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GOODBYE AND HELLO.

10 Mar

I said goodbye to my father a few weeks ago at the very end of January, 2015. He didn’t speak to me as he was concentrating so much on his breathing but after I had finished, he moved his hand which I took as a sign that he had heard me. My sister and I had just been told that our dad was dying, so it was a sad and sombre last meeting. The phone-call came in the middle of the night telling us that dad had passed away. He was a couple of months beyond 91. Up to the last 2 years he had been in pretty good health. He had a long, good life. I know he was ready for the end when it came. Dad was a lifelong chapel goer and as my cousin put it :”He died in Christian hope.”
Despite his Christian beliefs, dad was very blunt and matter- of- fact about death. “Once you’re gone, you’re gone” he used to say. He sometimes challenged the premise of grieving, almost suggesting that it was a waste of time and emotion. I sometimes thought he sounded a bit harsh but it was typical of his unsentimental, no-nonsense approach to life ( and death), and I respected him for it.
Now dad is the one who has gone. It’s funny that he’s not there anymore sitting with mum in their bungalow, waiting to greet me when I visited them and ready to put the kettle on at a moment’s notice. He’s been an ever- present in my life from birth to retirement and beyond. It seems strange that he is now absent. It’s difficult to realise that I’ll never hear his loud, booming voice again. There is a silence as well as a big gap in my life.
I’ve not always been close to my father. At times, when I became a teenage rebel and then wanted to assert my independence as a young adult, we were even semi-estranged. For many years, the generation-gap was actually a chasm that was difficult to bridge. But bridge it we did. Bit by bit we became closer again. The arrival of my 3 children helped. Dad always enjoyed being a granddad. I have photos of us all out on trips together with dad smiling happily at the camera. We spent some good family times together and the clashes of the past gradually melted away.
My dad was quite a private person and didn’t like talking about his emotions. He was typical of many men of his generation. One wasn’t supposed to cry or talk about one’s inner feelings. It wasn’t the masculine thing to do. I regret not ever having had a deep conversation with him. I tried at times but he usually clammed up or changed the subject. I think he thought that the emotional side of family life was mum’s area of expertise and he didn’t want to trespass on her territory. That’s fair enough – I respect that. It was dad’s prerogative to keep his inner world under wraps. Thus I only ever got to talk to him about everyday matters. We would chat away about the fortunes of the family, the news, sport, holidays, the weather or our jobs. Even after he had retired, dad used to love talking about his time as an engine driver on the railways. I don’t blame him — he did that difficult job, working anti-social hours, for a staggering 47 years! He knew the railways like the back of his hand.
So I’m really sad that dad is no longer in my life. He has been there at almost every significant moment, helping and supporting in his own quiet, unassuming way. As I said in my funeral oration, I have a myriad of memories of my father: whether it was pulling me out of a boating lake when I fell in and nearly drowned, teaching me how to ride a bike, telling me all about life in the Second World War, taking me to school, driving me to college, attending my wedding, helping me decorate the house, or helping me to set myself up in my post-divorce flat. Dad was the continuity man — always there. But now he’s not and I will really miss him, as I’m sure all the family will.
Life goes on as they say. A death always seems to stimulate a flurry of clichés. They are corny but also very useful, as they help to paper over the cracks of loss. People express their condolences and ask me how I feel. What can I say? It’s difficult to express my emotions at the drop of a hat. Sometimes I feel very sad. Sometimes I feel empty and unable to express myself. One of the most powerful feelings that the death of a loved one brings up is of one’s own inevitable mortality. We’re all going to die even though we don’t often want to think or talk about it. A death and the subsequent funeral, bring these submerged thoughts and emotions to the surface. The passing of my dad has made me feel suddenly a lot older and also, more vulnerable. I am now the eldest male in our direct family. I am the “Godfather” if you like. It’s a sobering thought.
No sooner had I started to come to terms a little bit with the sad loss of my father, than I was recently hit with another significant family event with its accompanying swirl of emotions. My son’s wife gave birth to their first child, a boy. So I am a granddad again. I already have 3 lovely grand-daughters , the children of my eldest daughter and her partner. Now I am delighted to have a grandson. He made his first appearance in the world just 5 weeks after my dad passed out of it. It’s a pity they didn’t get to meet. I know my dad would have been thrilled to see his latest Great Grandchild. But it wasn’t to be. Time marches on, as does our family. A new addition has now been posted at the bottom of the tree. I hope he lives a long, happy and fulfilling life. Soon my wife and myself will travel down to say hello to the latest arrival. It’s a wonderful development for the family.
I remember when I met my first grandchild and held her in my arms at the hospital. I was thrilled of course but I distinctly recall saying to myself: “Blimey! — I’ve just moved up a generation!” That feeling is doubly reinforced today. The arrival of my grandson so soon after the departure of my father has made me contemplate my position in the family and my place on the family tree. That famous television programme is actually very well named — recent family developments have made me acutely aware of who I think I am. My current feelings about both of the recent events strongly remind me that I am a link in an endless chain of love that passes seamlessly from generation to generation. A loving “goodbye” has been swiftly succeeded by an equally loving “hello.”

