I am about to — or I am going to — die: either expression is correct.
~~ Dominique Bouhours, French grammarian, d. 1702
Posted by celebrant Evelyn Temple
THE HOUSE IS NOT THE SAME SINCE YOU LEFT
BY HENRY NORMAL
The house is not the same since you left
The cooker is angry – it blames me
The TV tries desperately to stay busy
But occasionally I catch it staring out of the window
The washing-up’s feeling sorry for itself again
It just sits there saying “What’s the point, what’s the point?
The curtains count the days
Nothing in the house will talk to me
I think your armchair’s dead
The kettle tried to comfort me at first
But you know what its attention span is like
I’ve not told the plants yet
They think you’re still on holiday
The bathroom misses you
I hardly see it these days
It still can’t believe you didn’t take it with you
The bedroom won’t even look at me
Since you left it, it keeps its eyes closed
All it wants to do is sleep
Remembering better times
Trying to lose itself in dreams
It seems like it’s taken the easy way out
But at night
I hear the pillows weeping into the sheets.
“Am I dying or is this my birthday?”
Lady Nancy Astor, d. 1964
When she woke briefly during her last illness and found all her family around her bedside.
Posted by Lyra Mollington
I had been determined to talk to my family about my funeral, but as Easter Sunday progressed it was becoming increasingly clear that there wasn’t going to be a suitable lull in the conversation. Our family, especially the grandchildren, are talkers. They certainly don’t take after Grandpa. Mr Mollington has to be gently coaxed into revealing his innermost thoughts – and his surface thoughts. And I’m not terribly fond of coaxing, gently or otherwise.
However, I made a discovery. I have more in common with my death-metal grandson, Sebastian, (Baz to his friends) than I realised. When he’s not listening to bands like The Soulless or training for his next kick-boxing fight (or Muay Thai as he calls it) he’s thinking of other ways to torment his mum and dad. Which it transpires is extremely easy. He’s also a landscape gardener which is not what they had in mind when he did a degree in accountancy.
His mum (my daughter Jamie) was talking about the commercialisation of Easter and saying, ‘It’s Christmas all over again.’ I was just about to comment that her theology was slightly muddled when Seb piped up that the true meaning of Easter (‘and for that matter Christmas’) was to be found in its pagan roots. Indeed, by eating chocolate eggs and rabbits (rather a lot I noticed) he declared he was celebrating the spring festival as it was meant to be celebrated. He said all this in a quite brilliant accent that I can only describe as a variant of Cockney. The words ‘innit?’ and ‘know-what-I-mean?’ featured strongly. Again not at all what his mum and dad had in mind when they paid for him to be privately educated.
A lively discussion followed about paganism; ‘keeping it real’; and how his parents’ generation (‘no disrespect’) have messed up the planet. I listened.
You see, I had realised something extremely important. My children, Jamie and Alex, aren’t the ones I should be talking to about my funeral – it’s Seb, my grandson. In fact I think all the grandchildren are much more comfortable talking about death than their parents.
The following day, I phoned him to ask what he thought about Grandma Lyra being buried in the woods. The jokey accent returned and he exclaimed, ‘Are you for real Grandma? That’s well sick!’ Which he assured me is ‘excellent’. To begin with I found his enthusiasm slightly unsettling but he is such a lovely boy with a heart of gold.
Later that day, he popped round and by the end of our little chat all thoughts of being cremated had gone right out of my head. I am going to be buried – ‘pagan-stylie’. And defo no mdf coffin – instead I will have a burial shroud made from wool. (As he pointed out, I am very fond of my woollen cardies.) All the grandchildren will carry me. If they can’t handle it, then he and his mates will! No probs. And no double-depth grave.
But there is one thing I had to promise him. Any further research about funerals would be for fun. From now on it was to be Grandma’s unusual hobby. My own funeral arrangements were done and dusted.
I can relax – I will be safe in the hands of the people I love most in the world. As Seb pointed out, ‘Grandma, in the words of Metallica, nothing else matters.’
