State Funeral

 

I thought I would be more emotional during the Queen’s funeral. I was up at 2:00 a.m. to catch the start of the proceedings – mostly people arriving at the Abbey ahead of the service – and hung in there until 6:00 a.m., when the Queen’s motorcade crept out of London en route to Windsor. The procession from Westminster to Wellington Arch was gruelling – and I wasn’t even following on foot! Given the time between the funeral and the committal service, I figured I could grab a nap and be awake for the final stages at St George’s Chapel.

Nope. I slept past it; again, thank the gods for Youtube.

Ten days is a long time. At this point, I was more aggrieved for the royal family, especially the King and his siblings, for having to march in line behind the coffin once more. Of course it’s to honour their mother as much as the late monarch and I would have wanted to do the same, but oh, my, the miles they have trudged in Her Majesty’s wake. And, I dare say, at their ages. I can only imagine their relief that all is finally over. Closure has occurred, the second Elizabethan Era is ended and a new reign begins.

Shouldn’t something have changed? The world feels the same. The sun rose this morning, autumn is still scheduled for the end of this week, the war is still on in Ukraine. I imagined that her death would somehow mirror my own mother’s passing, when my surroundings took on a stunning new brilliance I hadn’t seen before. The royal Elizabeth was as important as mine, yet despite ten days of mourning, with four spent lying-in-state, now that it’s done, it’s done. There might be some global follow up in the next couple of days, but guaranteed the focus outside the UK will soon enough revert to the usual business of “suffering and greed, here today, forgot tomorrow”.

As for me, it’s back to walking my own path, being the best I can be in any given moment – but remembering Her Majesty’s example, which was really not dissimilar to what my mother taught me about treating others with kindness and respect. I’m grateful to have witnessed these massive moments in history. I have been touched through the connection that binds me to every living soul, uniting us in grief and sympathy for the loss of an exceptional person. Perhaps I can’t foresee a difference to my life in the aftermath ... yet there will be unexpected moments when I am reminded of the change in this country’s hierarchy. It may be a tiny thing, like a filing a chargeback from the King’s Printer when a month ago I was filing them from the Queen’s Printer, or something more poignant, like watching the King’s Christmas message when it used to be given by the Queen, but I will have those moments and then I’ll know.

Actually, I kind of know already. When someone passes on, whether famous or family, everything changes. We just don’t always recognize it.

With love,

Butterflies and Hummingbirds

Apparently, my mother liked to watch hummingbirds. She put sugar water in the feeder on her patio and throughout the spring and summer, the little gaffers showed up in droves to get hyped on empty calories. When my sisters and I cleared out her room last March, a Christmas ornament in the shape of a hummingbird lay on her dresser. It now lies on the end table next to her photo in the Ocean Room. Yes, I pinched it and now, whenever I see a hummingbird, I think of Mum.

When she passed away a year ago this very day, butterflies were everywhere. ’Twas the season, after all – summer had just begun and the world was bright with life in all its vibrant glory. What a magical time she chose in which to make her transition. In many cultures, butterflies and hummingbirds symbolize transformation, whether it’s a massive change in this life or moving from this one to the next. I suppose it’s natural to see significance in a hummingbird hovering outside the window when Mum has been the subject of conversation, or to startle at a butterfly flitting over the lavender bush a heartbeat after she’s crossed my mind. Some might call it coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in our ability to transcend dimensions with a thought. I think of Mum and she is here. I may not see her, I may not even feel her presence ... until I glance through the window and see that tiny bird pausing just long enough to catch my eye and make me wonder.

With love,

The Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

It’s a Tapsalteerie World

My parents would occasionally ask me if I kent what a particular word or phrase means in the Scottish vernacular. Having been raised by a pair of Fife accents, I consider myself fairly familiar with the day to day lingo, and much of what I grew up hearing is now part of my own patter. Hence I was often able to respond with the correct definition. “Peelie-wally”, for instance, was how Mum once described the maraschino cherry in a tin of fruit cocktail, so when they tried it on me some years ago, my answer came easily. “It means puny and pathetic.”

According to my copy of The Pocket Guide to Scottish Words, it actually means “pale and ill-looking”, which is close enough.

A couple of years ago, one of them (I don’t remember which, but they were both present and smiling) asked me, “Do you know of ‘tapsalteerie’?”

