Star of wander...

I've drifted away from my blog the last few months; wandering off in other directions to see what else is possible in terms of having a voice and sharing thoughts across the blogosphere. Looking back I really regret not continuing this blog at the same time, because I feel like I've abandoned it – left Comfort Blanket lying in a muddy puddle by the side of the bloggy highway. And I also feel I've let you down – my loyal followers – by not commenting so much on your wonderful blogs, where you have continued to inform, entertain and generally shine, week in and week out.
The thing is, I decided several months ago that I wanted to start blogging as myself, rather than behind the name Comfort Blanket. And once I made that decision I put my energies into trying to get that up and running, attaching it to my website, which I'd get re-designed. Unfortunately, in an effort to save pennies, I'm getting it done by a friend of a friend who has to work on it in his spare time. So it's taking a while. But, finger's crossed, it will be ready by January. And once it is, I'll post the link on here so you can find me – if you still want to that is!
As we hurtle towards Christmas, I just wanted to step off the merry-go-round for a moment and wish you all a Very Merry Christmas and a Happy, Healthy, Joyful New Year. And thank you for taking the time to read, and comment, on anything I've posted here the last 12 months. Here's to 2012!

Picture the past

I posted back in September (Making A Connection - 1st September 2011) about an episode of 'Who Do You Think You Are' and the emotion attached to searching for your ancestors. I finished my musings by saying...

"Alongside the thrill of making a connection to certain people in a certain place during a certain point in history, is the realisation that, like them, we are born, live, love, laugh, cry... and die. Here one moment, gone the next. That is our connection. It's the same journey, just different outfits". 


And, as if by magic, here is a set of incredible pictures, which seem to illustrate the point perfectly. 


http://www.howtobearetronaut.com/2011/10/rephotographing-budapest/

This fabulous website was brought to my attention earlier today by Mister CB (thanks love!). And I adore their clever header  – 'The past is a foreign country. This is your passport' – part-borrowed from author L P Hartley's famous opening words of his novel The Go-Between.


It's your chance to be Dr Who... get packing!

Marco Simoncelli (20th January 1987 to 23rd October 2011)

Four minutes ago it was announced on BBC Sport that the MotoGP rider Marco Simoncelli has died after a horrific crash at the Sepang race in Malaysia. He was 24.
I was watching the race live this morning. We're MotoGP fans in Maison CB and saw the crash when it happened just minutes after the race started. And, as the BBC reported, it was horrific. Simoncelli fell and was hit by two other riders. As the replay revealed in all its terrible, slow-motion detail, he was run over in front of our eyes. The impact was such that it forced his helmet off, and that was a sure sign it may have been fatal. That and his motionless body on the track. As the commentators struggled to say anything other than "oh no... oh no", we saw a shot of Simoncelli's girlfriend back at the paddock. She was staring at the screen, her hands to her face. I'm not sure I can find the words to describe the look in her eyes.
Like all motor sports, motorcycle racing is fast and contains a huge element of risk. These young riders understand that, and, to many, that is part of the appeal. There are, however, surprisingly few fatalaties when you add together the number of races and competitors over the years. So it is a shock to see it. And in such graphic detail.
I'm not sure if anyone else who reads this blog is even interested in MotoGP, but it's the end of a life and that's what usually moves me to write a post. Compared to his family and friends, my reaction to Simoncelli's death is pretty insignificant. But I do feel shocked and upset. I can't quite seem to switch off the action replay in my head. Or that look on his girlfriend's face.
I visit families all the time who have lost loved ones in accidents. Sometimes they are young. Sometimes their death has been witnessed by others. A death seen by thousands of track-side fans, or millions of TV viewers, doesn't make it any sadder or more significant. They are all tragic in their own way. But this morning served as a sharp and terrible reminder to me of what some people have gone through before I knock on their door.

Shhhhhh...

