Handstitched Psychopomp

Healing one writing prompt at a time

Another week of reflection. Is everyone like this?

In a recent writing exercise in the Creative Living membership I’m a part of, we were asked to notice something in our room and write a story about it that only we could write. I honestly love these writing exercises, a playful entry point to self discovery, often uncovering treasure a traditional journaling prompt couldn’t reach.

My eyes were drawn to a stuffed angel on my shelf. My Grandma made this angel for my Mum when she was in hospital with cancer. The angel watched over her as she passed from this world to the Aether.

Like a handstitched, slightly wonky psychopomp.

Psychopomp

(ˈsaɪkəʊˌpɒmp) noun

a mythical figure who guides souls to the place of the dead

(Collins Dictionary)

Psyche Giving Her Coin to Charon - Henry Tresham

I’m fairly sure it’s head is upside down, having stitched a few similar figures myself over the years, perhaps this is where it’s power lies.

I’m drawn to wonder what was spoken as my Mum moved between the worlds. What secrets the angel holds. I wonder what words my Grandma whispered as she stitched and wove it together for her only daughter and best friend. What magic holds the fabric, wire and wool together in form. The intention, the prayers, the love and longing that now sits on my shelf.

My mum would have been 70 this year. We’d have maybe had a party, I don’t know if she liked parties. There are photos of her dancing and laughing at parties so maybe, but there’s also photos of her at gatherings looking quite serious, deep in thought, with self-control. I’m not sure you can know a person through photos alone.

I read a piece in the membership from another writer today, about her grief being born 13 years ago when her father passed away. Personifying the grief as a teenager now, prone to angry outbursts and slamming doors. In the same vein, my grief is 39.

At 39 it must be due a midlife crisis soon. Maybe it will dye its hair or get a sports car. Maybe it will begin the work like many of us do in midlife, to remove the layers of “not us” and armour that have gathered on our surface, returning to who we were at the beginning. Maybe it will accept itself for what it is, was and always will be. Realising its importance and life changing power.

I feel it as a heavy Eeyore sitting inside me, ever present. The sadness of a child and I send it love.