I had to stop laughing before I answered. “No, that’s a new one!”

“What do ye think it means?”

I didn’t have to think for long. Sounding it out first, I took a stab with, “Topsy-turvy?”

Bingo! It means upside down, in a muddle, and confusion.

It also describes my world of late. My dear mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer shortly after my June 10 post and on the 29^th ... well, the world went tapsalteerie.

It’s righting itself one step at a time – closer to two steps forward and one back, really – but eight weeks on, there is progress... I think. It’s a process, right? The spiritual being having a human experience? Well, shoot. What is more human than birth and death? I’ve just been lucky to avoid dealing directly with the latter until a couple of months ago. I had hoped, perhaps with some hubris, that my belief in the Big Picture would have eased the grief of mortality. Colour me humbled. Despite my unshakeable faith that she is safe, loved, and more available to me now than she ever was in the flesh, the vacuum of Mum’s absence from this world still sucks out loud. I haven’t cried so much since forever.

She left orders that I neither weep nor wail, to which I confess, “So much for that!” None of it at CR, though. This not the place—but if anything I learn as a result of wading through what seems an insurmountable loss can help somebody else, it’s worth sharing. I began this blog four months before my mother knew about it, and while she may have been my greatest fan (not to mention a quarter of my audience), my quest for enlightenment and creative expression must continue for as long as I am here. It’s my journey, after all. I’m so grateful she was with me for the greater part of it. She taught me to be wonderful. She let me be myself, yet she lent me traits so reminiscent of her that the best compliment I can receive is, “You’re just like your mother.” Whether or not she understood or agreed with me, she read every post on this darned blog and took pride in my gift with the written word. She was exactly what I needed. She was the best.

It’s a tapsalteerie world without her, but I’ll get used to it in time.

Thanks, Mum.

With love,

Compliments to the Chef

Farewell, Tony (1956 - 2018)

Life strikes again. This time, it took out Anthony Bourdain, so it’s hit closer to my heart than more recent celebrity deaths.

Ter saw it first, via Google news. She called to me from the Ocean Room, and though I didn’t hear what she said, something in her tone alarmed me. I got up to go see her, saying, “What?’ as I went.

Her voice was closer, coming down the hall. “Anthony Bourdain is dead …”

My own mind immediately interrupted: A heart attack finally dropped him in his tracks.

Ter appeared in the doorway, her face stricken. “… by apparent suicide.”

That’s when the tree jumped in front of me. I took the blow right in the chest and for an instant couldn’t breathe or think or speak. Everything froze. Then, in the next frame, “What??”

It will always be a “Where were you when?” moment. As usual with such moments, the death itself isn’t the issue. It’s the manner of death. Without getting into morbid details—most of which I neither know nor care to know – I am gutted that a man who lived life so fiercely, who had faced and survived his demons, who braved the streets and back alleys to discover magic in the world’s most dangerous places, who seemed, in short, indefatigable, chose to end it.

There was nothing false about Tony Bourdain. He wrote honestly about his tumultuous, drug-addicted youth and spoke his truth at every opportunity. He was cynical, pessimistic, abrasive and hilarious, but he was also warm, generous, respectful and genuinely grateful for (if not somewhat perplexed by) the life he embraced with such incredible passion. He was so interesting, yet his gift was to make other people in other cultures in other countries interesting as well. He had no fear of the dark, that’s for sure. He did his best to shed light in the shadows, to bring attention, not to the differences that divide us, but to the similarities that bind us together, whether he was in Iran, Russia, Lebanon, or Pittsburgh.

Ter followed him as a foodie. I followed him as a writer. We both adored him for his unvarnished sincerity onscreen and in writing; we’ve collected his books and TV series, and even had our photos taken with him when he stopped in Victoria on two different book tours.

Of course I know nothing about his personal life beyond what he revealed as he went along—and that’s fine because the details are not my business. What he brought to the world, to my life, is all that’s important. My loss is the world’s loss; hardly the same as the black hole he’s left in the hearts of his family and close friends. And while some people are now calling him out for the selfishness of his leaving, I will not judge him. Only he knows what pushed him to end it now (before it got worse?). I must reconcile myself by myself. And I will … but I’ll miss him.

