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The Times
www.timesonline.co.uk
May 12, 2004=20
Emotional intelligence
Of death and Daedalus
When his mother died, Rory MacLean needed a way to assuage =
his grief. He emulated a mythical Greek by going to Crete, devising a =
way to fly, and making his spirit soar
=20
=20
=20
"I THINK it may have spread to her brain," says the =
consultant. "The end could come very quickly."=20
My mother is in the next room, whisked away by a nurse so =
that the doctor can speak to me alone. He says that her tissue sample is =
malignant. Metastatic cancer.=20
=20
=20
"One month," he tells me. "Five weeks at the outside." On =
the drive back to our village I put my hand on her leg. It feels =
bone-thin. Only last month we walked together around the churchyard, her =
hand in the crook of my arm. My mother squeezes my hand. "At least we =
have the gift of this time together," she says.=20
My wife and I take her in to our home. I stop work. We put =
her photographs on the dresser, set her armchair in the corner, buy her =
a new year diary. The visiting nurse ("a bit of a Tartar") teaches her =
to walk by talking to her reluctant limbs. "Come on left leg. Come on =
right." The Zimmer frame digs runnels in the carpet. Morphine =
constipates her. Every night for a week my wife dreams of cooking =
different remedial meals with plenty of garlic and ginger. We watch my =
mother's fine memory fade, replaced by dozens of Post-it Notes stuck on =
every wall and tabletop. Her copper-plate handwriting becomes illegible. =
She puts my father's love letters into date order. We divide the nights =
into 90-minute shifts.=20
The Tartar says: "I don't know if I'll see you - when I'll =
see you - again." Five months after the diagnosis, my mother dies in a =
pale green English bedroom. My sister cries: "Open the window" - to let =
her soul fly free.=20
Nothing prepares us for the hammer blow of the loss of a =
loved one. No amount of forewarning, understanding or even prayer can =
lessen the initial brute impact of grief. A hole big enough to carry a =
coffin through is wrenched in our heart. My mother's death turned me =
inward, splintering my confidence and crippling my imagination. I was =
incapable of making the smallest decision: what to eat for supper, when =
to go to bed.=20
In this country the newly bereaved may be given a leaflet by =
a kindly nurse. A minister might call round a day or two later. No one =
can tell you that mourning lasts a year, or many years, that the =
survivor will never be the same again. Maybe voices hide behind silence =
because death will mark us all sooner or later. There is little =
structure or support for this most fundamental severance. Other =
societies enshrine grief in ritual: in sitting Shiva, in the annual =
lighting of candles of remembrance, in the recognition of this =
exceptional time. We wear no weeds. We are expected to soldier on.=20
I could have propped up the bar of the White Hart, blubbed =
on friends' shoulders, wept over EastEnders. I could have picked up the =
book I'd begun to write half a year earlier. But such displacement did =
not feel right for me. In the moment of death I, too, wanted to fly. =
Perhaps to go with my mother. Perhaps because of the swallows that had =
arrived earlier that last month and we had watched sweeping up to their =
nests under the eaves. Whatever the source, this sudden, mad compulsion =
obsessed me. At the most vulnerable point of my life, with the umbilical =
cord finally cut, I had to follow my intuition.=20
I decided to build an aircraft, not from a kit - that seemed =
like cheating - but from scratch, so as to depend on myself alone, =
rebuilding myself piece by piece as I built the aeroplane, giving shape =
to formless mourning. But where to do it? As a newly cast orphan, I =
sensed that I had to reach back to beginnings. Not just to Kitty Hawk, =
North Carolina, where the Wright brothers had flown, but instead back to =
that twilight where history and legend met. The earliest record of man's =
dream of flight, of rising above our earthly bondage, is in the legend =
of Daedalus and Icarus, which is set in Crete. Icarus flew too close to =
the sun, the wax melted and he fell into the sea. But Daedalus, his =
father, flapped on across the Aegean to a new life.=20
My wife and I moved for six months to a huddled, intimate =