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Forgetting.

29 Mar

I’ve always had this fear of dropping out of existence, of going into the void. It’s a fear I share with many other human beings but which we manage to keep secret most of the time. It’s called the fear of death. We don’t like to talk about it or even think of it, but it pops into one’s mind more and more as one gets older. What’s so bad about death? It’s an escape from all the problems and stresses of life. You could see it as everlasting freedom from worry and pain. But it also represents oblivion, a state where you are not conscious of your own existence. It’s when you cease to be. Once your body has perished your only chance of living on is in the minds of others who are still alive. Photos, belongings, writings, songs, and places that represent your shared experiences with them, can all trigger memories. Like a genie from a bottle, a departed person can be conjured back into existence , even if only for a few moments.
It’s strange therefore that some people are so careless with their memories of others. It is often a case of “out of sight, out of mind.” To forget is to put someone out of one’s mind, to cease to think of him or her. What concerns me is that this forgetting does not only take place after someone has died. We move house or move jobs and suddenly whole hosts of people who were our neighbours, colleagues or even “friends”, drop out of our lives because the regular point of contact is not there anymore. We may make an effort to keep in touch for a while but unless a person is an especially close friend, one we have bonded with, the connection will slowly wither away on the vine if not nourished by regular contact. How many times have you swapped addresses and email details with people who you have met and got on with on holiday, only to never see or have anything to do with them again. People get sucked back into their everyday lives, and if you are not part of that daily world, the danger is that you will be eventually forgotten.
I know I cannot be friends with everyone I meet and like. If my life is an island, there is only room for so many on the shore. Constantly trying to add people will end up with others being forced back into the sea. Time and energy constraints ensure that one will usually end up with a practical, manageable number of friends and acquaintances. (I’m talking about real friends in the flesh, not virtual “friends” on Facebook and other social media.) However, this does not stop me from feeling sad when a connection is dropped and abandoned. I know it sounds dramatic, but to me it is a kind of death. Being pushed out of another’s life is a big step towards being forgotten altogether. It’s sort of being consigned to oblivion. I have always been sensitive about rejection. I’ve been too sensitive, in fact, for my own good. Two or three times in my life I have been “dumped” by women I loved and who I thought loved me. It went from “I love you” and “I’ll always be there for you” to ” I don’t love you anymore” and “I never want to see you again!” It was hard to bear at the time. It was a kind of death. In that woman’s mind I would largely cease to exist. On one of those occasions, after being dropped by a lover, I wrote melodramatically in my diary, that “I felt like a discarded toy left in the corner of the playroom.” One can go from loving and caring about someone intensely, to not even knowing whether that same person is dead or alive. I have found this difficult to cope with but have had to accept this as a hard, realistic part of life. It’s what some people glibly describe as “moving on”, as if people are like places passed through on a long journey.
But death and time are the major reasons why most people are forgotten. They say that within two generations of passing away, in most cases, nobody will remember you. It’s as if your whole life has just been swallowed up into a vacuum and lost in time. At the moment (2014) the British nation is making a special effort to remember those who perished in the First World War. The last combatants from the UK have now all passed into history. I remember the very last British “Fighting Tommy”, Harry Patch, finally dying in 2009, aged 111. He was feted because of that war and because he was the final survivor. He had a high profile funeral covered by TV and press. However, what about the millions of other service men and women on all sides who died before him? They lie in well tended but largely forgotten graves or their bodies were never found because they were blown to bits. I recently wandered around a deserted graveyard in mid Northumberland ( Chevington cemetery near Acklington) which contains neat rows of gravestones of airmen who perished in accidents or in combat in the skies over North-East England during the Second World War. All of them were in their twenties. They came from: England, New Zealand, Poland and Australia. In another section were about 6 rows of German graves, again all desperately young men. It was a very poignant experience wandering amongst them, trying to imagine their lives and how they ended. I wonder how many of their present day relatives have their photos displayed on the mantelpiece or their belongings kept safe in a special place? They are now at least 4 generations