His caustic New York attitude and sometimes harsh opinions inspired me to view his light as more of a dark, but he was definitely a light being, and like most light beings, he was a powerful spirit locked in ongoing battle with equally powerful contrast. In the end, contrast won. My invincible tough guy road warrior swashbuckling hero has surrendered. Another light gone out.

The sun rose this morning. It always does, after all. So the world is as bright the day after as it was the day before—but one thing is notably different without him.

It feels colder.

Diana

On July 1, 1997, Diana, Princess of Wales, turned thirty-six. Three months later, I was about to do the same when she was killed in the car crash that changed the world.

The news reached Ter and me at a friend’s house, where we were having dinner to celebrate my imminent occasion. Everyone immediately left the table and pounded down to the rec room, where we spent the next two hours staring in horror at CNN. Halfway down the stairs, I had the most disturbing thought: They’ve done it. They’ve gotten rid of her.

Nowadays, there are people alive who have no idea of the effect Diana had on the world, but twenty years ago, you’d have been hard-pressed to find anyone who hadn’t heard of her. In some form, by some means, she was part of the global awareness, an incandescent light so powerful that she was almost combustible. Even now, two decades later, I almost believe she had to die young. Envisioning her at my current age is impossible and, as seems to be the case with every other intensely bright spirit, her private darkness was so overwhelming that a long life was hard to imagine. I took it for granted that she would age, of course, until that fateful night when her life was cut short.

I followed her public journey with the same interest as I follow anything royal—being one of Charlie’s girls apparently set me up with an eternal fascination for the monarchy—but Ter identified with the princess as she identifies with anyone in whom she senses a kindred spirit. Like Ter, Diana was a broken but ferocious spirit, as passionate as she was compassionate, and Ter was gutted when she died.

Astonishingly, so was I.

Of course, the circumstances played a part. The woman was truly hunted to her death, and without the protection of the Crown, she was easier if no less famous prey for the paparazzi. A crazy car chase, an allegedly impaired (however mildly and I still don’t believe it) driver, and suddenly the most famous woman in the world is tragically (prematurely?) dead. That in itself was horrifying and would have been so—is so—had anyone else been in that car. I don’t remember if or for how long Ter cried that night. I only know I didn’t start until the next day, and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I felt bereft in a way I had no right to feel about a literal stranger. I did not know the Princess of Wales. Knowing of her is not the same thing, yet I wept as if we’d been sisters. And all the while, part of me was mystified as to why.

If we are all connected, then it’s simple. The grief each person felt was transmitted and amplified until the bulk of the world’s population was affected. Diana shone so fiercely that her light going out was equal to the Japanese earthquake that rocked the earth on its axis. Whether they knew it or not, everyone felt it on some level, and it stayed with us until her funeral six days later.

Ter and I got up at 1:00 a.m. to watch the procession from start to finish. We sniffled and sobbed through most of it. Neither of us will ever forget it—where we were, what we thought, how grateful we were to be together at the time.

The mystery of Diana remains as intriguing today as it was during her life. She was without doubt a star in the universal tapestry, and a threat to anyone she opposed. I’m not saying there was a conspiracy to kill her (and if there was, the royals would not be my prime suspects; rather the robber barons who make money off things like pestilence and landmines would be top of the list), but while the majority of the population mourned her passing, it’s entirely possible that a nefarious few breathed a sigh of relief. She was talented and tormented, beloved yet felt unloved, she was charismatic and caring and outspoken in defense of those who could not defend themselves. Ironically, her legacy is almost as strong as her influence in life, as her two sons strive to follow her example in all the right ways. Though hampered by the political restrictions of their social station, Princes William and Harry are somehow managing to carry on their mother’s charitable work, increasing public awareness of the human issues yet in play around the world, and standing in defence of those whom she brought to collective consciousness when her boys were still boys. Despite her personal struggles, or perhaps because of them, through her caring and her children, Diana made the world a brighter place for the rest of us.

That’s a royal legacy indeed.

A Creative Life

I am eternally curious about the lives of entertainers. Rock stars, film stars, artists, writers and architects, if there’s a biography on film, I am likely to watch it. Documentaries are fine, but the best ones are those compiled from the artist’s own words, from interviews and articles and performance clips. Naturally, someone whose work I admire is a draw, but I am equally intrigued by the life of someone whose career played in my periphery—David Bowie, for example. “The Last Five Years” of his life was utterly absorbing. I came away with a strong sense of his individuality and his determination to preserve that individuality by reinventing himself with every project. He was brilliant. Not at all tragic, just brilliant.

