Embers
Tadpoles, too-hot water and friendship
Today, I settle in to the cabin a little more.
I overcooked the hot tub overnight, meaning I stoked the fire so well, the temperature was close to 50 degrees. I wait a couple of hours before it is safely cooled enough not to scald my skin.
I stretch, sort breakfast, walked the dog, edit a Substack piece and potter with coffee all before Amanda arrives at 10 AM.
She is halfway across the field as I go to greet her. Wu runs at her, full tilt. They’ve known each other since Willa was a little floppy pup and their reunions are always joyful. Amanda cries out “Wuuuuuuuuuuu!!!!!!!” and the dog nearly wags herself in half, wriggling and excited.
My friend looks tired and reduced.
She’s smiling, but the toll of the last three weeks, plus 6 years of working with illness and uncertainty is very present. Her husband died 10 days ago. It’s been a blur. She is doing what needs to be done. Later, it transpires she’s wearing Anthony’s jeans and sweatshirt. I get it enough to not judge it... and she does look great in them.
Right now, I am simply glad to have eyes on her.
I don’t ask too much to begin with. Not too much “how are you?”. No head tilting infantilisation, no platitudes. Just practicalities and space. What has to be said will be said today. We have time and I’m thankful for that. I make coffee. Willa settles herself beside Amanda - protective, perhaps - both sit on the bed and I’m struck for a few seconds at how lucky I am to have this dog and this woman in my life.
The conversation all day flits between Anthony as was - his former glorious self - the cancer, timelines, funeral arrangements, Sadmin, what to do with stuff, family politics. Intercut with my updates, work chat, future plans, God, religion, spirit, ways that we have grown, stuff still in development. It runs the full gamut – laughter, tears, fury, gossip, thoughtfulness…. I value our ease.
I don’t seek to contain or rein her in. I simply sit with what comes. This I can do…bear witness, offer space. What sounds so very naff or very woke to some is in fact…the good stuff.
I am more neutral than AI, I don’t enthuse at how great she’s doing or offer false positives. I listen and bring a good dose of caustic humour when required.
It’s all I can offer right now.
We drive 15 minutes from the cabin to a sauna & lake setup.
We park at fancy looking farmhouse claiming to be a Wedding Venue, with dilapidated grounds.
The road has deep potholes.
The portaloos are, Amanda assures me, not good.
This does not bode well.
It’s a short walk to a small lake with a pontoon jutting out into the middle. There is a ladder into the water, so basically you can choose to launch yourself or elegantly lower yourself in.
Near the pontoon, there’s a black box sauna- big enough for 10 or more people. When we open the door, it feels like a blast furnace.
Scattered around are picnic tables and a little way back is some sort of party-barn ensemble - placed far enough from the lake that there would be plausible deniability if any drunken party goers ended up swimming with the fishes, so to speak.
But it’s not the fishes we need to concern ourselves with in the lake.
It’s hundreds, perhaps thousands of wriggly tadpoles.
Now, I’m a fan of a tadpole in a nice contained wee pond, staring into it from a comfortable distance…. Turns out I have no real interest or comfort in swimming amongst teenage frogspawn.
We discovered the little black-tailed dots when I descend the ladder (elegantly, thank you) for an initial dip. The water is murky. I am a woman who is familiar with dipping in clear-watered Lochs….and this isn’t NOT that. I am, therefore, suspicious of what I’m getting myself into. As I look down at my immersed thighs, loads of the happy little blighters swim around me.
Nope!
Abort!
We scuttle to the sauna and spend the next hour or so trying to find a bearable heat, throwing water over ourselves, creating steam. Later, I do manage to dip into the lake to my shoulders a couple of times … just to get cool - but ultimately, there is a reason tadpole immersion therapy is not a thing.
In the end, we give up and head back to the cabin and the also-too-hot hot tub.
Amanda has brought steaks. I build a small fire in the little firepit and add some small chunks of charcoal to get good embers going. As I do this, Amanda adds cold water to the tub, trying to bring it back to a sensible heat. She stirs the tub with a long wooden paddle and we joke about her excellent cauldron skills.
When the firepit flames have died, I add a well-oiled cast iron skillet and cook. We make salad and dressing. I smell of wood smoke and meat – a combo that will cling to my clothes until I get home, when Jamie will hug me as say I smell like “dog biscuits” – I like outdoor cooking.
I like that we have this day.
Death and grief infuse our conversations, but we today, we live. Somewhere in the midst of enthusiastic labradors, too-hot water, tadpoles, Sadmin and steak-and-salad, is friendship and being alive, in all the elements, with all of the parts. Through our conversations we bring Anthony present and acknowledge his absence all at once. It is a swirl. Nothing is neat. But it’s all so very necessary.
About me:
I”m Julie Drybrough, an Edinburgh based writing, speaker, master coach practitioner, partial to a good cup of tea, cake and conversation. Founder of Write Nights online community and writing retreats ( see more here - come & join us!) and fuchsiablue ltd - an Organisational change consultancy. I work with people to improve conversations, relationships and learning.