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.
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.
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.
I have learned to look beyond the wallpaper at the care home. This wing – built in 1975 was last decorated when wallpaper borders were in fashion. It is a place outside time, where aesthetics are not the priority. “Is this real?” my friend asks regularly. I find it hard to answer this question. Yes in a practical sense, but perhaps not if all life is illusiary, philosophically speaking. He has sometimes asked me to describe the wallpaper as a way to gauge whether we share the same reality. What matters here is doing what’s needed, kindness, but mainly being. Our society values doing. I come here, witness how when doing is stripped away, being, kindness and love take centre stage.
I love the coming of our weekly veg box. I love the feeling of virtue that arises as I unpack the glorious array of earthy colours. I have read the list, made choices, added extras, but is still surprises me. This time a magnificent Romanesco cauliflower arrives – a ziggurat of vibrant green crenulations. I want to paint it, to wear it, to venerate it, and then to roast it. “Why can’t we have normal vegetables like other families?” the pizza eater asked.
Usually the documentarian, this time I am under scrutiny. Our smiles mirror through the lens. I wear only one silver ring, my fingers often marked by ink. The words that waltz and foxtrot daily in my head unexpectedly tumble out in torrents. I am excited by the problems behind the enquiry. How do we welcome in mortality? How can we reclaim a deeper knowing of the cycle of life and death? What is the most effective way to change our relationship with grief? My unbridled ideas pour out, some of which may snag on the researcher’s hook to be reeled in.
I celebrate the love of these two beings – mother and daughter. Love that connects them, and reflects back to me. I feel passionate about the need for appreciation between generations, for the things we each have to offer the other. I know some awesome young people that bring me hope. I see their gifts are not always appreciated and I wonder how I can bring the best of myself to them as I learn to be an elder.