Cretan village tucked away in a fold of hills, beneath the snow-capped =
peaks of the White Mountains. There we built a simple flying machine =
with the materials at hand and the enthusiastic support of the =
villagers.=20
Cretans have a raw, unpredictable, admirable energy for life =
and we were welcomed into their homes and lives. No one asked me if I =
could fly an aircraft. As one neighbour said: "It is not our problem if =
he kills himself. He has a vision and we must help him to achieve it." =
The islanders had no inclination for temperance, believing, like the =
Ancient Greeks, that excess was divine. When a man is shaken by birth, =
love or death the Greeks assume that a god stands beside him. So, yes, =
the villagers thought that I was mad, but they understood that madness =
is part of life.=20
In the dark under the bright Cretan sun I groped my way =
forward. I worked on automatic, the mechanics of construction allowing =
me to rebuild my confidence. The satisfaction of making the beautiful, =
feather-light machine slowly helped to channel my grief.=20
Of greater significance were the Cretans themselves. Their =
kindness, rootedness and zest for today (along with plenty of wine) =
began to restore my faith in life. They uplifted my spirit much more =
than did my single flight.=20
But most important was the writing of the book. Up to then, =
the death of my mother had seemed like a story written by someone else. =
My true reinvention came by drawing together and assimilating the raw =
material of this experience. Only then could I see the arc of one =
aching, anxious chapter in my life. The aircraft had been a kind of =
enabling device, a necessary part of my mourning. Writing was the real =
soaring, the attainable form of flight. It enabled me to articulate an =
unending loss, to begin to make sense of the chaos. That closure has =
brought me back down to earth.=20
Today when I look back on the actual flight I feel a =
gut-wrenching horror for what might have been, a finite life smeared =
along the tarmac. I took to the air. I ascended, though not very high or =
for very long. I'd needed to push myself to a physical limit to parallel =
my emotions in extremis. I hadn't much cared if I lived, but I'd never =
actually wanted to die.=20
Individual grief is unique, like a face or a fingerprint. As =
a writer, I needed to shape something from these events and - through =
intuition, through instinct - had created my own ritual. No matter how =
unlikely the project may seem now, its pursuit was not out of character. =
Every one of us must deal with loss in our own way and time, not by =
hiding our emotions through alcohol and denial (though they are often =
part of the process), but by integrating grief into life. That =
acceptance gives us the chance to enact a deeply creative process that =
can lift us from the ashes of devastated certainties.=20
This morning my wife and I watched our toddler running in =
the garden, chasing the dog's tail. We laughed in joy for his vitality =
and beauty, for this gift of time together. Not an hour later the =
swallows returned to our corner of Dorset, sweeping up under the eaves =
as they did that sad, black springtime. It is death that animates life, =
by limiting it. By facing the dark side and recognising that we grow =
through loss we can - with luck and a fair tail wind - fly free.=20
Falling for Icarus: A Journey among the Cretans, by Rory =
MacLean, Viking, =A315.99; available from Times Books First for =
=A312.79, plus =A32.25 p&p, 0870 1608080.=20
=20
=20
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<DIV><SPAN class=3Ddate><FONT size=3D5><STRONG>The=20
Times</STRONG></FONT></SPAN></DIV>
<DIV><SPAN class=3Ddate><A=20
=
href=3D"http://www.timesonline.co.uk">www.timesonline.co.uk</A></SPAN></D=
IV>
<DIV><SPAN class=3Ddate><STRONG>May 12, 2004</STRONG></SPAN> =
<BR><BR><STRONG><SPAN class=3Dstrapline>Emotional=20
intelligence</SPAN><BR></STRONG><BR><FONT =
size=3D4><STRONG><SPAN=20
class=3Dheadline>Of death and =
Daedalus</SPAN><BR></STRONG></FONT><FONT=20
face=3DArial><FONT size=3D2><STRONG><SPAN =
class=3Dstandfirst>When his=20
mother died, Rory MacLean needed a way to assuage his grief. =
He=20
emulated a mythical Greek by going to Crete, devising a way =
to fly,=20
and making his spirit=20
=
soar</SPAN><BR></STRONG></FONT></FONT></DIV></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></T=
D></TR>
<TR>
<TD height=3D5><IMG height=3D5 alt=3D""=20