back. Are they still actively remembered or have they disappeared into the mists of time? My friend Colin, who took me there, has a great interest in military history especially that of the RAF. He read to me from a book which described all the fatal air-crashes in Northumberland during the Battle of Britain. Spitfires accidently clipping each other while on a training flight and plunging into a field. Bombers returning from a mission in thick fog and crashing into a wood, or, in one case, demolishing a church. It was sad to be at the place where these tragedies occurred and to see the grave-stones of those concerned. But I couldn’t help wondering how many times, if any, these graves have been visited by those who knew or knew of them. Colin’s book was entitled “Almost Forgotten”. I think, except for a few history buffs and war researchers, we can safely omit the first word from that title.
Coincidentally, the Sunday Times of the previous weekend featured an article headlined : “Lying Cold and Alone.” The writer talked about a huge graveyard on the edge of Berlin- the Neur Garnisionsfriedhof cemetery ( Hope I got that spelling right.). It contained the graves of 7,200 young German soldiers who died in the First World War. The grave- stones were clean, and the grass around them was neatly mown. However the whole place was deserted and not a single flower was laid on any of the ranks of monuments. When the writer mentioned the name of the war cemetery to his Berliner friends, they had never even heard of it! It seems that the First World War is Germany’s forgotten war. Not much is being done to commemorate its centenary compared to the many events being planned in Britain and France. The main reason, apart from the sheer passage of time, is because the horrors subsequently perpetrated by Hitler and the Nazis in the Second World War have all but obliterated memories of the earlier conflict. Whatever the reason, the result is the same — all these people are now all but forgotten.
Shocking though it may seem, some people deliberately sabotage the memorabilia of their departed relatives. I recently saw a documentary ( “Hidden Histories — photographs” on BBC 4) which featured a dustman in Sussex who had accumulated a large collection of: photos, letters, medals and other personal documents from soldiers in the 1914-18 war that had simply been thrown away into the trash by the younger generations of their families. He had started his collection in the days before black bin bags so that when he emptied a bin he could clearly see its contents. Shocked by what he saw, he took one box of personal effects back to the house, thinking that the people had thrown its contents out in error. But when they opened the door they were irritated and clearly indicated to him that they wanted rid of the stuff. Maybe I am being over sentimental but I am shocked that precious mementoes of someone’s life can be deliberately consigned to the dust-bin. There again, I have heard several stories of recently deceased people’s belongings being sorted into three piles — stuff to be kept, stuff for the charity shop and stuff for the skip! Although I know one cannot keep everything just for the sake of it and it is important not to live in too much clutter, I still shudder at the thought of my relatives possibly binning my belonging after I’m gone, as if they’re wiping me out of existence. I know I’m being impractical. We cannot expect our surviving relatives to live like Miss Havershams in Great Expectations.
When I was in Vietnam I visited historical houses that contained shrines to the departed. This is because of the religion of ancestor worship. The dead are respected, honoured and remembered on a regular basis. I think this is a lovely tradition. It’s much preferable to throwing their belongings ( and memories of them) into the bin. In a previous blog I have mentioned about writing to leave a sort of legacy. I don’t think that famous politicians like Churchill, Thatcher or Blair should have a monopoly over this sort of thing. The recently departed and much loved ( or hated) Tony Benn has his entertaining and insightful diaries to perpetuate his memory. I write a diary too as well as producing this blog. I have also written my memoirs for what they’re worth!. It’s all ultra-egotistical I know. However I feel compelled to do it because I dread the thought of being forgotten and passing into oblivion. It’s a futile fight against the inevitable. I know I’ll lose. In a TV drama I have just watched ( “In Treatment” ) a character, who had just attended a funeral, commented “In the end there is only silence.” That sounds terrifying but it could also be thought of wonderfully peaceful! The point is that neither emotion is relevant because consciousness for the departed person has stopped. It comforts and consoles me to think there could be an alternative to the frightening finality of the above statement. It would run something like: “In the end there is only memory.” It cheers me to think that I might live on in the minds of others, at least for a while. ( Maybe a couple of generations if I’m lucky.)

The Circle Game.

20 Jan

Another one of my friends has very sadly died. Brian was 67 and I sang with him in Whitby Community Choir. He was a fellow bass and a lovely person to know.