I feel bad. This has been the longest gap between posts I think I've ever had. But a rush of work, combined with a re-think on the bloggy front, have contributed to a large pause in the conversation.
But silence is good, right? It's actually 'golden' according to Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. And putting a stop to the external and internal chatter that fills our every waking moment is the only way to really engage with our true selves. Or so I read, anyway.
So, perhaps this quiet spell has been a good thing. A blessing. A gift from me to you. Hell, what's to feel bad about? Let's celebrate! But keep the noise down...

The fallen

Falling Man by Richard Drew

As we approach a decade since the 9/11 attacks, there are the expected news stories, TV documentaries, magazine articles, etc. recalling the horrific events of that day and paying tribute to those who died. In the Sunday Times today was a very interesting feature questioning 'Why America won't talk about the scores who jumped from the Twin Towers'.
In the article, David James Smith investigates the response of, among others,  the media, officials, emergency services and, of course, the families of those who leapt to their deaths. Smith encounters resistance – some feel the term 'jump' or 'jumper' is inappropriate as they were 'forced or pushed out by the heat of the flames'. Smith writes, "To be a jumper, many people feel, implies the act of suicide, an act that some perceive as shameful".  Officially, all the deaths as a result of 9/11, with the exception of the hijackers were ruled to be homicides, not sucides.
Others, including firefighters, are so traumatised by witnessing the sight and sound of the falling bodies they can barely speak about it. The first firefighter to be killed on 9/11 – Danny Suhr – was, in fact, hit by a falling woman. Some families have taken comfort from the fact that their loved-ones decided to jump, as it meant they had taken some control in an out-of-control situation. One mother saying "They were falling into the arms of God".
Of all the photographs taken of those who fell to their deaths, is one known as 'The Falling Man' taken by photographer Richard Drew (see pic above). It is an incredible photograph, and one which has caused great debate over the identity of the individual and whether it was morally right to publish such a picture. Drew has said he "liked to think of the Falling Man as the photographic equivalent of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, representing all those who had died by jumping or falling".
This was a really interesting feature, on a subject which will always remain complex and highly-emotive. And among the thoughts and feelings provoked as I read about these men and women who fell to their deaths, is how must it feel to have to choose your death? Would I have stayed put to be consumed by fire, or let the building collapse on me? Or would I jump out of the window? Suicide is choosing to turn away from life. These people chose one form of death to escape from another. There is no word for that.

Making a connection

Last night I settled down to watch 'Who Do You Think You Are' on BBC One. I love this series – it's always an entertaining and informative mix of history lesson, practical advice on how to find ancestors, following the trail around the globe, and, of course, seeing 'celebrities' in a different light.
This week it was the actor Larry Lamb. And what a story! He came from a family of well-known showmen and wild beast menagerie owners. One great-great uncle, called James Day, was a lion tamer known as Jimmy Wildbeast (see pic), while his other, more famous great-great uncle was Thomas Day, alias Martini Bartlett – king of the lion tamers. Fantastic! But alongside the surprising characters, was the rather sad story of Larry's mum who had been adopted and always hoped to see her birth mother again. Unfortunately, she never did.
In every episode I've watched over the years, there is always a moment where even the seemingly 'hardened' celebrities start to get emotional. Jeremy Paxman being a case in point. Sometimes it's because they feel sorry for ancestors who have suffered or fallen on hard times. Or perhaps they have met up with relatives they never knew existed. But last night, Larry Lamb became very emotional as he realised he had more in common with his ancestors than just looks or characteristics. After explaining he had found strength from knowing who his grandparents were, he wanted to say something else, but had to take a moment to compose himself. When he did, he said "Because you're just a part of the journey yourself".
I thought his strong reaction to this notion was both interesting and very moving. Like many people, I've attempted to trace my family tree and, alongside the thrill of making a connection to certain people in a certain place during a certain point in history, is the realisation that, like them, we are born, live, love, laugh, cry... and die. Here one moment, gone the next. That is our connection. It's the same journey, just different outfits.

