A time of gifts

In  my 2011 Christmas blog I reflected on the absence of Jen's talent in finding a thoughtful gift for me. For Christmas 2012, at a time when I was looking forward to the day less than I can ever remember, there were three gifts that stood out. One was planned long ago. In March 2009, during one of the intervals between chemo treatments, Jen came with me to Canberra for a work conference. We took the opportunity to see an exhibition of Degas art works at the NGA (with Jen in a wheelchair, due to the effects of peripheral neuropathy), and Jen insisted that I should buy a poster of one of the works as a present for myself. For this last Christmas I finally organised to frame that poster, so I can hang in up in our (my) bedroom, and thus complete the gift.

The other two gifts were unexpected presents from friends. One was a set of books and resources for learning New Testament Greek - an astoundingly well-chosen gift, as I was intending to put some time this summer into that exact area of study. The other was an intriguing book of poems inspired by music, something to transport me beyond the usual boundaries of my poetic explorations - the kind of present that Jen herself was adept at finding.

Beyond the wrapping paper, I also have a rich legacy from Jen of the 'gifts that keep on giving' - the transformations that come from being loved and sharing life together, the family we became. One of Jen's gifts that I thought I'd lost entirely was her loyalty, her fierce and magnificently one-eyed instinct to defend me if she felt I was being unappreciated or taken advantage of - what I call her 'lioness' mode. I do still sometimes imagine Jen's perspective on an event - and her anger is a reminder of the need to respect and value myself. I see that best through the eyes of someone who loves me.

Perhaps this imagined perspective is nothing more than a psychological trick, and one that could be dangerously self-justifying. But in the last year I've been humbled to realise that I have two or three friends who give me some of that same loyalty, who can be angry for me when I am still in too deep to be angry for myself. So I am reminded that some of what I have lost in Jen can be provided in friendship - differently, spread over multiple people, but still deeply valuable.

Patrick Leigh Fermour's classic memoir 'A Time of Gifts' recounts the first part of his travels across Europe on foot from Holland to Constantinople in 1933, at the age of 18. Jen and I both read it in the early 1990s. Although the title is itself a quote from a poem by Louis MacNeice, it does allude also to his memories of the kindness and generosity of complete strangers on his long journey. My experiences in the last three and a half years remind me of that book - both the daunting scale of the enterprise, but also the support of many people. Some of those are long-term friends who have stuck by me as I knew they would, others were unexpected but indispensable. I've also coming to accept that some can provide that friendship for only a section of the journey, while our paths coincide. I'm learning to be grateful for that overlap, rather than always wanting to hold on. I strive also to be a giver as well as a receiver, not to be so buried in my own grief that I do not see the struggles and disappointments and griefs of those alongside me.