 As they carried his flower-decked coffin into the packed chapel, they played Joni Mitchell’s “The Circle Game.” It’s a song that I know and love, but up to that moment I never fully appreciated what the lyrics meant. I had vaguely thought of it as being about the passage of time, with the seasons constantly turning round. However, I didn’t quite grasp, or didn’t wish to grasp, that it’s also about the inexorable process of ageing with its inevitable conclusion in death. The most chilling lines, I think, are:

       ” We’re captive on the carousel of time,

          We can’t return, we can only look behind

          from where we came….. ”

 It is the fatalism expressed here that is so dispiriting, I feel. It’s depressing to realize that we are trapped in an unalterable process. When I first heard these words, in my early twenties, I didn’t think about them too deeply, as I was armed with the arrogance of youth. I had my whole adult life still before me and didn’t want to get depressed by thinking of the inevitability of my demise. Death is something we largely avoid thinking about in our Western culture, unless we are suddenly confronted by the passing away of someone close to us or we fall victim of a life-threatening illness. Then we shed tears, and get sad, upset and depressed, even though we have known all along that death is one of the few certain aspects of life. What disturbs me is the fact that we have no control over this process. It’s just nature taking its course. As Joni says: we are “captives” of time. Our personal clocks are constantly ticking.

  At Brian’s funeral there were rousing hymns, prayers and eulogies. Even though people were crying and had sad, sombre faces, the service was billed as a “celebration” of his eventful life. Anecdotes, quotes, stories and songs, all brought Brian back to life again as we remembvered our times with him, and appreciated all the lives he had touched. Even though he wasn’t physically amongst us, he was still a powerful emotional presence. We were connecting to him once again through our warm memories. This served to lift the mood of sadness and fatalism that had accompanied me at the start of the service.

 The concept of a circle is very appropriate in thinking of our lives and deaths. First of all, there is the natural cycle of us returning to the earth from which we came via the burying of our bodies or scattering of our ashes. In this way, by enriching the soil, a death can lead to new life.

  Another circle, believed by Buddhists, Hindus and Sikhs, is the cycle of the soul — in other words the process of reincarnation. Here death is not the end, but merely a prelude to a new beginning. The circle turns again as the soul leaves one spent body and enters another one in order to live a new life. This constant rotation will only end, it is believed, when a person can finally shed his/her ego and unite once again with “God.” Believers in past-lives also subscribe to this notion of birth-death- and rebirth. This idea sees life as cyclical rather than linear.

  Yet another idea is that of the ” social circle.” Most of us reside in the centre of a constant, swirling circle of social interactions. These encounters can be both direct and indirect. They can take the form of : one to one meetings, telephone conversations, letters, texts and emails. On a wider, less personal scale, we also interact with people who we have never met. Thus we may read a book that someone else has written, listen to a recording of someone else’s song or even cook a meal devised by a chef we have necer met. TV programmes, films and plays also contribute to our wider circle of interactions with others. Our lives consist of constant encounters with others that spread from the centre. It is only when this whirl of interactions stops that we can say that life has finally ceased. However, as we experienced at Brian’s funeral/ celebration, not even the apparant finality of death can prevent this circle of connections from rotating, because it continues to turn in the memories of those left behind. Whenever I listen to a String Quartet by Beethovan or read a novel by Jane Austin they live again even though technically they passed away a long time ago. Similarly when I look at a photo of my Grandma Alice or recall visits to her house when I was a child, she returns to life in my mind.

  So, although in a purely physical sense we are all “captives on a carousel of time”, in another sense, through the recollections of all those we interact with, directly or indirectly, we can defy the clock and live on indefinitely. This is especially true if one is a particularly social animal. Brian met many people through his teaching, singing, choir leading, play writing, acting, cycling and charity working. So he lives on in the minds of all those he taught, entertained and helped as well as in the hearts and minds of his family. Brian’s personal participation in the circle game has now sadly ended, but the circles still surround him like  ripples in a pool — circulating memories activated by the many memory-joggers that he left behind. I made the same point about the importance of memory when I wrote about the death of another friend, Clive, a couple of years ago. That made me realize why ancestor-worship, was/is so prevalent in Ancient China and South-East Asia. By keeping pictures and mementoes in family shrines, a family can keep the memory of their departed relative alive.