Sew in love

Those of you who have followed me for a while (gawd love yer) will know I take pleasure from putting needle to thread and 'centering' myself with a spot of sewing, for reasons explained in an earlier post
http://thecomfortblanket.blogspot.com/2010/12/comfort-and-joy.html

So when I read this story from across the Pond earlier today, my heart swelled. All these women sewing together, the idea of helping families and playing a role in the life (or, actually, the death) of someone in such a way, the equality in death these garments bring. A wonderful story, a beautiful idea. From what I have read about Jewish customs – in particular surrounding dying/death/funerals/bereavement – I think there is a lot we could learn. Hope you are equally moved by this article from North County Times (nctimes.com)...

SAN JOSE ---- The handful of sewing machines and bolts of plain white cotton muslin didn't look like much, but at a recent Sunday's Sew What? meeting, they kept alive deeply rooted Jewish customs with a meaning thousands of years old.

Inside a room at the Congregation Beth David in Saratoga, a small group of women sewed all morning and into the afternoon, cutting and stitching pattern after pattern of the same outfit: traditional Jewish burial clothing.

"Everyone, whether rich or poor, is dressed the same this way," said Betty Menkin, the group's founder. The clothes, which include a shirt, pants, a robelike jacket, belt, head covering and burial sheet ---- for both men and women ---- are all made of white fabric and emphasize equality in death.

Menkin was inspired to create the sewing group in 2004 after hearing about similar ones at a national Jewish conference. The draw for the participants, she said, is being able to contribute something, even peripherally, to ease the transition for the deceased's relatives.

"We sew these garments, and we hope they'll never have to be used," Menkin said. "But when the time comes, we've lent a helping hand to the family. Every person who helped sew the clothing has touched the process."

Traditional Jewish burial also involves a washing and dressing of the body and a vigil until burial. The prescribed plain clothes, simple casket and graveside ceremony are meant to keep the funeral humble, and each step of the burial is clearly delineated in Jewish tradition ---- something that the bereaved family finds helpful.

"People in general have dealt with deaths of family members for eons," Menkin said. "Judaism developed a set of rules about how to proceed, and it's comforting to have a guidebook, a recipe. It gives structure when you're grieving, especially if it's the first time."

Currently, about eight or 10 of Beth David's congregants undergo traditional burial each year, but the number may grow, said Beth David's Rabbi Philip Ohriner.

"As word spreads of more people choosing to do so, the more comfortable others feel in doing the same," he said.

Menkin said the community-based burial traditions ---- including having community members act as shomer, or vigil guards, with the body, and handle burial preparations ---- allow the congregation to re-adopt a role in a practice that is otherwise parceled out to private businesses such as funeral homes.

And the garment sewing, while just one part of the process, can be an important healing step for those who participate, she added.

Menkin recalled that a woman who'd been sewing shirts for the group was called to her father's bedside where he was dying of pancreatic cancer. As she sat with him until his final hours, she finished sewing his shirt by hand and found that the tangible action helped her come to terms with his death.

Another group member, San Jose resident Christel Sanders, said that when her husband died in 2007, she'd also been very comforted to know that details of his burial such as his clothing would be taken care of by those around her.

"I started sewing these because at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do," she said. "But after (my husband's) death, it took on a new meaning."

Look for the good

Watching people steal from charity shops, mug a young man who thinks he is being helped, set fire to businesses which are already struggling to survive, etc. has left me feeling as incensed as the next person.
So, after several days of watching and listening to the news, and getting more angry and despairing by the minute, I was really grateful this morning to come across the following comment/blog, offering a more hopeful and positive perspective. I hope they have the same effect on you...

http://www.actionforhappiness.org/news/riots-show-why-the-happiness-agenda-is-vital

http://helengraves.co.uk/2011/08/why-i-love-peckham/

Head space

The thing about being sat on the back of a motorbike for 2,062 miles is that it gives you time to think (it also gives you time to develop numb buttocks, creaky knees and ear ache, but we won't go into that...)
As someone who is always jotting down ideas and making notes, it's frustrating at first – all that time to let your mind run riot, but no means of retaining any little flashes of inspiration. Just relying on the old grey matter to 'hold that thought' until pen and pad come to hand. But once I got over the need for notes, it was good to let those thoughts and ideas run wild, free and uncaptured.
France flashed by, Spain sweltered, and the white cliffs of Dover have welcomed me home. So now I can attempt to unravel 14 days of 'thought spaghetti' and see if there are any useful musings among the meatballs, so-to-speak...

