The passing of the cherry buds

On my morning yomp around my neighbourhood, I’ve noted the trees which have been blown down by storms Dudley and Eunice.

There are two separate places where cherry trees have been uprooted.  What struck me most was the fact that they were packed with multitudes of rosy buds.  Until the storm, they had been preparing to burst forth in their full glory in the spring.  Even as the trunks lay beyond salvage, half across the pavement, the buds were still undamaged and ready to blossom.  Those cherry trees had not known that they were about to be felled by the wind.

A couple of days ago, we heard that Nigel’s much-loved uncle had died very suddenly.  He was still active in life in so many wonderful ways.  He had shown no signs of approaching his end.

I guess the people who will be missed most are those who had more blooms to offer.  So we all must put out our buds in hope each year and if we are spared to see them flower and fruit, we should give thanks.

 

Photo by Arno Smit on Unsplash

The death of a friend

When we downsized to our new house four years ago, Ann and Helen kindly came to help me unpack the kitchen.  We worked hard for several hours and at the end of the day we were all tired.

“I think that’s enough for today,” I said.

But I had reckoned without Ann’s characteristic of being a completer/finisher.  It was one of the things that made her so effective, but at that moment, I could have done without it.

“Let’s just leave it now.”

But she was determined to finish the job.  And because she was tired, a dish slipped from her fingers and got chipped.

The dish was part of a set, so I kept it.  But every time I used it, the chip annoyed me a little.

However, this summer, Ann suffered a terrible horse-riding accident, and after three weeks in a coma, she died.

She leaves a great gap in all our lives and when her funeral took place, four hundred and fifty people arrived from all over the country to pay tribute to the extraordinary person she was.

It has been too hard to write about, but suffice it to say, that chipped dish is now the most precious one in my house.

The Very Last Gift

My friend Carole Heselton writes:

“Perhaps the death of a parent is the last gift they give us.  It’s a chance to reflect on what we ourselves have become and to see the life of our parent led in its entirety, rather than a work in progress.”

Years ago, I heard the advice of the mystic John O’ Donohue that we must grow to know our own death and to befriend it, but I did not quite know what he meant.

Over the last ten days, my father-in-law Maurice has died slowly and comparatively peacefully after a long illness.  There has been time for his children and grandchildren to travel to his bedside and say farewell. 

There is deep sorrow for his parting, but gladness at an end to his suffering.

For a long time, as he was incapacitated by Parkinson’s disease, his successful career and his energetic charity work have seemed to lie in the unreachable past.

However, now is the time to get all these accomplishments out and admire them once more.

But at this time of stock-taking, I can see that Maurice’s greatest achievement is not his deeds in themselves, but that there are people who will want to recall them – people who loved him while he was alive and will miss him now he is gone.

In seeing this, it helps me to know more of the kind of death I would wish for myself and should work towards.

Thank you Maurice.