'If they had a pill, I'd take it'. I know what he's talking about, and I get it. It's reached the point where it's difficult to argue with a man who's life has been reduced to bed, couch, dining table and back again in a wobbly, stick legged circuit. He's been as brave as he could have been. But it's time, and we all know it. There's no pill, though. It's something he alone must endure.

I let him say such things. I hear my inner voice say a lot in the silence that follows. It's anything but restrained, minimal. It gushes, effuses, attempts to wrap him in the life he is losing.

It says:

but, the sunlight - look how it falls across the room and the lattice of rippling water shadows move across the pool deck -

and did you hear the kookaburras this morning? They were so loud!

could you make it to the car? I could take you to the whales - we saw a mother and her calf breach today!

did you know she's coming round tomorrow before she heads back to Tassie? She wants to say goodbye.

Should we put on some tunes?

^{A yellow breasted robin with some old school insta framing, from the archives.}

But I don't. I hold space. I've learnt what this means, these past months, right down to my bones, the inside of my rib cage. It's an expression that's only been around since 2015, mentioned in a blog post by a Canadian writer.

To hold space is to listen without judgement. Without rushing in with advice or some pretense at understanding exactly what that person is going through. It's not about trying to fix them, or remedy the situation. It's not about offering advice. It's not about me.

The solution is in being fully present.

So in the half light just after dusk, whilst Mum and Jamie are in the kitchen, I lay on the persian rug by Dad on the sofa, and hold space. I practice being present. Nothing will distract me from this present moment. Everything is placed to one side. I am here, my very body says. I am here. I allow him to speak, and don't respond except for a brief 'that sucks' or 'I totally get it, Dad'. We lean in for a few brief moments.

I don't want to argue with him that life is worth living, that he just has to put up with the pain, that we don't want him to go just yet or that new drugs might ease things a little, for a while. I don't want to express angst or sadness or worry. I don't want to shame him, to make him feel stupid or guilty or alone. I just want to listen.

And I suprise myself, because I stay very, very still, and don't leave the room. If my father can put up with his pain, I can put up with this small discomfort and the strong feelings that rumble in my ribcage.

I hope that the small utterances I make express empathy and understanding. I want him to know that I can imagine how he feels. I want him to know he's not truly alone. I want him to know I get it.

It's okay. The moment passes. Mum and Jamie flick the lights on and put dinner on the table - German potato pancakes, like my Nana used to make, with sauerkraut and veggie sausages and various mustards. We joke about. We don't spend all this time in sadness, reverie, silence. We try to remember what little German we know, stumble across the words we remember from childhood, pass kartoffelpuffer and talk about Dad as a three year old in lederhosen. We give each other German names - Jamie becomes Wolfgang, I become Hildegaard, Mum's Leisl, and Dad - well Dad's Johann, Hans for short.

My Dad, Hans, who I can hold space for, in the dark.

*I put this in The Minimalist community because it strikes me that often we fill spaces and silences and boxes of uncomfortable feelings with STUFF. We need to fix things, cover things, hide things - when all we need to do is let them be exactly what they are, without adornment, without clutter, without embellishment. There's a lot to be said for a minimal approach. Some things are meant to be just as they are.

With Love,

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