Au revoir

I'm off on my jolly holidays, mes amis, to relax, re-charge and drink a cocktail or three. Look forward to catching up with you all again in a few weeks. In the meantime, enjoy the heatwave which is bound to hit the shores of the UK the minute I depart...

Fast cars and fairways

Last week I watched a really good BBC tribute to golfer Seve Ballesteros, who died of brain cancer earlier this year at the age of 54. I'm not a fan of golf, but I was a fan of Seve. There is no doubt he had the skill, dedication and passion to become one of the biggest names in the game, but it was his charisma, flair, exuberance, charm and strength of character that made him a cut above. And, may I add, his Latino good looks.
In addition to footage of his greatest golfing triumphs, Seve talks about his cancer. There is a beautiful moment towards the end of the programme – and his life – where he says, in that wonderful Span-glish accent he had, "I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I have been the luckiest person in the world. I have so much luck... and this thing that has happened to me is a little thing compared to other people who have tougher times, and don't have the opportunity to feel life as I did." What courage... You can still see Seve: The Legend on BBC i-player until 11.24pm on Sunday.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b012lt4d/Seve_The_Legend/
At the opposite end of the sporting spectrum to golf is Formula One. And, while Seve strolled the fairways, another young man with as much passion, flair, skill and Latino va-va-voom was proving to be the fastest man to ever sit behind the wheel of a racing car – Ayrton Senna. And last night I went to see an incredible docu-film about him called Senna. http://www.sennamovie.co.uk/
Seve and Senna were both teenage prodigies who burst into the sporting spotlight bearing the love, hope and adoration of their countrymen and women. They were both out-spoken, enchanting, individual forces of nature. And both died young. But while Seve's death was un-related to his sport – his cancer one of life's 'unlucky' twists of fate – Senna's luck ran out on the race track, as he lead the 1994 San Marino Grand Prix.
Senna was the last driver to die at the wheel of a Formula One car. Seve was not the last man to die of cancer. Similar beginnings, different endings, but both inspirational in their own way.

Honest to goodness

When someone you love has died from an illness – one which you, and they, know will only end with their ending – it is often too painful to begin to imagine what they must be thinking or feeling. Partly because, unless you are the one staring death in the face, you can never really understand how that feels, and also if you let you mind wander in the direction of their physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual pain, your sorrow will overwhelm you.
So when I visit a family to arrange a funeral service, I always tread carefully when it comes to discussing how death occurred. While it's not necessary to share details with everyone on the day of the funeral, it does help me to understand how the family are feeling and what their loved one went through, and it's crucial in helping me provide the most relevant words of comfort for them during the ceremony. There are also times when a few words about the cruelty of dementia or the speed of cancer bring a reality to proceedings and a relevance for others attending, which I, personally, think is a good thing. As long as the family are OK with that, of course.
I went to visit a young woman recently who was in her 20's. Her father had died of cancer and, with her parents divorced some years earlier and no siblings, she was left to arrange the funeral. In my capacity as a celebrant, I was, understandably, concerned about how our meeting would go. At such a young age, would she be able to cope with talking about her dad, his funeral, and be able to make the necessary, emotional decisions? But, I was in for a surprise. And this was all due to the honesty with which she approached and talked about her father's illness. I won't go into details, but what stayed with me most about our conversation was the fact that she said "Dad was frightened". It was so heart-wrenchingly frank. I felt terribly sorry for him, and for his daughter, but also admired her for being able to get those three words out without falling to pieces in front of my eyes, which, under the circumstances, she had every reason to do so.
I'm not making any judgements with this post, as there is no right or wrong way to discuss such a sensitive issue. Some will tell you how their loved-ones coped, others won't. And that is absolutely fine. But those words stayed with me for quite some time.

