Always something there to remind me...

Two things happened this week, which neatly fit under the banner of 'things people leave us when they die'. Although, I will point out, this isn't a post about wills and probate.
During the closing words of every ceremony, I try to provide comfort to families with phrases along the lines of "Fred did not disappear with the end of his life and your relationship with him is by no means finished. He will live on in your hearts and lives, becoming as much a part of your future as he was of your past", that sort of thing. But along with the loving memories are the more tangible reminders of the life we shared with someone. Here are two examples...
Firstly, I led a service for a wonderful lady who was an extremely talented potter. Her work, which was infused with her love of nature and wildlife, was exquisite. Her husband and son took great pride in showing me her creations and, over the course of several hours, they would take it in turns to run out of the room, returning with a teapot or statue, which they handed to me with big smiles and bursting hearts. After the ceremony itself, several friends and family members told me they had pieces of pottery this lady had made and given to them as gifts, which they used every day. Now that decorative bowl, coffee pot or vase would appear even more beautiful to them than it had before.
Secondly, I was chatting to a lady yesterday about her mum and I asked if I could see a picture of her. When she bought the picture in, it was as if her mum was sat right there opposite me, so real was the likeness between them. This has happened many times before, but for some reason yesterday it resonated with me more than usual. I thought about how I have my dad's eyes and hair, my mum's hands and feet, and my nan's nose. When I smile I look like one sister, and when I frown I look like the other. My tastes and attitudes have been influenced by all my family. And my loud laugh, well, that's mine I'm afraid...
But my point is that we can still see and feel people after they've gone, through the things they have created – whether that's a fruit bowl or a baby. It's a comfort to see these things reflected back at you. Well, all except the grey hair anyway...

Pondering participation

Here's an interesting conversation I had with a funeral director this week, while we were discussing the content of an Order of Service. It went something along the lines of...
FD: "I'm not being critical of civil funerals, because I think you all do a great job, but some people come away from non-religious services feeling like they haven't really been to a funeral".
CB: "Why's that?"
FD: "Because they haven't been able to participate in any way".
CB: "I encourage families to participate as much as possible by sharing stories about their loved ones to include in tributes, by writing tributes, reading tributes, poems, and readings. They choose music, sometimes play music. They help to carry the coffin. It's all participating, I would say".
FD: "Yes, but that's only close family and friends. With a religious service, everyone gets to join in with hymns, or repeating and responding to prayers. But this way, people feel left out".

Now, I'm not sure how much of that is his view and how much of it is the view of those attending. I have to say, I have never heard anyone express such an opinion but that doesn't mean they weren't thinking it. But I thought it was an interesting comment, and something to ponder as we (myself and fellow members of the 'Let's Improve Funerals' brigade) try to uncover people's needs and wishes.

Two-wheeled wonder

I love getting out on my bike. As well as giving my lungs and legs a hearty workout, it's a chance to have a jolly good muse about things, while, at the same time, enjoying a front-row 'seat' at the latest seasonal show the countryside has to offer.
On today's outing (pictured here, courtesy of my cycling companion Mr CB), I was thinking about how nervous I was when I first told my loved ones I was considering entering the funeral business. For aside from the obvious images flooding into their minds of corpses and inconsolable relatives, was their knowledge that I am known (and, thankfully, loved) for being sensitive and, at times, prone to feeling a bit blue. They worried that my new career would have the same effect on me as Gwyneth Paltrow's Oscar did on her (ie. tear duct overload). And, I admit, I was worried too.
But, as my bicycle wheels turned, I realised that something strange, and rather wonderful has happened since I became aquainted with 'the dark side'. My life has brightened up. I've been so busy immersing myself in funerals and bereavement support, and writing my blog posts about how 'grief can provide opportunity', that I hadn't realised I've been undergoing my own transformation. I'm a happier person than I used to be. The heady cocktail that appears to have given me my new-found inner glow is, I think, made up of a measure of doing something I enjoy, a squeeze of making a difference to other people, and a splash of realising how death gives life meaning. Add a slice of fruit and a small umbrella, and the mix is complete. Although we can probably leave the small umbrella out – that small, grey cloud that hovered over my head seems to have disappeared for now. The outlook is dry and bright...

