Last week was a week of recognition of a life well lived. The life of a quiet gentleman. My Uncle Robin. Rockin’ Robin. Dizzy. (And no, I don’t know why he was called Dizzy. The Uncle Robin I knew was the opposite of Dizzy. Maybe it was one of those weird Aussie nicknames- like when you call the guy with the red hair Bluey.)

We took some time out of our usual life to be elsewhere- in minds and in bodies and in emotions. We took a break in normal programming to simply be with each other, Mum and I, and all of those who loved him best.

It was a guiltysad funeral.

Guilty that you are, for a brief moment, glad that it’s all over for him, and for those closest those who were witness to the slow ebbing away of the things that made him unique. For as the body slowly dissolves with cancer, you see a dissolution of essence. The skin loses it’s luminescence and a greying pallor replaces the vibrancy of healthy skin cells. Eyes that once sparkled with mischief and wit cloud over a little. And the affairs of the living- the minutiae of life along with the wonder of broad vistas- are no longer of interest to them. The healthy and hale share those many moments with those we love, trying trying to use our Siren Song to lure them back to life with us, even as we watch our words wash over them. They are here with us in flesh for fleeting moments. Their being tells us they are mostly moving on to whatever is next. And yet we try to hold fast to them as they continue to float away from us. The only solace for us is the serene way in which they drift.

Being at a funeral is always surreal. Torn between not wanting to be there at all, not wanting to feel the constriction in your throat that is keeping the grief from surfacing, and not ever wanting to leave, as once you exit you know that a chapter has closed. That your person will no longer be spoken about as much as they are, this day. I once heard a quote by Ernest Hemingway:

“Every man has two deaths, when he is buried in the ground and the last time someone says his name. In some ways men can be immortal.”

And so we mention and we mention and we mention their name. We share the moments we had with them. We tell and re-tell those stories until they are as careworn as their now-still faces.

The celebrant at my uncle’s funeral reminded us of the importance of this moments. That is what we truly remember: moments and interactions, feelings and the ways they touched our own hearts. Moments are recalled more than whole days or even weeks. This celebrant said that if each of us wrote down one moment they had with my uncle, then we would have a book. And he was right. We would have the book of his life. The real book. The book that told of his intellect, and wicked sense of humour. The book that told not only of what he did, but the way in which he did. The meticulous care he took with detail and organisation. The unhurried way he looked into your eyes when you shared a story. The dedication to a routine and a rhythm of life that was composed of precisely everything he loved, culled of things he did not. A life of design where nothing was wasted, and nothing was frivolous.

There’s lots to love in a life like that. A life where you know exactly who you are, and the people you surround yourself with. Where you do precisely what you love, no matter what it looks like to others. Where you are safe, secure and loved enough to be able to offer that very same thing to those around you.

A life where others know if they are included in your circle, then they are valued.

I think it is the kind of life I want to live.

Vale Uncle Robin.

You are one of life’s true gentlemen.

Getting egged on to take a big sip, by a professional.

I have been thinking a bit about people that I used to know this week.  People who have died.  I always do, I suppose I’m  a bit of a dweller, but perhaps a bit more lately as I’ve been writing some stuff about cancer.  All my dead people except one had the big C.  So that’s a fair bit of C.  A fair bit of watching people you love being eaten from the inside out, until everything collapses in on itself.

I watched a movie in the late 80s called Less Than Zero, and the chick in it said she had a creepy feeling that her dead loved one (Possibly her Grandfather? My memory is a bit sketchy, it was the 80s after all) were watching her doing stuff.  She was a bit weirded out by it, mainly because she was having lots of sex.

I too think of the people I know who have died, and I imagine that they too are sometimes watching me, but I have made some rules up of what they do and what they don’t see.  Even dead dudes need boundaries.

They don’t watch me in intimate moments, like, going to the toilet or yelling at my kids.  They give my some privacy.