Moving on

We have arrived – safe, sound and fully techno functional – in our new home. Hoo-ray! It's been sunny every day since we moved in, so much so that we're wondering if we haven't stumbled across a unique ecosystem. Perhaps Mother Nature has simply decided to display a sky that's as blue as the language which preceded the move we thought would never happen. Either way, it is a joy. And we're happy.
Interestingly, the emotion I felt on leaving our old home rather took me by surprise. It shouldn't have done, as it is a loss of a sort. But we'd only been there for four years, and, while it had been a happy four years, I wasn't particularly sad to be leaving. But that all changed after THE longed-for phone call came through to say the monies had cleared and you can now pick up/drop off the keys. Things went from calm to anxious as we hurried to pack the last few remaining essentials (kettle and milk) before dashing out of the front door behind the removal men. Just as I was turning the key in the lock, my other half said "this is it then" and I suddenly felt this huge wave of sadness, and horror that I was about to just run out of the door without some sort of meaningful leave-taking. I opened the front door again and stood in the hallway, taking in one last look around. So we said "goodbye" to the house, thanked it for all the good times, and left...
As I drove away I thought about the sense of panic I felt at not having said goodbye. I did think to myself, if I feel like this over a house, how does it feel to hear a loved-one has suddenly and unexpectedly gone forever? Forgive me for making the comparison between a house and a life. But loss is loss. Some losses are immense, and some are momentary. This was momentary but it made its point.

We interrupt this broadcast...

A miracle has happened! We have finally exchanged contracts in the not-so-enjoyable game of house buying/selling, which has gone on far, far longer than we could possibly have imagined. But now, it has finally come together - hooray! So, this time next week, the removal men will be (carefully) packing their van with our belongings, in between (several) cups of tea and (one too many) biscuits. And we'll be on our way to our new home!
So, I'm going to be taking a little break for a few days from the land of Blogs - both in terms of posting and commenting - in order to get ourselves from A to B in the smoothest way possible. And hope (with all my might) that the promised broadband support will show itself on arrival, as promised, and normal service can resume. I look forward to communicating with you all from the new Comfort Blanket HQ some time very soon!

Up, up and away...

This is a heart-warming little story for a Wednesday afternoon...

http://lilsonnysky.blogspot.com/2011/06/amazing.html

From little acorns...

I've just returned home from leading a funeral ceremony in a garden. The garden belonged to the much-loved man we were there to pay tribute to. It was filled with a colourful array of flora and fauna, family and friends, as well as his three little dogs who sat at my feet during the whole service. At the end we planted a nine-year-old oak tree sapling, which this man had grown from an acorn.
The combination of saying farewell to this seemingly wonderful man, in the garden which was the heart of his home, as the birds sang, the sun shone, and everyone shared stories and laughter, has left me feeling so uplifted I barely know what to do with myself.
And what did everyone say to me afterwards? "I had no idea you could do this sort of service in your own garden. I wish I'd known when my mum/dad/husband/friend died..."
Yes - you can have this sort of service and I wish more people did. We're a nation of garden lovers after all. We did have a short committal service at the crematorium beforehand, for the immediate family. But the garden ceremony was the opportunity to have all the tributes, poems, readings, speakers, the family wanted, without having to squeeze it in to a 20 minute slot. And it was perfect.
Hopefully, the more this type of two-fold ceremony takes place, the more other people will embrace the idea. There may not be many just yet, but from little acorns...