Posted by Vale
As the government launches its health and safety ‘myth squad’ we look back to the days when public health documents didn’t mince their words. Prepare for the Ride of Death:
This manual for bike riders identified the risk these innocent youngsters faced as they rode their bicycles with ghoulish relish:
You can read the whole manual here.
Posted by Vale
It happens so often: you sit with someone for hours or, sometimes, days yet the person you have accompanied with so much love and care chooses to die the moment you leave the room. This is Dianne Fahey’s poem about the experience.
(i)
We, your children, were there
In other rooms
And my mother beside you;
Yet you died
Without witnesses…
Was that how you wished it,
Death’s ultimate privacy?
So clear and frail you lay
Jaw set in closure,
the drama consummated.
I was the one who’d known
inside my bones
how far from death,
and when you would go.
But, guiltily tired,
I kept no vigil,
Was called from dreams
by my brother. All of us
Kept watch for a while
slept again.
(ii)
Long ago.
You’d let me sleep,
An exhausted eight year old,
rather than take myself to mass.
Unversed in mortal sin,
you’d calmed my sorrow
saying, ‘God will understand’ –
unwaveringly as if you knew.
Once only did you use that word,
eschewing fixities
Though prey to restless doubt.
Later you’d ask
did I ever wonder
what it was all about,
your mind working at
puzzles, painful memories.
You anchored yourself
in what you had learnt,
the knowledge of what you must do.
Out of innocence,
a quietly difficult life,
you shaped a wisdom
And inherit the reward of seeking:
the gift of a good death
You can find more of Diane Fahey’s poetry here.
Posted by Vale
A favourite – even hackneyed – funeral song. The words really work though – and it’s the only possible accompaniment to this short video of some of the tributes at Graham Chapman’s memorial service. Was this – as John Cleese claims – really the first f*** at a memorial service?
Some things in life are bad
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse
When you’re chewing on life’s gristle
Don’t grumble, give a whistle
And this’ll help things turn out for the best
And…
Always look on the bright side of life (whistle)
Always look on the light side of life (whistle)
If life seems jolly rotten
There’s something you’ve forgotten
And that’s to laugh and smile and dance and sing
When you’re feeling in the dumps
Don’t be silly chumps
Just purse your lips and whistle – that’s the thing
And…
Always look on the bright side of life… (whistle)
Come on!
Always look on the bright side of life… (whistle)
For life is quite absurd
And death’s the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow
Forget about your sin – give the audience a grin
Enjoy it – it’s your last chance anyhow
So always look on the bright side of death (whistle)
Just before you draw your terminal breath (whistle)
Life’s a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life’s a laugh and death’s a joke, it’s true
You’ll see it’s all a show
Keep ’em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you
And always look on the bright side of life
Always look on the right side of life (whistle)
Always look on the bright side of life (whistle)
Always look on the bright side of life (whistle)
Mozart’s health has fascinated observers for over two hundred years. The documents have examined to reveal every available medical detail. Any mention of a cough or an ache has been minutely analysed for evidence about the diseases he suffered and the mystery illness that killed him at the tender age of 35. But is this intense scrutiny is obscuring our picture of Mozart? Over 160 different causes of death, alone, have now been suggested. Professor Winston sifts through the morass of information and speculation to discover what Mozart’s health can really tell us about the man and his music.
Professor Robert Winston brings a scientist’s ear to his passion for music, exploring the medical histories of great composers and how illness affected the music they wrote.
Caught this the other day – sadly it’s the last in the series, so in case you missed it too and have always wondered how a relatively young man could die whilst composing ‘Requiem’……
You can catch the episode here if you’re quick – or just listen to the piece itself!
Posted by Belinda Forbes
The sun is shining again here in leafy Berkshire. The mourners no longer need to huddle for warmth in the crematorium waiting room. The cruel winter wind that has been whipping across the chapel entrance is now a gentle breeze. Unfortunately, I’m allergic to tree pollen so it’s not all good news.
