Dear Jim,
It has been a year since you passed.
He misses you.
You have been with him this year, though not in your body. You've been a central part of his healing this year (with a little help from your jumper!). I wanted to write to you Jim, to say that it's nearly Christmas time again, and in the quiet of the long, dark nights of December, your presence and your life are as important as when your body breathed.
I want to thank you, and to tell you about this year.
We said goodbye to Jenny at the end of December last year, driving carefully down your ice-laden road, her small figure receding in size, becoming even smaller in the rearview mirror. We turned the corner, and then she was gone. She was vulnerable - she'd just lost her husband - but while I was concerned for her, sure she needed comfort and support, I also had a quiet certainty inside me that she would honour you in everything that she did, and that in many ways she might continue to grow as a woman, a wife and a mother.
One year on, and I'm sure Jenny is feeling your loss as potently as your son and daughter. There's something really innocent about her, Jim, which makes it effortless to fall in love with her. I know you know what I'm talking about! Your love for Jenny was palpable, even to me who didn't know you that well. And yet, there is more. Since you passed, Jenny has taken leaps of faith that I know in my heart you are so proud of. She's tended to the garden, on her knees for hours on end, looking up in surprise to find that the sky has grown dark and the evening has drawn in. She's sold the car, but not after taking a huge risk and having the courage to consider driving again. What is perhaps more courageous is that she decided, for herself, that she didn't want to get back on the roads, despite what anybody might have said.
She went on holiday. She continued to be a central part of her church's community, and of the Age Concern shop. She put her foot down about storing other people's stuff in the loft. She let go of your clothes. She spoke on 'that Skype' with Ivy and Bob. And, one of my favourite memories of the year: she spent 8 hours on a coach from Darwen to Brighton, where I picked her up, and together we went to see your son play 'The Bedlam' in Henfield's summer production, "The Roses of Eyam". As I sat next to her, both of us moved to tears (and Nige too!), I once again felt your presence with us.
And, of course, she went to Arran. She carried you on her back, and 'oo 'eck, were you heavy! There, on land you and she were so in love with, she scattered your ashes, letting you go in body that you might be free in spirit.
No doubt about it Jim - your wife is one heck of a lady.
I haven't lived the past year in the ongoing presence of Jenny, and yet the moments that I have spent with her have been beautiful, tender, heartfelt, open moments. As Christmas approaches, I promise you this - that I will watch out for her, that I will see her innocence, that I will love her while she grieves and misses you and honours the birth of Christ.
Now, about your son.
Jim, can words begin to describe the depth of love, appreciation and intimacy I feel towards this man, your son? Sometimes when I'm with him, I just look, I just stop and look and take in the miracle that is this beautiful, strong, creative, soft, vulnerable, gentle, worthy man. As I look, I feel such gratitude that I am the one invited to walk alongside him, just as you walked alongside Jenny. He is amazing.
Let me tell you about your son, and a little bit about his year. Right now, as I write, he is playing Christmas music to an audience of Christmas trees. I am not kidding! 52 weeks ago to this day, I received a call from him at about 11.00am to tell me that you'd gone. In that moment, the world changed. It was time to ride our bikes. We rode for you, we stopped and prayed and spoke up to the sky, both crying, both pushing pedals knowing inside our beings that but for you, neither of us would have been there. Nige tells me that one day, he wants to build his own bike - just like his dad used to do - and that he will call it Spirit of Jim. I know that he will do it.
Like your wife, your son has taken thousands of risks this year, each decision bringing him a step closer, a layer closer, to remembering the Truth about himself. One of the areas that I am most proud of him - and one that I'm sure you are too - is that he's stepped right into the fire of believing that he'll never measure up to you or be as handy as you, and in spite of seemingly solid evidence, he has begun to embody the bike mechanic within him.
Yes, it took bloody hours (and there was quite literally blood at some points!) but he got those bastard Schwalb Marathon tyres on. He's fixed punctures, changed tyres, fiddled around with rear mechs, and tweaked gears. He's been on the verge of tears in his room - just him, some tools, and his bike - and he's called out to you for some help. And you were there.