  This is perhaps why a funeral is traditionally followed by a “wake” in our culture. I’ve never thought about that word before — “wake.” Now it seems obvious. The friends and family of the recently departed, resurrect or wake-up him/her through their shared stories and memories. Perhaps death is not just one big full- stop afterall. The circle game swirls on and on and on. From being depressed about the inevitability and finality of it all, I now find it all quite comforting and reassuring.

On Grief and Caring.

6 Aug

When someone close to me found out that people were gossiping about a serious misfortune, it led to the following memorable phrase being uttered through the resultant sobs:” They care, but they don’t really care!” These people were well-meaning and DID care to a certain extant. However, they weren’t close in so the unhappy development had been relegated to an interesting topic of conversation, squashed inbetween the weather and what was on TV last night. This is perhaps a bit oversensitive and unfair, but that phrase does have a lot of truth in it I feel and keeps reverberating round my head.
When a sad or tragic event occurs, the only people who care deeply are those intimately involved. The other gradations of caring, slowly but inevitably lessen according to how close to the situation a person happens to be. A sad event is like a stone plunging into a pool. One minute the water is smooth and calm, but the next minute, the sudden, shocking arrival of the stone causes a hole to violate that serene surface. Then ripples fan out from the centre in wider and weaker circles. So it is with life. One moment everythingg is smooth, placid and happy, but the unexpected arrival of a tragic event shatters this contentment and creates a deep and painful void. Others however are merely rippled or ruffled by fleeting feelings of sadness and sympathy. The event or the person is discussed, cards, letters or emails are despatched ( all no doubt well-meaning), but then it’s only human nature for these people to want to get on with their lives.
I know we cannot care or grieve for everyone. That would leave us all exhausted, emotional wrecks! In this age of instant, world-wide communication and 24 hour, rolling news , we get to hear about all the: droughts, floods, crashes, wars, atrocities and murders. What can we do apart from talk aboutan awful event, find out about it on the news and perhaps donate to a charity which is trying to help? We care in a superficial, generalised way, but then the protective barriers slide down in our minds and we get on with our day-to-day lives rather than allowing ourselves to become paralysed with grief. I have done this filtering- out process myself. While recently looking up the details of a friend’s tragic accident on a certain stratch of road, I completely ignored other fatalities on the same stretch of road in the very same week, that were revealed in the Google search. This selectivity is understandable as it would be impoosible to properly grieve and mourn all the people who have died in our own town let alone the whole world! It would be overwhelming.
However, then come the exceptions to this rule. We do seem to care more if a lot of people perish at the same time in the same place such as on so called 9/ 11 in New York or in the terrible Asian tsunamis. These events are so shocking that they dominate our headlines and saturate out television screens until the next big event displaces them.
The other exception is when a “Royal” or a “Celeb” dies. For some reason, probably because of our all pervasive and persuasive media, these deaths are deemed more important than those of “ordinary” folk. I felt sorry for the friends and family of the singer Amy Winehouse after it was discovered that she had died alone aged only 27. But was this more tragic than the sudden death of my dear friend, C, on the same weekend? There will be no outpouring of public grief for C, no headlines and public tributes, no turning of his home or grave into a “shrine.” Again, maybe I’m being a bit unfair and irrational, but it seems that there is inequality in death as well as in life.
The vicarious grieving for deceased Royals or celebrities,or for the victims of dramatic, newsworthy events, is at first difficult to fathom. I was flabbergasted to learn that a colleague at my school had spent her entire weekend travelling down to London from the North-East, to deposit flowers at Princess Diana’s “shrine” after that tragic Parisian car crash. Maybe my colleague was genuinely shocked and saddened, as were thousands of others up and down the country, but maybe also, she wanted to be part of a “national” and so-called “historical” event.
Vicarious grieving probably performs an important function in our society. It acts as a safety valve. As we cannot grieve for everybody without breakiing down, we instead grieve for certain “chosen ones” who are the representatives of everybody. It’s practical and understandable, but it can get pretty ridiculous in my view. I have heard of people who grieved for The Archers’ character Nigel, who fatally fell off a roof, and who then tuned into his “funeral” in hushed silence.