They don’t follow me around when I’m doing boring stuff like waiting for the car to get serviced, or doing the food shopping, although, apparently they do hover when I’m clothes shopping.  Particularly when I NEED those jeans on sale in a size 8.  (They find them and then pour me into them.)

They do sit nearby when I’m upset about them dying, especially when I’m in a secure little place like the car or the shower and think I might have a little cry.  I feel their warm breath in my ear telling me it’s okay to miss them, but that it’s okay to be happy if I want.

The hang out with me when I play the music they like, and I think I can hear them singing along, faintly, just faintly, at the blurry edges of my hearing.

They come and visit when I need a hand with something, especially if it’s a protection-type thing, or something that mortals can’t really help with.  They have superpowers to bend things a little if required.

I have given them some other powers too: they can read minds, so I don’t have to seem like a nutter, having my conversations out loud.  They can also organise things for me if I ask, like shuffle my appointment book around, or to help with the kids.  They can get my kid good blood on transfusion day, as well as a competent doctor who will hit the vein up first go. They keep an eye on my kids when they are out in the world, and help them to be safe.

They help me with; the plot twists of life, being graceful in defeat and they give me a nudge when I need some help to step onto a stage and be unafraid to share my heart. They help me to keep on going when I want to stop, to remember to dream, to let the sun shine on my face before rushing off to the next thing, and to take the time to simply be present for a moment. Most of all, they remind me that no matter what happens, life is a gift and the present is something that must be held gently and sweetly as it’s the only thing I truly have.

Noosa River- My thinking place

I’ve been reading a lot about ‘callings’ lately. I’m at an age and stage of life where I think that I should have it all sorted out, and be living the dream.

Which I am.

But I’m not.

I’m living a lucky, beautiful life, in a place I adore and with people that I would do anything for. I can count my blessings like so many sheep and then never fall asleep. I have ticked all of the boxes that ever existed for me, and then ticked some more. Most mornings I lie in bed, in that delicious moment of waking, as the blur of my dreams fall out of my ear and onto the pillow to dissolve like sugar crystals, and I wonder if I am actually awake. Is this life real and true? Do I really get to have all of this? Am I worthy?

And then an annoying, corkscrew of a notion makes three clockwise turns into my right cerebellum and I’m almost dizzy at the knowledge that I’m not telling the whole truth. There is secret that I’m keeping from myself, and it takes everything I am to cover it up with tasks and thoughts and things that must be done RIGHT NOW. Until it collapses and suffocates under the weight of responsibility and action for another day.

It was a full moon this week, and in the fitful sleep of the liar, the rotation of the the corkscrew has been relentless and exhausting, trying with its twists and excruciating turns to force me to notice it. I’ve noticed. And I have resisted. Stress-resist-stress-resist in an endless dance of the shambling 3am drunk who cannot stop for fear that they don’t know where home is any more.

I have a calling.

And I’m ignoring it.

I think I’m afraid that if I bring it out into the light it might not be a shiny as it is in my mind. Or perhaps I won’t know what to do with it once it hits the air. Oxygen might destroy it, or give it wings that can’t be clipped, and I’ll be careening out of control and out of breath, trying desperately to keep up, yet falling behind, falling behind, crawling along with no skin on my knees and the sting of dust it in my eyes where I once held my precious thing.

It’s safer to bury things in the dense flesh of your liver. The darkness keeps it safe.

Doesn’t it?

Do you have a calling?

Are you hiding it too?

…From The Ashers 

Post Script: The top of my blog draft page has little tags. Something Anna put in when she designed this page. I think it’s called the Hello Dolly plugin or something. Maybe it’s the words to the song. Anyway, I’ve never taken much notice of it. I just looked at it now, and it said, “It’s so nice to have you back where you belong.” Interesting.

Look

There is so much amazing in the world right now.

What a time to be alive.

