Herbal blends are neatly sealed in printed packets containing one-mug bags. The long-gone choice of peppermint, chamomile or rosehip has been replaced with branded states of mind like ‘Feel New’ and ‘Love’. Taking a snapshot from my memory of childhood and comparing it to now, I find gaping holes in my culinary and herbal know-how. We split and sprinkled the seeds from rose hips into unsuspecting boys’ collars as itching powder. I don’t know how to make tangy, vitamin-rich tea, so I check. Pluck hips after the first frost (for sweetness) from a rose bush uncontaminated by pesticide. Top and tail each hip. Steep 4-8 hips in boiling water for 10-15 minutes for high potency tea.

On opening the door, an unfamiliar dog bolts through my legs and dashes across the road into the park. I follow, adrenalin pumping. A high speed chase ensues through the park and out at the other end. “What’s the dog’s name?” I pant into my phone, the rush of traffic drowning out the reply. “What?” Dog crosses main road, down the pedestrian ‘Narroway’ and out into another road where cars stop their manoeuvres to let us pass. We are approaching another large busy road. I have run out of sprint. Then a young man appears on the opposite pavement on a scooter. He out-rides the dog-in-a-panic whose name sounds like ‘Daz’, catches him for me to grab. This is not a tale of a lost, injured or dead dog, but one about gratitude. After the briefest of thanks, the young man scooted off. Today, out walking a mile and a half in the other direction I meet my rescuer. We swap names, shake hands and I am able to thank him properly, my street angel. On the ground I find a very small saint.

A selection of apparently unrelated items nestle in the crematorium waiting room. They have each been chosen to give the illusion of comfort and safety in an environment that most will encounter during a period of very uncomfortable loss of emotional safety. The artifice of these flowers, the institutional furniture, intended to make me feel at home, highlights instead the way the business of dying has been hived off away from the clutter of home and family life.

Sunlight dapples through the lobed emerald green leaves. The oak inspires me to be strong, to stand tall. In these days of polarities and politics, I think of the oak, which marries the curvaceous with the linear. In this young oak is the potential for great ship hulls to be carved. For me the oak teaches us to sail safely through storms, to hold troubles lightly, to endure, to think in deep time lines.

South of the river – behind and between the brick warehouses, pubs and centuries of old Southwark lies Crossbones. Gathering every 23rd of the month at this once forgotten paupers’ burial ground is a crowd of people come to celebrate the edge dwellers of life. We offer words and tokens in memory of the outcast, the ‘othered’ and of sex workers. John Crow – bard and shepherd of this flock welcomes the absurd and the unheard. I imagine this diverse but woolly-hatted crowd creeping out of the cracks in the city to bring their undervalued blessings; here to remember those who have fallen through the cracks. Libertines speak poems into the dark, drowned out intermittently by the rumble of jets full of people who can’t hear the poetry.

Eagle feather presides over the room. It was a gift from a Hunter who trains Golden Eagles in the Altai Mountains of Mongolia. Symbol of truth, this feather represents one of my highest ideals, something to align with. Another gift – almost identical in colour is this knitted rat, a double of a beloved pet, who came to represent embodied wisdom and love. He taught me to stroke him until I was present – a zen master rodent. I value the twin perspectives of eagle and rat vision – the eagle’s overview of the big picture and rat’s beady eye for close observation, spotting the details of life. Both are allies for me as a space holder for grief.

It is a perfect Indian summer’s day with blue sky and sunshine to frame the pylon. This now shorn meadow is a piece of my favourite urban wild landscape. Like a Constable painting, green blue and ochre contrast with one singing pixel of red. The abandoned scarlet sleeping bag – left by a recent tent dweller – a hint of dystopia. Yet this is a place of refuge for me. I come here to expand my chest, to ruminate. It is the place I imagine being scattered if I am cremated. It’s local, easy to visit and natural enough to elbow out the encroaching pressure of east London.

Ten clear glass bottles wait for the milk van/person. They arrive next door with turquoise/pink foil tops. Milk drunk, they will be collected, washed, re-used. This normal part of my childhood is now an out of the ordinary labour of the environmentally conscious. I remember Blue Peter appeals and saving our silver milk bottle tops. In our house normal/British Rail/builders tea is now abnormal. We sip our herbal uppers/downers, fruity or spicy. For cereal there’s a tetra pack of coconut/almond.

“If there is ever to be any real peace on earth, all people need to relearn and re-establish the now diminished and hidden arts of Grief and Praise, for one without the other is not possible.” Martin Prechtel’s uncompromising and passionate message rubs off the page. His words seduce with rowdy charm. He urges us to shake off our avoidance of grief, to embrace life through praise, to recognise the consequences of the “unmetabolized war grief of past generations”. Ideas grown in hot dry New Mexico land amongst sage, marjoram and lavender, taking root in a very English garden.

Nearly blind and very deaf, Pickle lives by his nose. Increasingly it feels as though he has entered another realm – barking at an empty corner of the room, or startled by the unseen. At this moment, it is as though he is receiving a direct transmission of light. He sleeps on pink fluff while the light beams in. Our steady love and his devotion continues.