Acts of care

Spending time with my grandad

Dear friends,

Sometimes, for me, doing little jobs and running errands is a form of procrastination. If I’m working from home, doing the laundry or tidying the living room or making sure my desk is clear - these small tasks can take me away from what really matters. It’s very easy to spend an entire day pottering - and realise you’ve got no room left for the big stuff.

But sometimes, a task that doesn’t require me to over-stretch my brain can be the perfect way to percolate on something creative. Let me give you an example.

Recently, I woke up from a dream about my grandad. He died almost a decade ago, and now and then when I dream about him it’s like we get to spend time together again. I usually wake up with a mixture of loss and connection - that bittersweet feeling that can feel terribly sad, even though the dream itself was not a sad one.

Donald Telfer, my mum’s dad, my grandad

All my life, my grandad lived in North Yorkshire. He wasn’t originally a Yorkshireman, but he made this part of the country his home. He loved the North York Moors and spent many happy hours walking there when he was in good health. His ashes are scattered there, along with my grandma’s. There are beautiful curlews sometimes to be see in this beautiful and blasted landscape, and I have an amazing painting of a curlew done by my mum, who is an extraordinary artist. She gave it to me on my 30th birthday, and I like to think of it as a sort of portrait of my grandad, a curlew on the North York Moors among the purple heather.

When I was small, my grandad had a beloved sheepdog. Sophie. Now, when I walk with Pan, I think of them sometimes. I was too little really to understand the bond they had, but I hope I understand a little of it these days.

When he walked on the moors, my grandad would wear a very old, battered Barbour jacket and a flat cap - full Yorkshireman aesthetic, though he would never have called it that. On my 21st birthday, he bought me a Barbour of my own. This was a very special thing as they were - and are - expensive and beautifully made items of clothing.

I still have the Barbour. I’ve worn it a great deal. You’re supposed to re-wax them every season - though I’m not sure who has the time to do it with that level of frequency.

Re-waxing a Barbour is just the kind of thing I remember my grandad doing. The gentle warming of the wax, the working it into the jacket with a cloth. The long, slow, careful work of restoring something to its full glory - of paying attention to a prized and beloved item, restoring it, of caring diligently for your belongings. Of making something old into something new.

So, that morning, having had this dream about my grandad, I decided to spend some time with him in an activity we both love. Instead of catapulting myself directly into work, I took out the Barbour, warmed up the wax, and began to carefully work it into the cloth. The whole exercise took about an hour - and during the process it feels like something magic happened.

Newly waxed Barbour

Paying careful attention to my things, especially things that are old or things I have had for a long time, makes me feel like I am caring for myself. Doing the slow, gradual labour of restoring something slows my mind down, and somehow helps me think more clearly. It almost feels like an action of making safe, if that makes sense.

I have a challenging tendency to urgency. I rush from thing to thing, especialyl when I’m in London, constantly performing origami in my schedule to fit in another meeting, another hour of writing, another appointment. I don’t mean to pathologise this tendency - in many ways, it’s served me very well as it allows me to get lots done. And I think it’s partly a symptom of enthusiasm - to see all the wonderful shows London has to offer, to engage with my creative work and the brilliant humans I’m working with.

But also, going quickly is hard on the nervous system. If you’re always running, perhaps you can tell yourself that it is safer to present a moving target, but you will always feel like you’re running away from something.

Spending time with my grandad, and the gentle but persistent grief I felt when I woke up from that dream of him, vivid and hale and so alive, was a choice not to run, but to remain. To sit in the feeling. To think about him and the things he taught me. And engaging in the act of restoring this beloved object in a way he would have valued made me slow down all the more.

How do you connect with yourself, your ancestors, your history? How do you slow things down? If any of this resonates, I’d love to hear in the comments.

Thanks for reading, right to the end. I’ll see you next week. You’re brilliant.
J x