Doing and Not Doing

Grief, the challenge of self-expression, and the search for meaning.

"I've been drowning in silence."

For weeks, maybe months, I've wanted to write, but every time I tried, it felt like the words were trapped underwater, muffled and heavy.

The ocean of grief, or maybe just life, keeps pulling me under—ever since my best mate took his life.

I should have written sooner, but it's hard to find your breath when you're constantly fighting to stay afloat.

Well, I can’t write to a schedule for shit. That much is clear.

It's been so long since my last Substack, and I’m mindful that this is a rudeness on my part. I’m very sorry.

To have good people sign up to something and be left in a kind of limbo.

At least if I wrote something crap, or not to your liking, you could choose to unsubscribe. There’s not much you can do with nothing. And for that, I am very sorry.

Sure, I could point to excuses.

Notably, it’s taken me a while to steer a clear course through the unexpected suicide of my best mate.

Suicide, like much of life, is a thing that hits those left behind like a mis-timed wave hits a surfer.

Dragging her under and forwards.

Your first instinct is to compete with the image of where you thought you were going to be, with where you actually are.

Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

Zero acceptance of what’s actually taking place. A part of me is still expecting to be on top of the board.

Microseconds, which feel like an eternity, spent confused as to why I’m now not stood confidently on top of a surfboard.

Looking at the shoreline whilst feeling the power and majesty of the whole ocean. An ocean that has swallowed the tidal pull of the stars. No wonder surfers travel the world for the perfect wave and such a thrill.

No, that same mysterious magic is punching me sideways and backwards, and forcing salt water up both nostrils.

The second instinct is to orientate to this new environment— which way is up? Where’s my next breath coming from?

Whilst you come to terms with where you’re at and how you feel, the sea, in its honest journey, continues to sea.

Your tiny, albeit frantic, wrestle for life doesn’t seem to factor into the universe’s equation. Although it must be part of the formula, along with every grain of sand on the beach.

Not a grain of sand out of place which means my friend's ‘untimely departure’ was anything but untimely. It was exactly how it was meant to be. And me, in my confusion, is exactly where the Universe has planned for me to be right now.

But no, if I’m honest, it’s not my friend’s death which has stopped me from writing.

It’s simply my tendency to do nothing.

To be the observer.

To take the conversation inside.

Like many obvious things in my life, it’s taken many years to realise this about myself. It took seeing it play out in another that enabled me to recognise it in myself. The beauty of great writing was revealed to me through one of Leo Tolstoy’s characters in War & Peace.

War & Peace

As many of you will know, I picked up War & Peace at the start of the year with the amazing Simon Haisel’s masterpiece of a slow-read project.

Winter, Spring, Summer in my northern hemisphere has passed me by, and many moons have also come and gone for the book’s ‘characters’.

*I hesitate to call them characters as their lives seem every bit as rich as mine.

Breathing in the first winds of Autumn on our little UK island, I’m reflecting on how much has changed whilst I’ve walked, ridden, and sat with Tolstoy’s echoes. Me with their struggles and them with mine.

Although it’s easy to forget it’s a book, we’re now moving through the third book of the series.

Specifically, we’ve just covered Part 3, Chapter 11. The last four chapters have focused on one man: Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov.

Known simply as Pierre, he is a constant figure of derision on the W&P chat threads and I find myself reflexively very defensive of him. I literally furrow my brow with every barb thrown his way.

As someone who’s kind-hearted and endlessly curious about the world, my brain was running loops trying to work out why he’s not regarded as simply a beautiful soul.

And of course, I wondered why I was taking it so personally.

At first glance, we don’t have anything in common. Me and my working-class roots and Pierre, of aristocratic stock and one of the richest men in Russia.

An illegitimate son of a wealthy Russian count, he’s thrust into high society when he unexpectedly inherits his father’s fortune. He doesn’t understand the many rules and performative nature of the ruling classes although he dines and dances (awkwardly) with them in desperate ways to fit in.