Mind you, he lived to a fairly ripe old age before cancer took him out. The ones who die young seem to be more tragic, probably because we tend to lament the work they might have done even as we celebrate the work they did. Often, those young ones lived hard, deeply troubled lives and checked out early (either deliberately or accidentally) because celebrity only amplifies what already exists. People like Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain were doomed before they started. Fame made it worse for them. Then there were Prince and Michael Jackson, twin geniuses in crippling physical pain, who succumbed in one form or another to the drugs prescribed to alleviate it. Even Chris Cornell’s lifelong struggle with depression must have hastened his end.

Then there was Heath Ledger. Young, strong, successful, talented—and dead at twenty-eight. Surely a tragedy lurked somewhere in his life, right?

Wrong.

I sat down to watch the documentary “I Am Heath Ledger” with the expectation of a common thread that would link him to other famous figures whose lives were cut too short. A dysfunctional family, substance abuse, or maybe some childhood trauma that he never got over; surely something pushed him beyond the brink. But, no. He was a happy kid, a good brother, a loyal friend, a determined actor, a gifted director (he shot music videos for friends in the biz), and was making plans far into the future when his light went out.

And what a light it was. His buddies reminisced about his energy, one even wondered aloud how he could sustain so bright a burn. Another mentioned how strangely aware of mortality he was, how he kept saying he had so much to do and limited time in which to do it. He had known from the start that he would be an actor, and he worked steadily toward it, but he remembered his friends and family along the way. He was warm and generous and loving, and asked nothing in return. It seemed to me that this intense and inherently good soul was operating on a level the majority of us never reach.

The one thing that pinged was his trouble sleeping. When I heard that, I thought of Michael Jackson—there was the common thread. A bright, intense white light, snuffed before the rest of us were ready by prescription drugs and a flu bug that got in the way. A truly tragic accidental death.

Celebrity death is traumatic because our icons are supposed to be immortal. Truth is, they are immortal. Look at the legacy of everyone mentioned in this post. None of them is truly gone when the spirit in their work lives on. I was not so big a fan of Heath Ledger that I followed every move or saw every film he made—but “A Knight’s Tale” is one of my favourites and without him, it wouldn’t be.

Starlight

A light year is the length of time it takes for light to travel from its source to Earth. A star that shines a hundred light years away can die, but the light will continue to shine for a century before we’ll see it go out.

A lot of stars have gone out this year. David Bowie. Glenn Frey. Leonard Cohen. Prince. George Michael. (That one hurt more than the others put together because I have more of his albums than I do of all the others put together.) Then, in tragically quick succession, Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds. It seems to me that a mass exodus is happening, but I may only be so aware of it because these famous names are a part of my generation; after all, thousands of people die every day and most of us don’t even blink. At least the famous ones leave behind a legacy of work that keeps them alive in the hearts of their fans.

Truth is, the world is always a little bit darker when someone dies.

I like to watch Jeopardy! to test my memory banks and see how far out of the loop I’ve fallen with regard to pop culture. Once in a while, I’ll take an inexplicable shine to a contestant and root for that person through victory after victory. Halfway through December, a quiet young woman named Cindy Stowell won her first game and took her place as the defending champion. Her run took her through six wins and over $100,000, before she was inevitably defeated. She gave Ter and me more than one heart attack over the course of her appearance—she wasn’t always quick with the buzzer, but she consistently came back from the red to win the game with a clever bet on the Daily Double or knowing the answer to an obscure Final Jeopardy question. And she never lost her cool. She was a little mouse with big eyes and dark hair, a shy smile and sweet demeanour. Something about her was delightful and fragile and made you want to cheer for her.

On her seventh appearance, at the start of the game, Alex Trebek mentioned that her goal had been to win $100,000 and she had accomplished this with her previous win. My radar pinged with an uh oh, and sure enough, regrettably, she lost her seventh game. At the end of that show, however, a clip of Mr Trebek came up after the credits, in which he explained that, during the filming of Cindy’s shows a few weeks earlier, she had been fighting stage four cancer. She lost her battle with it on December 5, almost two weeks before her shows aired. In short, she had already departed when her championship run was broadcast.

