on a small stand, winking up at me with it’s sea blue cover. It is called “I found my tribe” and tells the story of how the author, a mother of five children, has found saviour from the cards life has dealt her in the cold embrace of the sea. Ruth Fitzmaurice's husband, her best friend and the father of her children has Motor Neuron Disease and can now only communicate with his eyes.

So much of what she has spoken about in the first five or six chapters resonates with me. I leave the sea, like her, a different person to when I go in. I have friends, like her, who accompany me on my daily dips. I am jaded, like her, of being brave and of being strong. I put my armour on, like her, when I go to meet groups of people.

I'll write again about the book when I finish it, which I expect to be quite soon, but for now urge you to buy it, read it and live through the lens of an articulate, funny, heartbroken and exceptionally strong woman.

When inspiration is needed it will be to her writing that I will turn.

Hurdle after hurdle

Right now it seems each day of each week has a new curveball to send my direction. Since arriving home from France I've faced so much in such a short while. My parents were away so I had space and time to myself but coupled with them, loneliness. I decided to face a few of the difficult tasks on the seemingly endless list of administrative work. 

• I sold Liane's car
• I sold our TV
• I gave away our towels and bed linen
• I backed up and erased her phone
• I closed her bank accounts
• I spent time in our house
• I visited a grief counsellor

All of this has had different results. I've been exhausted and busy. I've been able to talk through it all with friends and family. I've felt pressure and stress but haven't buckled. I've opened up to the pure grief and let the tears and anguish flow. I've had a blow out night out. I've swam in the sea more than ever before - currently averaging two separate sessions a day. I've helped others. I've bought books and set out new resolutions. I've started thinking about the house and what I need to do to it. I'm continuing to walk forward, step by step. 

I always realised this process would be incredibly difficult but that recognition and acceptance isn't giving me quite as much solace as I hoped it would. On friends and family I continue to lean.

An inspiration

My granny Maura is a smart, strong, creative and proud woman. She's my dad's mother and is 96 years old. Maura and Liane got on very well - they loved & respected each other and had grown closer as Maura got to know Liane better over the years. More recently, since a stroke affected Maura's speech, Liane's professional experience and bedside manner dovetailed with their love and further helped their relationship. 

As a grandchild I (much like my brother and sister) can do no wrong in Maura's eyes. She's supported me in everything I've done and has advised and encouraged me along the way - even if I don't visit her as much as I should. Last week I went to her for the first time since Liane's death. I knew it would be a difficult and an emotional visit but maybe wasn't prepared for the pain of it. Just seeing her made me burst into tears. We spoke about losing loved ones - she's outlived her husband, siblings, parents and all her closest friends. She says she still talks to her sisters and her religious beliefs help her. She held my hand and soothed me through many tears. Her life now is so tough - she's in constant pain, unable to paint/create and has lost all independence. And yet there she sat, comforting me and promising me she's try to stay positive and strong, to make the most of her lot, all the while wearing a yellow bracelet. People speak of inspiration...

Coming home...

About two days before I left what had been a busy and positive week in Royan my subconscious started to turn it's focus towards home. I began to feel nauseous and deeply sad. I tried to hide it. I needed to be in the moment with friends, with other players at the tournament and with people I was getting to know. I buried it. Like all emotions it found it's way out and now I understand what it was already aware of.

Coming home to Liane is a long since established part of my life. I often travelled without her - for work, with frisbee, for friends - and I always loved coming home to her. That first hug, the gentle kiss, the rush of experiences to share. She laughed at how I told her every detail in a chronological order. I laughed as her mind leapt from one story to another with a gleeful abandon. We enjoyed being together again, having missed the intimacy, the sharing, the warmth and the touch of each other. That's all gone now and I don't know when passing through Dublin airport will get any easier. I don't know when disembarking the Aircoach by the church will feel normal without her there. I don't know how I'll walk in our door...

Of all the adjustments to my life this is one I'll struggle with repeatedly. Hopefully practice will blunt the edge of these feelings for now I'll cherish the memories. They're all I've got. 

Swimming in a fish bowl

Everything I am going through somebody else has been through before me and another person will go through again. All the hurt, the anger, the injustice and the lack of understanding. All of it is part of life, part of the Human Condition.  So, how can I use my experience to help other people? What can help me? Where do I turn? 

I met lots of people last week when I was away and spoke in depth about my loss, our loss. Two conversations stuck with me because they were so tough and have remained with me.