src=3D"http://images.thetimes.co.uk/images/trans.gif" width=3D1=20
border=3D0></TD></TR>
<TR>
<TD>
<TABLE cellSpacing=3D0 cellPadding=3D0 width=3D305 border=3D0>
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD vAlign=3Dtop><SPAN class=3Dtextcopy>=93I THINK it may have =
spread to=20
her brain,=94 says the consultant. =93The end could come =
very quickly.=94=20
<P>My mother is in the next room, whisked away by a nurse so =
that=20
the doctor can speak to me alone. He says that her tissue =
sample is=20
malignant. Metastatic cancer.=20
<P>
<TABLE cellSpacing=3D0 cellPadding=3D0 align=3Dright =
border=3D0=20
VALIGN=3D"TOP">
<TBODY>
<TR>
<TD id=3DmpuHeader name=3D"mpuHeader"></TD></TR>
<TR align=3Dright>
<TD align=3Dright>
<SCRIPT =
type=3Dtext/javascript>NI_MPU('middle');</SCRIPT>
</TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE>=93One month,=94 he tells me. =
=93Five weeks at=20
the outside.=94 On the drive back to our village I put my =
hand on her=20
leg. It feels bone-thin. Only last month we walked together =
around=20
the churchyard, her hand in the crook of my arm. My mother =
squeezes=20
my hand. =93At least we have the gift of this time =
together,=94 she=20
says.=20
<P>My wife and I take her in to our home. I stop work. We =
put her=20
photographs on the dresser, set her armchair in the corner, =
buy her=20
a new year diary. The visiting nurse (=93a bit of a =
Tartar=94) teaches=20
her to walk by talking to her reluctant limbs. =93Come on =
left leg.=20
Come on right.=94 The Zimmer frame digs runnels in the =
carpet.=20
Morphine constipates her. Every night for a week my wife =
dreams of=20
cooking different remedial meals with plenty of garlic and =
ginger.=20
We watch my mother=92s fine memory fade, replaced by dozens =
of Post-it=20
Notes stuck on every wall and tabletop. Her copper-plate =
handwriting=20
becomes illegible. She puts my father=92s love letters into =
date=20
order. We divide the nights into 90-minute shifts.=20
<P>The Tartar says: =93I don=92t know if I=92ll see you =97 =
when I=92ll see=20
you =97 again.=94 Five months after the diagnosis, my mother =
dies in a=20
pale green English bedroom. My sister cries: =93Open the =
window=94 =97 to=20
let her soul fly free.=20
<P>Nothing prepares us for the hammer blow of the loss of a =
loved=20
one. No amount of forewarning, understanding or even prayer =
can=20
lessen the initial brute impact of grief. A hole big enough =
to carry=20
a coffin through is wrenched in our heart. My mother=92s =
death turned=20
me inward, splintering my confidence and crippling my =
imagination. I=20
was incapable of making the smallest decision: what to eat =
for=20
supper, when to go to bed.=20
<P>In this country the newly bereaved may be given a leaflet =
by a=20
kindly nurse. A minister might call round a day or two =
later. No one=20
can tell you that mourning lasts a year, or many years, that =
the=20
survivor will never be the same again. Maybe voices hide =
behind=20
silence because death will mark us all sooner or later. =
There is=20
little structure or support for this most fundamental =
severance.=20
Other societies enshrine grief in ritual: in sitting =
<I>Shiva</I>,=20
in the annual lighting of candles of remembrance, in the =
recognition=20
of this exceptional time. We wear no weeds. We are expected =
to=20
soldier on.=20
<P>I could have propped up the bar of the White Hart, =
blubbed on=20
friends=92 shoulders, wept over <I>EastEnders</I>. I could =
have picked=20
up the book I=92d begun to write half a year earlier. But =
such=20
displacement did not feel right for me. In the moment of =
death I,=20
too, wanted to fly. Perhaps to go with my mother. Perhaps =
because of=20
the swallows that had arrived earlier that last month and we =
had=20
watched sweeping up to their nests under the eaves. Whatever =
the=20
source, this sudden, mad compulsion obsessed me. At the most =
vulnerable point of my life, with the umbilical cord finally =
cut, I=20
had to follow my intuition.=20
<P>I decided to build an aircraft, not from a kit =97 that =
seemed like=20
cheating =97 but from scratch, so as to depend on myself =
alone,=20
rebuilding myself piece by piece as I built the aeroplane, =
giving=20
shape to formless mourning. But where to do it? As a newly =
cast=20
orphan, I sensed that I had to reach back to beginnings. Not =
just to=20
Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, where the Wright brothers had =
flown, but=20
instead back to that twilight where history and legend met. =
The=20
earliest record of man=92s dream of flight, of rising above =
our=20
earthly bondage, is in the legend of Daedalus and Icarus, =
which is=20
set in Crete. Icarus flew too close to the sun, the wax =
melted and=20
he fell into the sea. But Daedalus, his father, flapped on =
across=20
the Aegean to a new life.=20
<P>My wife and I moved for six months to a huddled, intimate =
Cretan=20
village tucked away in a fold of hills, beneath the =
snow-capped=20
peaks of the White Mountains. There we built a simple flying =
machine=20
with the materials at hand and the enthusiastic support of =
the=20
villagers.=20
<P>Cretans have a raw, unpredictable, admirable energy for =
life and=20
we were welcomed into their homes and lives. No one asked me =
if I=20
could fly an aircraft. As one neighbour said: =93It is not =
our problem=20
if he kills himself. He has a vision and we must help him to =
achieve=20
it.=94 The islanders had no inclination for temperance, =
believing,=20
like the Ancient Greeks, that excess was divine. When a man =
is=20
shaken by birth, love or death the Greeks assume that a god =
stands=20
beside him. So, yes, the villagers thought that I was mad, =
but they=20
understood that madness is part of life.=20
<P>In the dark under the bright Cretan sun I groped my way =
forward.=20
I worked on automatic, the mechanics of construction =
allowing me to=20
rebuild my confidence. The satisfaction of making the =
beautiful,=20
feather-light machine slowly helped to channel my grief.=20
<P>Of greater significance were the Cretans themselves. =
Their=20
kindness, rootedness and zest for today (along with plenty =
of wine)=20
began to restore my faith in life. They uplifted my spirit =
much more=20
than did my single flight.=20
<P>But most important was the writing of the book. Up to =
then, the=20
death of my mother had seemed like a story written by =
someone else.=20
My true reinvention came by drawing together and =
assimilating the=20
raw material of this experience. Only then could I see the =
arc of=20
one aching, anxious chapter in my life. The aircraft had =
been a kind=20
of enabling device, a necessary part of my mourning. Writing =
was the=20
real soaring, the attainable form of flight. It enabled me =
to=20
articulate an unending loss, to begin to make sense of the =
chaos.=20
That closure has brought me back down to earth.=20
<P>Today when I look back on the actual flight I feel a=20
gut-wrenching horror for what might have been, a finite life =
smeared=20
along the tarmac. I took to the air. I ascended, though not =
very=20
high or for very long. I=92d needed to push myself to a =
physical limit=20
to parallel my emotions <I>in extremis.</I> I hadn=92t much =
cared if I=20
lived, but I=92d never actually wanted to die.=20
<P>Individual grief is unique, like a face or a fingerprint. =
As a=20
writer, I needed to shape something from these events and =
=97 through=20
intuition, through instinct =97 had created my own ritual. =
No matter=20
how unlikely the project may seem now, its pursuit was not =
out of=20
character. Every one of us must deal with loss in our own =
way and=20
time, not by hiding our emotions through alcohol and denial =
(though=20
they are often part of the process), but by integrating =
grief into=20
life. That acceptance gives us the chance to enact a deeply =
creative=20
process that can lift us from the ashes of devastated =
certainties.=20
<P>This morning my wife and I watched our toddler running in =
the=20
garden, chasing the dog=92s tail. We laughed in joy for his =
vitality=20
and beauty, for this gift of time together. Not an hour =
later the=20
swallows returned to our corner of Dorset, sweeping up under =
the=20
eaves as they did that sad, black springtime. It is death =
that=20
animates life, by limiting it. By facing the dark side and=20
recognising that we grow through loss we can =97 with luck =
and a fair=20
tail wind =97 fly free.=20
<P>
<P>Falling for Icarus: A Journey among the Cretans<EM>, by =
Rory=20
MacLean, Viking, =A315.99; available from Times Books First =
for=20
=A312.79, plus =A32.25 p&p, 0870 1608080.</EM>=20
=
</P></SPAN></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></TD></TR></TBODY></TABLE></DIV></BO=
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