After the rain...

I've been too busy to blog this week. Partly because of work, but also because I've been glued to the TV watching the news reports from Japan. Like many people, my overwhelming feelings have been a mixture of sorrow for those who have died, wonderment at what our natural planet is capable of, and complete admiration for the dignified way the Japanese people are dealing with the aftermath. What a sharp contrast to the reports of aggression and violence in Libya that always followed the words "and now for the rest of today's news..."
There is a Japanese saying 'name futte ji katamaru' – this literally translates to 'after the rain, earth hardens', meaning 'after a storm, things will stand on more solid ground than they did before'. I don't think the Japanese need adversity to help them build character; they have that in spades. But I do hope the ground beneath their feet soon settles.
April sees the start of Japan's cherry blossom season.  These beautiful trees that bloom en-masse like clouds before quickly fading are hugely symbolic, representing not only the transient nature of life, but also emblems of love, affection and good fortune. Every year Japanese families eagerly follow the blossoming forecasts and then, when the time comes, head to their local parks and shrines to hold flower-viewing parties. Isn't that beautiful? This year may be different – the transient nature of life has already shown itself with brute force. But I'm sure this symbol of Japanese spirit, wherever it still blooms, will continue to provide its people with a sense of beauty, comfort and hope.

Body talk

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the delivery of my funerals, ie. how I look and sound when I'm reading my script, but trying not to look like I'm reading my script. If you know what I mean? And wondering how I can improve.
Something interesting happened at one of my funerals yesterday. I usually stand at the (dreaded) lectern with my hands resting close to the edge, ready for page turning etc. But yesterday, without making a conscious effort to do so, I moved my hands towards the centre and, sort of, leaned in a bit. It seemed to make a huge difference. I felt more relaxed and 'chatty' as opposed to 'scripty'. I'm not sure why it made a difference, or indeed, whether the moving of my hands had anything to do with it. But it felt good! I'm going to try it again at my next funeral on Thursday. I may have imagined the whole thing, but it's amazing how the tiniest of movements take on a whole new meaning when a chapel full of people are staring at you...

One from the Comfort Library...

I love books. My passion for reading began with Miffy Goes Flying and has consumed me ever since (although the type has got smaller and there are less pictures). So I'm really enjoying the current series of TV programmes showing as part of the BBC's Year of Books. I mentioned in a previous post about the excellent Faulks on Fiction, and now I am equally hooked on the nightly showings of My Life In Books (well-known personalities discuss the books they most love and why). Tuesday night's programme with the brilliant Jeanette Winterson was particularly good and still available on i-player if you want to see it.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00z7sgp/My_Life_in_Books_Jeanette_Winterson_and_Alastair_Campbell/
So, in the spirit of bloggy sharing, I thought I'd recommend a book that I have read and re-read because I think it's uplifting, funny and very beautiful. It's called Stargazing – Memoirs of a Young Lighthouse Keeper by Peter Hill. It's an account of Hill's experiences, working on various remote Scottish lighthouses for six-months in 1973. It's really evocative (even more so if you read it on holiday on the Isle of Islay, like I did) and full of great characters and landscapes. The Daily Telegraph described it as "A generous book... as full of lost dreams as a starry sky on a foggy night". You may have read it – if so, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. If not, here's the link to Amazon where you can pick up a used copy for a ridiculously cheap 1p. Enjoy!
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stargazing-Peter-Hill/dp/1841954993/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1299153836&sr=1-1

Here's looking at you kid...

This is Bogie. A black and white cat, named after a star of black and white movies. My sister rescued him from an unkind owner 12 year's ago, and it took a lot of love and gentle coaxing to stop Bogie cowering behind all items of furniture, before he could relax for the first time in his little life. He, in turn, showed his gratitude by being ridiculously cuddly, loyal and affectionate. They shared a house, shared their lives, and now Bogie has died. He was very old, his tail had been lost in a car accident, he was becoming deaf, and, in recent months, had developed a growth on his nose. He wasn't in pain but it was clear that, before long, he would be. So, before his quality of life diminished, my sister agreed with the vet that Bogie's time had come. And, last night, after a sardine supper and much tickling of his belly, he was helped on his way. So long little fella...