Not come far....

We have been preparing for my partner's Mum's funeral; talking to the funeral home, the Humanist Minister and dealing with officialdom. Everyone has been kind and understanding. The disconnection of her from bank accounts, pensions and other day to day realities of existence is strangely mundane - done with sensitivity - BUT in a processed, matter-of-fact way; efficient and cold.

As we sat in the funeral home with Helen, a trusted funeral director who helped when Mo's husband, Ian, passed away, I was thinking about the process. Helen was tender and understanding; her suggestions were gentle, considered and guiding. This is no job for her it is a calling and her genuine care shines through her stillness, expression and careful phrasing.

We'd brought clothes for Mo to be dressed in; Craig insisting that she should be cremated wearing her favourite dress shoes. I favoured a pair of pink slippers she used whenever she came to our house for dinner. She would step through the door, slide onto one of our sofas so she could change into them; we wanted her to be as comfortable in our home as she was in her own. We decided that the slippers should be placed in the coffin with her, next to her feet.

Helen suggested that she should be comfortable and the dress shoes should be placed next to her feet and she should be wearing her slippers. Craig, after a moments thought, agreed.

From a objective point of view this is no different to the grave goods in a Saxon burial, a bowl for food for the afterlife, a knife, bow and a pillow for the head. Our senses tell us that the great spirit that was the person we loved has gone, departed as magically as it was called into flesh. We know that this form is a shell. But then we want that shell washed, combed, dressed and to arrive in the afterlife in comfortable foot-wear.

We have printed off photos of Mo laughing at a Christmas party, cuddling Craig, singing and dancing with friends, for mourners to take away with them at the funeral; we have picked out a passage from her most loved comedy author, a reading of the Irish blessing - something she was especially fond of and spoken to the Minister of her life, loves, trials and her final illness.

I know that a funeral is for the living not for the deceased; I know this. BUT why does it give me a warm feeling, a "right" feeling that she should go wearing her favourite satin red blouse, dark trousers, a Rememberance Poppy and pink slippers?

We have not come far from the windswept hillsides, with the ground prepared, the pit lined with stones and rushes, a straw-stuffed pillow and, after the bowl, beads and more is placed inside, the shell is lowered and then strewn with scented flowers and covered with earth. Stories would be told about battles, great adventures and sons and daughters brought to adulthood; a celebration of their part in the circle of life.

We may not pile earth in great mounds or erect huge monoliths to stand against weather and time but we are the same. Attached to the flesh and, though the spark is gone, wishing those we have loved and lost to go into the next adventure with something familiar, useful and comfortable......