A Tribute to Life

Climbing the hill to the top where the grand Duke sits on his stone horse and looks out over this beautiful city the note caught my eye. A card lying on the ground, its curled corners waving at me in the lush green grass. I lifted it and turned it over to read ‘Lily Rose, you are forever in our thoughts and hearts. Always xxx’ and glanced up to see a bunch of flowers tied to the branch of a tree. I placed the card with the flowers and stepped away feeling sad, it was impossible to tell if the ink was stained by rain or a sea of tears. 

The park is awash with emotions, declarations of love, pride, heartache, affection. Benches with unusual engravings ‘In loving memory of Harry, a nosey git who loved to sit here and watch the world go by’ or on plaques under trees for ‘My One True Love’.

These public declarations are part of the joy of park life. My imagination goes into overdrive as I wonder who these people were. I sit on the benches and create fictitious and heroic stories of their lives. I think about Lily Rose and Harry's relationship with the person who chose the words for the plaque. I wonder in life if they knew how loved they were?

Some people don’t ever say the L word. There are whole generations of families and friends who never say 'I love you.'  Instead they buy presents, they cook favourite dinners, or if they’re Scottish it’s likely that they say goodbye with the words ‘take care’….. then stand in the rain on the doorstep waving until the visitors car disappears into the night.

Maybe for them the words aren't needed? Maybe the point is it’s a knowing thing. A feeling. A mutual understanding. It’s personal, it’s up to you if you keep your emotions deep inside or share them out loud, as long as the people that matter know how important they are to you. Are you confident they know?

It’s not all about love, sometimes the sentiment is closer to like or admire or respect. People who share our lives, who plant ideas in our heads, who encourage us to dare to be, who challenge our thinking, who inspire us or who simply make us laugh. How often do we actually tell them how much we value their time, contribution, words and support? 

Once someone has gone, departed this life, you can buy a bench, a plaque, a tree if it brings you comfort, if it helps you grieve. I understand that completely. But surely it’s worth opening your heart and telling people how much they mean to you when you can still see the smile on their face and hear the joy in their voice? Do it whilst you can still put your arms around them and squeeze tight.

Tribute acts can be good, but they’re a poor substitute for the real deal.

Comments welcome.

(Images from istock.)

A little perspective

I was wearing jeans, two pairs of socks, big furry boots, two long sleeved tops, jumper, cardigan, scarf, winter coat, another scarf, hat and gloves and still I could feel the cold nipping at my bones.

It was 10.30pm and I was standing at Central Station looking at the departures board filling up with “cancelled” notifications and praying my train would turn up. All I could think of was a hot bath and getting home. I took a seat on the metal chairs on the platform and quickly stood back up. Baltic!

In the afternoon I’d been walking through the city centre and had passed a man begging outside Buchanan Street station. “Any spare change?” “Can you spare some change?” He was sitting on the ice cold street with his back resting against the wall, a paper cup in his bare hands. I didn’t have any change, like everyone else I kept walking, but something made me stop. He was so polite and it was freezing. All around us were shoppers laden with bags from Frasers, M&S, Molten Brown, Karen Millen….. yet no-one seemed to have any change to spare for this poor man.

I went to the cashline, then the cafe and bought him a cup of tea. Something warm. I went back and gave him some money and handed him the tea. He looked so grateful, but then I noticed the cup of soup he was holding in his frozen,blue hands.

By the time he’d had his soup the tea would be cold, useless. Perhaps as well as money he’d have enjoyed a conversation, someone to listen, and someone to talk to, to be treated like a human being and given a bit of dignity. I hadn't really paid attention, I had made assumptions.

Why didn’t I just give him the money so he could buy his own tea? Was I judging him in case he spent the money on booze or drugs? That would be his decision, and to be honest who could blame him if he did, I'd want to escape reality if it was me in his shoes.

Can you imagine, I mean really imagine what it feels like to sleep in a shop doorway in December? Apart from the brutal cold and the fear of assault, can you imagine how it feels to be so alone in the world that you have no-one to turn to? Can you imagine sitting on the pavement begging for money? How would it feel to be ignored, invisible? That man is someone's son, brother, father or husband. He didn't end up on the streets on purpose, he just got dealt a bad hand.

I’m no expert, I don’t have the answers but I thought about it a hell of a lot waiting on that train. An hour waiting in the cold for a train that arrived and took me home to my flat, with its central heating, hot bath and warm bed.

The headlines are full of travel news and snow updates. The buses are late, the football is cancelled ......a little perspective, please.


If, like me, you'd like to find answers to some of the questions I've asked in this blog then perhaps Shelter Scotland is a good place to start.