What if?

I was ready to write about something completely different today, but a word came in and wouldn’t leave. So here we are.

After coffee and journaling this morning I found myself thinking, “How would I like to be amongst all that I have to do at this point? What would I like to feel? What energy would I love to bring to it all?”

“It all”, this week/month/year, includes (in no particular order) doing the best for my dad as he struggles with physical and mental changes that have made his life unrecognisable for him, even when he’s in clarity. It includes advocating for my teenage daughter as she tries to get support for her neurodivergence in a system that has been sold off to the highest bidder and left to crumble. It includes helping my partner hold space for potential huge life changes. It includes caring for two geriatric dogs; a crumbling house; infestations of rats, mice, ants and now wasps. At the centre of it all, it includes becoming a strong vessel for work that very much wants to come through me, and holding a vision for a personal future I believe in.

And the response came: tenderness.

Tenderness holds room for a little sadness, doesn’t it? Mostly sweet, but a little sharp too. The love so strong that it almost hurts. The edge of the fear of loss. The What Ifs. Does that feel familiar to you?

Also in there? Stillness, for sure. Gentleness. Patience. Kindness. Generosity. There’s pinches of Nurturance and Protection and also “I am here and I am open to you.” Love, love and more love.

When I think of tenderness, my first thought is of rocking my new daughter in my arms. She was 13 months old but fit into 3-6 month UK baby clothes. Now of course it makes sense that she needed constant motion, but back then as a new mother, I just knew she relaxed if I was always swaying. From a babe in arms to a four year old, still in a sling on my hip (she was tiny, okay?). Always swaying. Even now if I’m in a queue or just standing waiting, I sway from one foot to the other. I like the motion too, not least because my body remembers the tenderness. The tenderness in just looking down and seeing her there, safe in my arms. Nothing better to do than just hold her and love her. Feel the energy of my heart enfold her. The gentlest, sweetest feeling with a vague undercurrent of those what ifs. “What if I ever lost her?” and “What if I’m not good enough for her?” adding the sharp.

Another memory is of my dog, Jackson. The only dog who lived out his life with me from puppyhood to the end. He was nine weeks old when he came home and could just about stand on my hand. Rolypoly-bellied, puppy-scented, and a mummy’s boy from the start, he spent his first and a good many subsequent nights sleeping hooked over my neck, his heart against my carotid pulse. Even as an old dog he loved nothing more than being scooped up in my arms and dancing to his favourite tunes. He took his last breath on my lap, here, after 15 years. Unlike my other animal beloveds I couldn’t have him cremated. I couldn’t bear the idea of taking his body somewhere and leaving it, even (especially?) overnight. So I buried him here in the garden with the ashes of his brother and sister, a favourite toy and (always) a sock. That was  nine years ago and as I look over to where they lie…tenderness. “What if he’s lonely without me?” “What if I did it too soon?” That heart energy reaching out, even knowing it will find love but no answers. 

So to act tenderly is to be loving in a gentle, open, quiet, accepting, patient and still way. To know in your heart that nothing lasts forever but while it’s here, being completely vulnerable to whatever comes is the only way. Honestly, my default, habitual behaviour is to feel the feels and keep moving. 

I learned the other day that the H in ADHD is thought by some to apply not just to physical hyperactivity, but also mental/emotional versions and that makes perfect sense to me. 

Stillness of any kind is something I have needed, still need, to actively (ha) cultivate and enjoy. When a moment of tenderness comes up, all overflowy with love but a little tiny bit anxious, I’m immediately off and looking for a way to mend that hole so nothing need be lost.

But something will be lost. Always. Tenderness knows that the risk is worth it. The wound is worth it. It prepares but stays open and in doing so gains worlds of love.

I mentioned in passing the other day that I have three goals and I’m only going to make a call on whether or not I reached them, when I get to the end. There’s a personal goal, a sacred goal and a goal for my “village”. The personal goal is simply to have properly loved my family - partner, daughter, animal companions - some wider family, and friends, in a way that means they feel it, but also to have let myself be loved by them. To believe it. That’s tougher for me. “What if they don’t love me back?” “What if I am unlovable?”

So tenderness feels like a good fit all round. As a touchstone for how I engage with life and the people I love. As an acknowledgment that loss is just part of This Whole Life and if we can only stay open, we too can be whole. As a way to care for myself and my hopes for what comes next. To live with the What Ifs. To remember that I can be vulnerable, still, whole, and full of love. 

What if it all falls to pieces? What if it was bloody amazing anyway?