And what a gift and a surprise it is to actually be alive.  That the glint in the eye of our parents and our parents’ parents (ad infinitum) coincided precisely with ovulation, desire for offspring, health and age, for us to even be conceived, let alone survive, and be wind up sitting here, devices at the ready, to read and type and post and tweet and like.

What a joy to be able to look out the window and see the frothy whitecaps, whipping over that big blue, all the way backbackback to the fuzzy horizontal line where two blues kiss.  To see so much sand that it looks to be one whole lemony-beige thing and not scattered grains, straining out to the points either end.  To see the goldeny-green of the cane sashaying forward and back at the breeze.

So many thing to marvel and wonder and be in awe of.  Cars that stop you from getting speeding fines by keeping their speed constant, and then park themselves.  Whole CD collections that you carry around in your pocket.  Slow cookers to gently coax your food to readiness all day whilst you sit by the pool, a pool that cleans itself of algae and leaves.  A vast information source that can tell you the weather, the age of that kid from the Henderson Kids and the recipe for donuts that you lost when you chucked out the donut-maker box six years ago.  A thingy to cool down your wine instantly and without a fridge (cos Lord knows you can’t wait).  Apps that allow you to make cat memes, so you can share pussy jokes with people you’ve never met, but call your friends.

So much room and light and air and breath around us.  Our skies are so high and so grand.  The spaces around us so generous, we never need to touch, should we so choose.

So much stuff, that each of our houses are full with it.  Stuff that seems to multiply at night and come wriggling out of cupboards and drawers with the morning light.  Entire lifetimes would not use all the stuff up.

What a strange, abundant, fast and marvellous time and place this is.  There is so much to gape at.  Mouths wide.  Eyes open.

If only we would share it.

Life is a funny thing.  We take it for granted, mostly.  We zoom around, dotting all the i’s and crossing most of the t’s, getting things done.  And then we’re done.  John Lennon is reported to have said, “Life is what happens while we’re busy making other plans.”  And I guess that sounds about right.

Often, it’s only when we are faced with death, that we even stop to consider life.

I heard a story this week, that was both the best and worst tale from this election.  It was about a woman, my age, who took her ailing father and her eighteen year old son to the polling station.

It was her son’s first opportunity to vote, the first time he would have a say in who runs this country, and the choices they will make for us, with the money and power we bestow on them.  For me, voting is wonderful exercise in trust and collectivism.  We place some numbers in some boxes, and believe those scratchings will translate into a better life for ourselves and our community.  I can still remember the pride and sense of responsibility I felt the first time I folded those green and white pages and tapped them into the oversized cardboard box.  Turning eighteen is one thing, but deciding who will govern this big-skied land, well that’s becoming an adult.  I like to imagine he was a little nervous, this young man, realising the magnitude of what he was now allowed to do.  He might have read the instructions once, and then once again, ensuring his vote counted for something bigger than himself.  He might have looked at his Mum and smiled, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her son with new eyes that day.  His first vote.   Her boy was grown.

And then it was time for her father to vote. I imagine he shuffled over to the little booth.  He might have needed a bit of help to steady himself.  She might have held his shaking hand a little, lest he lean on the house-of-cards booth, and make it all fall down.  His eyes were probably bright with the intelligence that resides within him, but there might have been a little cloud or two dimming the lucidity.  The cancer can do that.  He might have looked at the paper for quite awhile, trying to make sense of all the  names, and all the people.  He might have had a flash of remembrance, and voted for Clive because he once knew a good bloke from work called Clive.  Or perhaps he remembered every person, and every policy, and placed his vote with care, drawing his numbers in the boxes, in a script from years gone by.  He might have smiled at his daughter for reassurance, as he posted his papers.

I’m sure she looked at her dad with sad eyes that day.  His final vote.  Her dad was almost gone.

So come what may from this election day, I know there is a woman who will be forever marked by the process.

She is not busy making other plans.  But she is seeing what happens with life.  And the changing of the guard.

Are you busy making other plans?

Do you love voting?