And Julia?

Photos taken by friends

3 October 2024

Yesterday I caught up with a friend-former colleague, John C. We go back somewhere between 15-20 years and have both professional and sports-leisure interests in common – so there is always plenty to talk about. His sporting endeavours have always been about five notches (on a scale of 1-6) above mine, but let’s put that down to him being at least a year younger than me!

He is also married to a widow, has been for ten years, adopted her children, and continues to raise them alongside his biological kids. So he knows something of Grief – that of his wife, of course, his adopted boys’, as well as his own, resulting from the bigger and smaller losses in his life. He is also one of my more spiritually evolved friends – nothing overly woo-woo – just at ease talking about Love and Energy and Souls and Spirit and Connection – you know, basic Web of Life stuff. I love our conversations and miss his company.

Towards the end of the “purposeful” bit of our conversation, and knowing we both had a bit more time, our conversation shifted from the “professional” to the “personal”. He said,

“So Emma, before we finish, tell me, how is the family, how is your relationship, how are the kids?”

I spoke about Medjool – how similarly grief-literate he is to John.

I spoke about Ben, where he’s at, what he’s up to.

I spoke about Megan, where she’s at, what she’s up to.

And then, as always, I catch my breath because of wanting to also talk about Julia, say where she’s at, say what she’s up to.

With some friends, I really do this. I say, “And because I always want to include Julia, well, Julia, she’s still dead, and I hope she’s okay with everything. I hope she’s hanging out with Mike and Ed”.

But yesterday, before I’d fully caught my breath, John eased in, as naturally as can be.

“And Julia?”

The wash of soothing, ease, relief, relaxation that seeped over me and through me was immense.

Someone who dared, who dares, ask after Julia. Who fundamentally believes that she’s around, somehow. That she’s in my life, in my heart, even if not in the way I would want.

It was such a rich gift of honouring and recognition – of her, of me carrying her absence, still and always.

Thank you, John, for seeing her, including her, and witnessing me.

John helping me out of the water as we completed a “there-and-back” swim across Lake Annecy
27 June 2009