Like a little star whose light took a few weeks to wink out of our sky.

The Memory Lingers On

It seems impossible that a year has already passed since the world lost Wayne Dyer.

Turns out we didn’t lose him at all. Oh, his compostable container is long gone, but his wisdom and humour remain. His family has seen fit to continue updating his F***book page, delivering daily reminders and heartfelt affirmations culled from the impressive vault he compiled during his lifetime. Most mornings, Ter will rev up her device and I’ll say, “What’s Dr Wayne got for us today?”

There is always something. Sometimes it’s a repeat. Okay, it’s always a repeat, but sometimes I’ve never heard it before. It’s like he’s still with us.

I suppose it’s natural for a group of people who work together, but whenever someone in my office loses a loved one, a card does the rounds for everyone to sign. “Thinking of you and your family at this difficult time” is a popular sentiment. By the time a sympathy card reaches me, it’s been said a dozen times with different words, so how can what I say make a difference to the bereaved?

I’ve made it a practice to express condolences accordingly, but to add something hopeful for the future without a loved one in it. “We are never without those who live in our hearts.” “Keep good memories close to help you through your loss.” Things like that. I don’t know if it matters in the big picture, but I hope it puts a positive light on a painful loss.

Assuming it is a painful loss. Family dynamic aren’t the same with every clan. I have to be careful that I don’t offend—I was once scolded for suggesting in a wedding card that the bride keep a separate bank account—but my intention is never to cause harm or be disrespectful.

Of course loss must be recognized. Grief must be acknowledged in the moment. People are good at the immediate en masse, so I leave that to others and set my sights on a hopeful outcome down the road. Nothing lasts forever, right? Not life, not death, and, one hopes, not grief.

With love,

Lighten Up

Life happens. As part of life happening, death happens. My philosophy recognizes death as a transition, a shift from one phase of existence to the next. A shedding of the mortal coil, if you will, that frees the eternal essence of an individual from its compostable container and returns it to the great beyond—wherever that is and whatever that looks like. Death is part of life.

I have spent the last number of years learning about—and testing the principles of—universal physics, the energy of spirit, the power of intention, the strength in love and liberty in forgiveness, about the collective consciousness, our connection to each other, and to the greater source known as, well, whatever name one chooses to give it. My education may have started in Sunday school with Jesus Christ, but my adult post-secondary education was renewed by Dr. Wayne Dyer.

The late Dr. Wayne Dyer. I came home last Sunday afternoon to meet a stricken Ter in the hallway. “What is it?” I asked, instantly on edge.

“Dr. Wayne passed away last night.”

“What? What?” I followed her to the Ocean Room, repeating in disbelief. “What? What?”

She had checked into his F***book page and seen the message, posted by his family a mere forty-five minutes earlier. Once rated as the third most spiritual person in the world, he had quite simply and without warning, gone out—taking a gazillion-watt light with him.

The sense of loss was expected. The disorientation, however, was alarming. That odd sense of being cast adrift, as if he was the force that kept my world balanced and my spirit in alignment, was disconcerting. My faith in the Universe and the natural order of things, in his teachings and advice and humour, were forgotten in the immediate, terribly mortal panic of what do we do now?

I thought about it for a couple of days, between shedding tears and prepping for Saltspring Island. Dr. Wayne was religious, but not a religion. He was a light being who shared the lessons he learned, just like the other great teachers throughout history—the Buddah, Mohammed, Ghandi, and yes, the original guru himself, Jesus Christ. Whatever else these men may have been, they were teachers above all, healing broken souls through the universal message of love.

And make no mistake. Wisdom is not restricted to what’s in the vault. Great teachers live among us now. Through Dr. Wayne, Ter and I were led to others like him—Thich Nhat Hanh, Mira Kelley, Professor Ekkles, Denise Linn. We’ve learned about intention and attitude, feng shui and past lives, the interplay of mind/body/spirit, the singularity of present moment, the importance of gratitude—principles preached by the ancient masters that are more relevant today than they were back then.

When a teacher dies, it’s time for the students to quit learning and start applying. What do we do without Dr. Wayne? We remember what he taught us, we go forward, we continue to seek knowledge and change ourselves for the better, to grow strong and lend support, to Throw Our Beams in a world of jagged contrast.

Just as he did.