There IS life after death

Almost every funeral ceremony I write does, at some point, promote the belief that while there is a part of our loved one that cannot remain with us, there is also a part of them that lives on in our hearts and lives. I refer, of course, to the life and love we shared, the memories we have in common, and the influence they had on our lives. But your loved one could also live on in the hearts and lives of complete strangers, who never even knew of their existence until they ceased to exist.
I'm talking about organ donation. That final act of generosity almost all of us are all capable of fulfilling, but only 28% of us have signed up to (according to the Organ Donation Register). I know that agreeing to donate your organs is very much a personal choice. But for me, it's something that doesn't take too much thinking about. If I am dead and someone else's life, or quality or life, could be saved and improved by using the organs I have finished with, then please take them. The thought of my heart beating life into someone else's body, or my eyes being used to see the world once again, has no negative connotations. In fact, I think it is rather beautiful and extremely comforting.
The Organ Donation website at http://www.organdonation.nhs.uk/ukt/  is great. As well as information on how to quickly and easily register, there are also lots of really interesting statistics, true-life stories and frequently-asked questions. I know organ donation can be a sensitive and emotional issue, and it's not really my place to try to influence you if your mind is set against it for whatever reason. But, as at today's date, there are currently 7,548 people waiting for a transplant. So, whether you have a donor card or not, I think it's certainly worth a click...

Rise and shine

Considering the seemingly random nature of bookings I receive, both in terms of the number of funerals and the cross-section of society, it never ceases to amaze me how patterns can emerge. Some months the ages are almost identical, other months it will be cause of death. This month I have led three funerals for elderly men, each of whom were never married, had no children, and all the arrangements were made by their nieces.
When you arrange a funeral service, you are dealing with both the death of someone, and the events of their life. And, sadly, that's when you see how some people's lives are anything but rosey. For one of these elderly gentlemen, having learning disabilities saw him banished by his own family to an institution at the age of nine. He was told he'd only be staying for two weeks; he was there for 50 years. Thankfully the care, love and kindness that had been missing throughout most of his life was present during his final years, thanks to a compassionate niece and the dedicated nursing staff at the care home she found for him. And this was the focus for our ceremony.
When it comes to life, we all experience the good and the bad, the dark and the light, the happy and the sad. When it comes to funerals, we have to find ways to shine a light on every life lived, even those who seem never to have emerged from the shade. It's a challenge at times – you want an honest reflection of a life but without dwelling on the sadness. But for me, the darker the life, the more determined I am to find the positives, and give them their day in the sun.

Instant comfort

In true Comfort Blanket spirit, here's a link to a lovely idea, which was sent to me by my good friend ric-rac.

http://lilsonnysky.blogspot.com/2011/05/instant-comfort.html

Hand-made... with love

Back in March, I published a post with some thoughts on the many ways people 'stay with us' after they have died. See http://thecomfortblanket.blogspot.com/2011/03/always-something-there-to-remind-me.html
In this post I mentioned a lovely lady who was a potter and whose funeral I had led, exactly eight week's ago today. Well, this afternoon, at the same time and in the same chapel, I lead the funeral service for her beloved husband.
It's not often you have the privilege of meeting the person whose funeral you are leading. But I had, of course, met this charming man when I arranged his wife's funeral ceremony. And, as you can see from my previous post, he very much left a deep impression on me. This inspirational couple had shared 70 years of their lives together, even working alongside each other in the pottery – she designing and crafting, while he fired and glazed. They remained very much in love and were often seen in the village during their final years, strolling along hand-in-hand. Their togetherness earning them the nickname 'the Love Birds'.
It's not uncommon for a spouse to die within a short space of time after their husband or wife. They even have a name for it - 'the widowhood effect'. Last year researchers from St Andrews University studied more than 58,000 married couples. Their findings suggested that 40% of men and 28% of women die within three years of their partner. The study took into account a wide range of causes of death, but even after making allowances for factors such as cancer, smoking, accidents etc. scientists found 'powerful evidence' that many widows or widowers were more likely to die because they had lost their spouse. (Sunday Times 14th November 2010)
I'm not suggesting this is the case here. We don't really know why this man had died so soon after his wife - he was, after all, quite elderly and had one or two health issues. Although nothing that had given cause for immediate concern. But what we do know is that they had both lived a full, rich, happy, colourful life, surrounded by family and friends who loved them dearly. I only knew him for a few hours, but what luck to have shared a lifetime...
Before I left the chapel today, their children presented me with this beautiful teapot, made by the Love Birds, as a 'thank you'. Despite protesting that I merely did my job, they insisted that I take it. So now, I too can join the family and friends of this talented pair who have pieces of pottery to remember them by. What an honour...