Like Pierre, although on the surface I look like I belong, I’m constantly reminded of subtle ways I don’t fit in.

Just this week, I had a strange exchange with a lady on the till at the Esso garage. Long story short, the machine that pumps air into tyres was on the blink. It was working, just not the contactless payment method. The back right tyre on my camper van was dangerously low and I needed an actual 50p coin if I was going to get off the forecourt. I asked the lady who worked there where I would get 50p from, and she looked at me like I was ridiculous. “How does a 47-year-old man not know how to get his hands on 50p?” were the unsaid words I heard in the momentary scowl that looked back at me.

For my part, I’d asked a perfectly reasonable, albeit somewhat naive, question and it was met with derision.

Even though this lady had the answer: There was a cash machine outside where I could get cash, which she would then change at the till…her first instinct was to shame me.

It’s not the only example, of course. It’s a repeated theme. I’m always slightly off-base with the people in the world around me.

I could go on but suffice to say, for both Pierre and I, our destiny has always been that of ‘the outsider’.

I wrote the following sentence about Pierre because it’s easier to see the beauty in others, but I might for a moment allow it to speak for me also…

Unsure of himself and his place in the world, he is nonetheless always trying to understand the people he meets and the world at large.

Pierre has tried many ways to fit in and find his place. He’s regarded as quite foolish for his idealism which led him into forays with the Freemasons.

Similarly, I’ve looked to those people who aren’t satisfied with a surface level of meaning of existing. I found those ‘new age’ yogis and spiritual leaders. I’ve chanted Tibetan Buddhist mantras I had no business chanting.

Like Pierre, I’ve felt disregarded by others, whether in mainstream culture or at the fringes.

Not long before my friend died, he helped me build a giant trampoline for my kids. The tension with all the springs was huge and I could never have built it by myself. He had a lot going on in his personal life at the time and he didn’t have a lot of spare time to give, but give he did.

This week, my kids (3 and 10) are both off school and there’s barely been a day where they haven’t wanted to go for a bounce.

The pure joy of a body in free fall. That moment in between worlds. You’ve leapt in the air but you haven’t landed yet. Unlike the confused surfer thrown off the board whose mind is racing to find equilibrium. Bouncing on a trampoline is a happy giggle-infused confusion.

Pierre, too, has been caught in that space in between worlds—between the expectations of society and the pull of his own ideals. Like me, he’s often found himself floating, surrounded by people yet feeling misunderstood. But perhaps there's a lesson in this: that this space, this in-between, can be embraced. It can be a place of possibility, where not fitting in isn’t a failure but an invitation to see the world differently—to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

It’s bittersweet that my friend isn’t here to appreciate what he gave to the world, but I’m at peace knowing he’s a grain of sand placed perfectly in the universe.

I’m enjoying what he’s given me—the giggles of my bouncing children. It’s a reminder of the joy and connection that can come from the act of giving.

Pierre, too, is a figure deeply invested in giving. He tried to grant his serfs their freedom, though he faced significant obstacles and human complications. His life is a reflection of a profound yearning to serve a higher purpose, despite frequent criticism and the challenges he encountered along the way. His attempts to give and serve were often imperfect, just as my friend’s departure left me grappling with the unfinished task of assembling the final components of the trampoline.

Both Pierre and my friend exemplify that the act of giving, even when flawed or incomplete, carries its own beauty. It’s not about the final outcome but the intent and effort behind it.

By putting down our judgments and focusing on the act itself, we can see the value in the trying.

Ultimately, giving might be the closest thing we humans have to love. A pure kind of love. Not the “you complete me” kind of love.

It’s through our acts of generosity and the intention behind them that we connect with something larger than ourselves.

Just as the sun gives and asks nothing in return, we might choose to give and hope somewhere, a light-year or two from your feet (look down), a blessing is bestowed.