I suspect that underneath the old, worn out belief that he hasn't done as good a job as you would have done, there is a little boy who wants more than anything to run up to his dad, greasy long-nosed pliers in hand, and say, "Dad! Dad! Look! I did it!" It's no substitute, but I give what I can, which is to cheer him on and remind him what an incredible person he is, reflecting back to him how strong the Spirit of Jim is that lives and shines inside of him. And somewhere inside of him is your voice, and your hand is on his shoulder, and he knows that you are proud.
I can't talk about this year without mentioning The Parts. Now, I know you weren't much of a theatre-going man, but believe me when I say that these two plays were worth watching. Nige spent six months preparing to play The Bedlam, and that journey was an intricate, intimate part of his grieving process. His performance was the culmination of every minute and every hour that he spent in preparation. That people were astonished, that people didn't recognize him, that an old man in the graveyard sped away in fright, are all testament to the integrity of his preparation. People are still talking about The Bedlam, even though he is long gone. I know you know this already, Jim, but The Bedlam was a tribute from Nige to you. It was a very personal journey that he went on, which I had an unusually intimate window into, but a window nonetheless.
Guardsman Bowe was another kettle of fish altogether, although in his own way, he too was vulnerable and alone. Playing Bowe opened Nige - and myself, interestingly - to an expanded awareness of the horrors of war. He learned much about World War I, about the men who had to leave their families, their homes and their lives, who died in battle or who returned broken men. Nige's depiction of the shellshocked guard in the second act of 'My Boy Jack' was unnerving, heart-wrenching and even a bit frightening. Moved to tears during both of the performances I watched, I was aware of the sound of other people crying, and especially of one sound that tells you the audience are raptly engaged and present - complete and absolute silence. You honestly could have heard a pin drop in the auditorium.
I was so moved by Nige's performance not only because of his life-filled characterization, but also because I knew once again just how much of himself he'd put into it, how much it meant to him to be alive on the stage. I cannot articulate it but somehow, I know that you were as intricately involved in the part of Bowe as you were Bedlam.
What's marvellously exciting is that in 2011, Nige and I will be acting alongside each other for the first time ever, playing Rooster and Lily in 'Annie!' Nige has already said that he'll be doing this for Jenny, and she's already said she'll come to see it! As I'm writing this, the Great Britain comes to mind. Nige has, of course, told me about this many times - what happened, what you said afterwards, how he felt. I just wonder whether there is more for him to hear from you about what it meant to you to see your son on stage? I wonder how it is for you to witness him shining so brightly in the theatre company, and whether he can accept the truth, for back then, for now, for what's to come?
There's not much more for me to say, Jim, other than to point out a couple of other highlights of the year. Our holiday in Somerset was beautiful; the day that Jenny was carrying your ashes to be scattered in Arran, we were in the woods, honouring your memory; Nige's experiment, "104 Days Between the Bed and the Door" is still in progress, and has touched me deeply, has taken root in his life in an extremely tangible, deep way, and has been the foundation out of which the most beautiful blog has arisen. The pieces of work he has done over the course of the year have been staggering - from changing his mind about what it would mean to 'lose' your sweater, to gently reintegrating Frank Sinatra music back into his life, to doing clearing after clearing.
Witnessing him, I have fallen ever deeper in love with this beautiful man who lives his life committed to remembering the Truth and taking responsibility for his thoughts. I've never met anyone quite like Nigel Atkinson, and I know I never will again. He is a constant inspiration, a source of pure joy in my life, a beautiful friend and absolutely Beloved to me.
And Jim, he is who he is because he came from you. I'll always be grateful to you for that. The love you showed him as a boy and as a man helped pave the way for the leader that Nige has become. At Christmas time, we are going to ride Salter Fell in honour of you. We'll eat sandwiches and holler into the wind and end the day exhausted but exhilarated, proud and hungry and content. All I ask is that you have a word with the weather and give us a nice day to ride on!
Love you always,
Elloa xxx