The first was with a person I'd never met before. He's now in his early 40s and his sister died, aged 14, about 2 decades ago. She had epilepsy and died from suffocating on her bed sheets with her parents asleep next door. He'd spoken to her hours earlier just before she went to sleep. We cried together last Saturday - me and a stranger holding one another as we wept on each other's shoulder. He told me it had been a long time since he'd spoken about it and let it out. He thanked me and he listened to Liane's story. We sat together in comfort and in shared loss. I'll be posting yellow bands to his parents in the US and looking him up the next time I travel west. 

The second was with someone I've known for years and played against for longer still. His partner has uncontrolled nocturnal epilepsy - the very same condition than took Liane from us. I never knew. He told me through restrained tears and I didn't know what to say. I hugged him and felt sick. I was stumped - what could I say? I wanted to tell him everything will be okay. That for every one person who dies there are hundreds and thousands who don't. That life isn't cruel to all of us. That where there is belief there is strength. But I stopped. How can I promise any of this?

In fact, the second conversation left me thinking to myself later that night - could I have done more? Maybe we lived a life that was too much for Liane? Maybe there was something we could have changed? Or, maybe we lived the life she wanted to live as a proud and independent person? I know this to be true in my heart. I know she was happy, adored and enjoyed her life but every now and then the little dark part of my mind gets it's claws in and sows doubt. The Human Condition...

Yellow Wristbands

Just before I left for France on June 16th I got 500 yellow wristbands made (big thanks to Camden Clothing for the fast turn around and their kindness) to give out to other people. On each band are the words: "Be strong & be yourself #LianeUp".

The idea is simple - to promote the personal values/strength that Liane's love and kindness helped to build in me. She gave me confidence, self belief and inner strength. She taught me to be self aware and to back myself in situations I wasn't ready for.  Liane's belief in me got me through tough times. I'd like people to wear the band, to pin it up to their wall, to give it to someone else or to put it away somewhere safe but to always remember that you have inner strength and your belief in yourself has got you so very far already. 

I hope this little token will help someone, somewhere just like Liane helped me. 

Home is where the heart is...

I was at home for 3 full days this week and it simply wasn't enough. Between catching up with family and friends, planning for a 10 day trip to France (during which I'll co-captain a team for a week long tournament) and tying up some loose ends a work, I feel like I didn't have a minute to myself. I haven't reflected. I haven't been to my house, to our house. I didn't see my grandmother. I turned down more invitations than I accepted. I felt a pressure to be around people, to give myself to people and to conduct myself in a certain way. It's a strange bedfellow of a feeling.

Leading up to my flight home from Amsterdam last Monday my mind was busy with confusion. Was I returning to pain? Should I feel guilty about my time away? Was I needed by people at home? Was I missed? Was I being disrespectful by travelling so much or so soon? Had I been thinking of Liane enough? 

As soon as I got home it was clear that Dublin is special to me and there's nowhere else I'd rather live and/or be. The sea, the people, the house, the memories, the pain, the happiness. Everything is here and as much as it pains me so does it nourish me.  I'm looking forward to spending time here, at home, where I belong over the coming months. I need it to ground me and to centre me. 

Liane in a word

Below are some of the words that friends and family came up to describe Liane. I find reading them comforting and it makes me smile. She gave so much for one person and continues to inspire me on a daily basis. If I can be a third of what she was I'll be a special person. 

The Power of Music

I love music. I was brought up surrounded by it - the Beatles, Pink Floyd, U2, Tina Turner, Queen - always something playing and keeping my mum/dad singing. I love the way it can manipulate you, bring you somewhere else and connect with you. I love the power of the memories associated with lyrics and notes put together by people from another time and place that I'll never meet. It transcends so much. Right now it is one of the most difficult things for me to face. I need it on a daily basis - it's part of who I am - and yet it's terrifying. A few words, a few bars and I'm in bits. Am I meant to get though this? Am I meant to put songs away and not listen to them again? Songs that made me grin from ear to ear fold me in half. 

Just this morning I drifted on to a playlist, half aware of what I was at. I needed something familiar and warm. I was working at something else. Next thing I'm transported to chasing Liane home from the cinema having been blown away by La La Land. We'd City of Stars playing on my phone, trying to sing along to a song we were hearing for the second time, feeling like two love drunk teenagers out later than we should be on a school night. It feels like yesterday. She'd beam at the memory. I could just text her. Send on the song link... 

(I've added some more videos to the music section of the site with a note about what I'm feeling about those songs, among many others at the moment).