With love,

Moss Rock

During my post-Station Eleven flânerie, I hiked up to Moss Rock Park, a scrubby expanse of rock and brush at the top of a hill overlooking Fairfield. From there I was able to see the entire neighbourhood and the ocean beyond it, not precisely a bird’s eye view, but a grand vista nonetheless. High-end houses rim the park’s perimeter, but the sense of isolation fit the mood of the post-apocalyptic novel I had finished reading hours earlier.

There is one scene in the book, where the heroine, Kirsten, is faced with imminent death. Refusing to let the face of the man holding the gun to her head be the last thing she sees on this earth, she lifts her gaze and watches a bird wheeling across the sky. She absorbs as much of the surrounding world as she can—the crickets chirping, the smell of the grass, the warmth of the sun on her skin. She remembers the people she loves, she feels how desperately she loves them, and she thinks, I am not afraid.

I knew someone who chose to die in this park. I was hardly close to her; I didn’t even like her that much—we worked in the same place for a time and didn’t get along that well. When her husband died, she couldn’t face life without him, so she disappeared and a few days later, the searchers found her at the top of the hill. It was sad news, to be sure. It’s the most personal decision anyone can make, whether or not to continue in this estate. Understanding may not be possible to those on the outside, but compassion certainly is.

This was my first visit to the park and, naturally, I couldn’t go there without thinking of her. I sat on the lone bench and watched the sunlight on the water. Birds wheeled across the sky. Insects buzzed over errant flowers, paintbrush drops of colour against the stone. The air was warm and silken, the breeze whispering through the dry grass, and I thought, I know why you came here. And I knew why Kirsten, while staring death in the eye, chose the open sky to be her final sight before the end. It’s what I would choose—what I will choose, assuming I have a say—to take with me when I go.

There is nothing more beautiful than the world we’ll leave behind.

Grave Expectations

I live a few blocks from Victoria’s oldest cemetery, and while it’s generally taken as a shortcut home from the store, the other day it was part of a spontaneous shot at flânerie. I hiked along the waterfront and up to the main road, but the traffic noise was bothersome so I took a hard left into the historic graveyard and promptly came toe-to-toe with a stone plot bearing my family name.

I know that my immediate kin is not the lone offshoot from the clan MacGregor tree; we’re more of a twig from the larger branch called “Greig”, so it got me wondering who the plot’s occupants were and how/if they may have been connected to my father’s father’s father. The graves are overgrown and unmarked within the stone boundary. They could be empty for all I know. If so, they’re definitely not being held in reserve for any of my folk. Mum and Dad have other plans.

On a winding path between the stones, I met one of the cemetery caretakers. He was pushing his wheelbarrow toward me and I prepped my passing nod-and-smile, but he spoke to me as he approached.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“No,” I replied, “but someone found me. I just saw my family name on a plot back there.”

He asked what it is, and nodded when I told him. “We have a few of them around here.”

“I know a few myself,” I said, “but they’re still moving.”

He produced a brochure from his back pocket and showed me the map. The Greigs aren’t listed among the high points, but I can call the City Archives or the Old Cemeteries Society to ask for specific locations. Then he pointed out a spot on the path and said, “You’re about here. If you want to see the important ones, they’re up along this route.” He meant Emily Carr and Sir James Douglas, among other notable Victorians who had the cash to buy waterfront real estate for their final resting place.

I thanked him for the brochure and proceeded with my flânerie. Some years ago, I had seen another Greig family plot in the cemetery but couldn’t recall exactly where, so I kept an eye out as I walked. I passed tablets and obelisks and memorial markers, some articulately detailed and others worn blank by time and salt wind. There were family plots and single headstones. English, Scottish, German, Chinese, Japanese, Dutch, Italian – families from all over the world were represented. None of the names meant anything to me … but then I recalled what the caretaker had said. If you want to see the important ones …

A few of the graves were adorned with fresh flowers, evidence that someone remembers and still misses the departed. The important ones.

The Ross Bay Cemetery may harbour a few famous Canadians and members of Victoria’s founding families, but it also holds the bones of ordinary people, of mothers and husbands and soldier-sons and infant daughters whose names aren’t in the history books. It occurred to me that every single person buried in every single cemetery in the whole wide world meant something to someone somewhere at some time, and that makes each of them—each of us—important.

Don’t think for a second that you have to be famous to be important. All you have to do is be loved.