Although I am a secular funeral celebrant, I’m often asked if a hymn is‘allowed’. The most common reason people give for requesting hymns at an essentially non-religious funeral is that they want to sing something. And for many people the thought of singing something secular is just too daunting. It is possible of course and we’ve sung along to Always Look on The Bright Side of Life (works best with two or three extroverts leading the singing from the front); Danny Boy and the fiendishly difficult Bridge Over Troubled Water amongst others.
By far the most common hymn requested by my clients is All Things Bright & Beautiful closely followed by Morning Has Broken. A love of nature andgardening or a desire to have something that ‘isn’t too depressing or sombre’ are the usual reasons given.
One brave family whose late mother adored her garden asked if we could sing, In An English Country Garden. They didn’t want a choir and all the versions recorded with vocals were either unsuitable or tricky to sing along to. So we opted for an instrumental version recorded by the Albion Song Society. To my surprise and delight it went remarkably well. With a little practice (at home with an understanding friend) to get the timing right, we discovered that it’s easier to sing than All Things Bright & Beautiful. If any celebrants or choirs out there would like to give it a go, here are the words:
Percy Grainger’s An English Country Garden
How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some buy cialis via paypal that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Daffodils, heart’s ease and phlox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks
Gentian, lupin and tall hollyhocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, forget-me-nots
In an English country garden.
How many insects come here and go
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Fireflies, moths, and bees
Spiders climbing in the trees
Butterflies drift in the gentle breeze
There are snails, ants that sting
And other creeping things
In an English country garden.
How many songbirds fly to and fro
In an English country garden?
We’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you’ll surely pardon
Blackbird, cuckoo and quail
Robin and turtle dove
Bluetit, lark, thrush and nightingale
There is joy in the spring
When the birds begin to sing
In an English country garden.
For those gardeners who would prefer a little more realism, there’s this version of All Things Bright & Beautiful:
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful
The Lord God made them all.
But what we never mention
Though gardeners know it’s true
Is when he made the goodies
He made the baddies too
All things spray and swattable
Disasters great and small
All things paraquattable
The Lord God made them all
The fungus on the goose-gogs
The club root on the greens
The slugs that eat the lettuce
And chew the aubergines
All things spray…
The drought that kills the fuchsias
The frost that nips the buds
The rain that drowns the seedlings
The blight that hits the spuds
All things spray…
The midges and mosquitoes
The nettles and the weeds
The pigeons in the green stuff
The sparrows on the seeds
All things spray…
The fly that gets the carrots
The wasp that eat the plums
How black the gardener’s outlook
Though green may be his thumbs
All things spray…
But still we gardeners labour
Midst vegetables and flowers
And pray what hits our neighbours
Will somehow bypass ours
All things spray…
Posted by Richard Rawlinson
…Venus and Mars and all that: relations between those with and those without faith can get prickly, something which inevitably affects discussion of funeral ritual and belief in the afterlife.
Two small pleasures of posting here are occasional positive feedback, and amicable sparring when there’s polite disagreement. A more shameful pleasure is gleened from niggling an intemperate minority who would prefer it everyone spelt God and Christian without the capital G and C.
This situation is clearly a microcosm of the wider debate about religion. Yes, crackpot Creationists get up people’s noses. Yes, some atheists are militant, too. But there’s plenty of common ground to be explored between the moderate majority.
The gist of a typical argument now is:
A: ‘Only a brain-washed idiot could fail to realise that God is a delusion.’
B: ‘Well, I believe in God, and I don’t consider myself a brain-washed idiot, so I don’t think I can agree with you there.’
A: ‘See, I said you were brain-washed’.
Inane stuff, eh? The root of the problem is mutual suspicion that we’re trying to change each other’s attitudes. Of course we debate because we want others to understand our world view, but we’re also realistic enough not to expect to change minds. But does this mean a debate that transcends name-calling is not worthwhile?
For an example of a reasonably good-natured and illuminating discussion between an atheist and believer, check out the below link to BeliefNet. Hats off to Sam Harris for choosing to debate not with a loony literalist but with a thoughtful Christian like Andrew Sullivan.
http://www.beliefnet.com/
