One year on
Oct. 14th, 2009 11:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stephbgToday I joined my parents and Middle Sister for a visit (pilgrimage?) to the family memorial at Karrakatta Cemetary, where a plaque has been placed to mark BB's passing one year ago, as the great grandson of the man buried there long ago. It was a good thing.
The plaque has been in place for quite some time, but I haven't visited before. I have not avoided it exactly, but felt there was nothing of BB there to visit; it was just words in brass and stone. I felt much closer to him at the beach, which he loved, and that's what I did yesterday. I made sure I got a good lungful of smelly seaweed and cuttlefish, just like the little stinky bag of seaside I took to him in hospital that last night.
When we scattered his ashes (in the ocean, of course) we also scattered some Kimberly dirt and beach sand from Cable Beach. At the same time I released that little bag of smells I'd taken to him in hospital, as the last piece of ocean he'd touched. Rituals make themselves.
So today I wondered if I would take another pinch of red dirt and beach sand to the cemetary marker. In the end I decided against it for the same reason I had not felt the need to visit the marker in the first place. It wasn't *his* place; he had no attachment to it in life, and in death his attachments are in our hearts and minds, and in the places and people he loved. I would have felt more comfortable rubbing that dirt on the faces of friends and family members, and dancing around a fire. Possibly singing Khe San and drinking beer, but there's something honest in such apparently primitive acts. The land is important (to some more than others), and you become a part of it when you die.
So I took no earth to the cemetary, but instead picked a bright yellow wildflower from my garden. That was the right thing to do, particularly as the family plot was in the older more rustic part of the grounds. It was much more like a bush paddock than a well tended manor garden. The original walled grave had been seeded by some lovely pink flower which made it stand out in glowing contrast to the plain or weedy graves all around. In violation of cemetary rules about planting flowers, these had taken it up themselves to decorate this one memorial (with a few escaping next door).
We picked out the fallen leaves and pine needles and generally tidied up the area. We all know how to pull weeds. And while it's true that I still had no sense of BB being there himself--apart from that which we carried ourselves-- what I felt very strongly was the presence of Family. This place, this ritual, was one for the generations. He belonged there as the last of the line. We spoke about the events of BB's last day, and traded one or two anecdotes and friendly insults, and it was a positive experience.
At that end of the cemetary it's no longer clear where graves begin or end, so inevitabley you found yourself potentially walking over someone's remains. There are a range of possible reactions to this; my sister kept saying sorry as though stepping on the toes of commuters. I just tried to maintain a general tone of respect when walking lightly on suspect sacred ground.
Then back to the folk's place for cups of tea, more family history, and trade in medical stories. It was all right. Big Sister and London-Based Sister couldn't make it today, but I hope they'll read this and get something of a feel for the morning. It wasn't a form of goodbye; we did that last year. It was a form of welcome home to meet the family shades.
For me personally I felt something of a lightening of the load, and the confidence that I can move forward.
The plaque has been in place for quite some time, but I haven't visited before. I have not avoided it exactly, but felt there was nothing of BB there to visit; it was just words in brass and stone. I felt much closer to him at the beach, which he loved, and that's what I did yesterday. I made sure I got a good lungful of smelly seaweed and cuttlefish, just like the little stinky bag of seaside I took to him in hospital that last night.
When we scattered his ashes (in the ocean, of course) we also scattered some Kimberly dirt and beach sand from Cable Beach. At the same time I released that little bag of smells I'd taken to him in hospital, as the last piece of ocean he'd touched. Rituals make themselves.
So today I wondered if I would take another pinch of red dirt and beach sand to the cemetary marker. In the end I decided against it for the same reason I had not felt the need to visit the marker in the first place. It wasn't *his* place; he had no attachment to it in life, and in death his attachments are in our hearts and minds, and in the places and people he loved. I would have felt more comfortable rubbing that dirt on the faces of friends and family members, and dancing around a fire. Possibly singing Khe San and drinking beer, but there's something honest in such apparently primitive acts. The land is important (to some more than others), and you become a part of it when you die.
So I took no earth to the cemetary, but instead picked a bright yellow wildflower from my garden. That was the right thing to do, particularly as the family plot was in the older more rustic part of the grounds. It was much more like a bush paddock than a well tended manor garden. The original walled grave had been seeded by some lovely pink flower which made it stand out in glowing contrast to the plain or weedy graves all around. In violation of cemetary rules about planting flowers, these had taken it up themselves to decorate this one memorial (with a few escaping next door).
We picked out the fallen leaves and pine needles and generally tidied up the area. We all know how to pull weeds. And while it's true that I still had no sense of BB being there himself--apart from that which we carried ourselves-- what I felt very strongly was the presence of Family. This place, this ritual, was one for the generations. He belonged there as the last of the line. We spoke about the events of BB's last day, and traded one or two anecdotes and friendly insults, and it was a positive experience.
At that end of the cemetary it's no longer clear where graves begin or end, so inevitabley you found yourself potentially walking over someone's remains. There are a range of possible reactions to this; my sister kept saying sorry as though stepping on the toes of commuters. I just tried to maintain a general tone of respect when walking lightly on suspect sacred ground.
Then back to the folk's place for cups of tea, more family history, and trade in medical stories. It was all right. Big Sister and London-Based Sister couldn't make it today, but I hope they'll read this and get something of a feel for the morning. It wasn't a form of goodbye; we did that last year. It was a form of welcome home to meet the family shades.
For me personally I felt something of a lightening of the load, and the confidence that I can move forward.