I am grieving at the moment. A very close friend has died. He has been abruptly snatched away from me and the others who loved, like and respected him. I know my grief is real and not vicarious.
My loss has revealed that I don’t really have have any religious belief. My lost friend probably agreed with me as he was given a Humanist funeral ceremony. I don’t think he is in heaven, where I can join him later. To me, he has just disappeared into a black hole.
I am going through all the usual emotions of: shock, disbelief, denial, anger and most of all, a deep lingering sadness. Once again, the range of people’s reactions to the news has been very revealing. When I told a mutual friend about the loss of a very special person, he was in tears. That upset me as it replicated how I felt inside. The pop lyric: “Raining in My Heart” now has a potent new significance. On the other hand, when my wife told one of her friends about our loss, the friend automatically expressed sympathy but then quickly changed the subject. She cared , but she didn’t really care!
When i was just 17, my dear Grandma Alice died. I was very close to her. We had a special bond. Even though I was supposed to be a rebellious teenager, I still visited Grandme most weekends, usually staying over on both Friday and Saturday nights. One weekend I couldn’t stay through to the Sunday and during the night, Grandma passed away in her sleep. Back then, I had a completey different reaction and coping mechanism. I was shielded from seeing her body and then I refused to go to the funeral. I explained that in my view, it would be full of mourners who did not know real Alice, as I did. I refused to subject myself to such “hypocracy.” This I suppose was an extreme reaction. I was shocked and distressed by the sudden loss of my Grandma, but dealt with it by burying the grief deep inside me. I then vented irrational fury at the poor people who were turning up to respect and remember her! In other words, I never got past the “head-in-the-sand” denial stage, my surface thoughts and feelings being taken over by a warped and unfair anger.
Only 20 years later, while talking to a friend who had been through a similar experience, did I finally release the feelings that were trapped inside me. My heart opened and an endless torrent of love poured out, connecting me once again to my long-lost grandma. Amidst the tears I felt she was back with me again and it made the “loss” easier to bear. I still feel connected today and often think of her.
That was over 40 years ago. In the interim period I have been lucky in that I have not suffered much loss of loved ones in my life. I was shaken up a few years ago by the premature death of a friend on a Lakeside fell. I went to his funeral and joined the choir that we had both been members of, in singing 2 of his favourite songs. I did some writing about him and thought about him a lot. I’m pleased that this time, I didn’t go into denial and pretend, like a child might pretend, that he had just moved away.
Now comes the loss of an even closer friend, C. We did lots of things together, supported each other through thick and thin, and even lived at each other’s homes in periods of traumatic marital and relationship breakdown. It’s hard to accept that C has suddenly died. But I know he will no longer ring, write or turn up at the door. He has disappeared into the void. That’s how I see it — it’s just a vast nothingness that has suddenly swallowed up my dear friend.
Buddhists must laugh at us for getting so upset about a death. Why get worked up by the one thing in life that is inevitable? Some cultures view death as a happy event as it has released the deceased from the trials and tribulations of life. I think of the joyous, jazzy funeral processions in New Orleans. A friend has suggested that death is like a door that opens to let one through but which then slams shut on all the problems and worries that have been plagueing one through life. In other words : death can be seen as both a release and a relief. This is a comforting notion. Hindus and Sikhs believe in re-incarnation and that if a person is really good, he or she will eventually merge with the “Divine Being” or whatever they call god. I’m not sure sure about Muslims, but I think that like Christians, they believe in Heaven and Hell. The native Americans believed in the after-life of the “Happy hunting grounds” so were not frightened about the prospect of getting killed in battle against the invading whites. Just about everyone seems to agree that death is NOT the end.It is really a new beginning they say. So why are many people in the “West” so distraught when a loved one dies? Could it be that like me, they don’t REALLY believe? It is difficult contemplating oblivion, so we invent all these screens — religion, spiritualism, ghosts etc — to distract ( or delude) ourselves and hide its finality away from our minds.( or we just keep being “busy.”)
So, I am grieving and doesn’t everyone know about it? I have been accused of self- indulgence to which I plead “guilty.” But what I’m trying to do is to buck the trend. I don’t want to avoid thinking, talking or writing about death because it is a “depressing” subject.( as I did back when I was 17.) Neither do I wish to put my head in the sand about my own mortality, as I have done for most of my life.
In a way, I believe that my lost friends and relatives have not really gone because they live on in my memories of them. That’s why I think a funeral should be about the celebration of a life rather than wallowing in misery about a death. One’s loved ones are vitally important in death as well as life. For it is through them and their memories that one lives on — even after death! To them you are much more than a fading photograph or a name and some dates on a family tree.
That is why LOVE, in my opinion, is the most important thing in the World. It sustains us in life and it sustains us in death. Earlier I was very unfair about those whom I said “didn’t care”. When a person dies, it is the people who love him/her who really care. The rest are just getting on with their hectic lives. But one day, they will genuinely care and grieve too. It comes to us all!