I’m drifting the same as the driftwood on my Salish Sea. This last weekend, we had a small send off for our Emily. Charlotte made origami boxes that enclosed tiny packets Don had folded inside, enveloping our dear girl’s ashes. We affixed them on driftwood that Don had planed into thin little pointy boats, and set a candle inside.
High tide was at 9:30 pm so that was when we set out to Emily’s Beach for our silent ceremony of release. The day had been hot and windless but as the dusk developed so did a wind that grew increasingly stronger. The red lanterns we set up in our backyard swayed with energetic movement and the coolness of the evening had us grabbing ponchos and coats to head to the beach short moments away.
Don’s family is here visiting, and Caleb, my nephew and his partner Cassie joined us from up-island. My friend Heather, a co-creater with Emily on the beaches of Comox, came also.
Short days before we didn’t know how the ceremony would proceed, what we would do. Somehow I was led to the same ease and flow that I am constantly in search of. Every time we tried to plan, we wouldn’t feel right about it or something would step in to nix what we thought would happen. For example, a few weeks ago we thought a plaque would be in order, something small and perhaps tucked away from the public access to the beach front that said “Emily’s Beach” or some such. On one of my daily evening visits, I felt quite clearly that Emily wanted no such plaque. It was as if she were saying, “Please don’t advertise this; it’s enough that those who love me know that this beach is my special place.” Low key and flying under the radar has always been Emily’ style so I know all the ruckus she created in her death was not something she wished for us or herself. She is apologising now by way of simplicity and slow living for us – making sure that ease and flow can be a part of our daily lives, and that she can gently hover and protect with no more antics or agony.
We asked our new friend Julie if she might help us with an aboriginal ceremony as we know Emily would have so connected with this spiritual, nature-abundant, holy way of seeing life and death, but that too did not evolve as planned, though efforts were made. In the end, we decided to just see. Just wait. In waiting there are answers. In doing, there is often chaos.
Day by day, clarity came, bit by bit. Julie came by one morning, suggesting we have a serenity path for Emily to our goddess of mercy, Huan Ying, who sits majestically in our fern gully under the covey of Douglas Firs. Of course. I knew this was a holy place, but I hadn’t thought of a path. Julie, who seems to be a conduit for spiritual insight and knowing for me, as well as being a master gardener, helped me frame out the little path, dig up plants from her garden, and source pots and grasses and woolly thyme for the pathway. We placed and dug, and I used my first round of compost that I have so lovingly turned and fed with leaves and scraps. The worms within initially scared me, having had some rather heinous experiences with them in my past, but I was up to my elbows in wormy compost, embedding my Japanese maple and ferns and lilies with sustenance.
Julie remembered seeing red paper lanterns at the Salvation Army thrift store so we went there and snapped them up, sure they would create an atmosphere suiting our purposes. And then came the buttons. Don has been patiently finding bits and bobs for the house, many decorative, many needed. His sense of aesthetic is eclectic and creative. He came across many bags of buttons in a thrift store going out of business and bought them all. Many of them were put into a large bowl in the living room, along with an eight ball, some brass keys, pins and brooches, some of which his sister, Therese, had made, and some from days gone by that had been worn on jean jackets or hung from rearview mirrors. Fingering through the bowl is a meditative experience – tactile and calming. A zen bowl of buttons.
Some of the buttons he bought were also organised in a plastic slotted box by colour. Impulsively I took them outside one afternoon and began affixing them in patterns to my garden trellises and around the windows and the door of the driftwood cottage in our backyard. The act of buttoning was a meditation in itself. I was mesmerised by colours and shapes and how each button added a pop of personality to our already-bohemian backyard.
As I was ruffling through my box, up came a little baby button with a small e – as in Emily. (So like her to be understated!) It was another sign – always little signs from Emily that cause me to say hello and when I have stopped talking to her, bring me back to our communing. I showed Don and asked him where we might put this sweet little e, and he walked immediately to the our ceramic Huan Ying, in our now-evolving serenity path and placed it on the goddess of Mercy’s right big toe. Unless you look closely, you would never know it is there. Perfect.
As I continued my buttoning, I gazed over at the goddess in the covey and saw the piece of driftwood I had placed there some days earlier, leaning against the trees just next to her. I saw in that moment that it was very clearly a y – the ending our of our dear Emily’s name: the alpha and omega of her name just there for us, on her path. Perfect again.
That evening, as I was watering my garden, I heard music and wondered where it was coming from. I seldom carry my phone these days, but it was in my pants pocket on silent, as it always is. I try to allow nothing jarring or jangly into my life. But sure enough, the music was coming from my phone.
“Is that German?” I thought. I pulled the phone out of my pocket and, sure enough, a crystal clear woman’s voice was singing, “Your angels in heaven are with you here now.” (Deine Engel im Himmel sind jetzt hier bei dir.) My Emily. My garden-loving Mama. Such affirmation.
I became increasingly assured that all would go as it was meant to as we moved closer to the day of our ceremony. The day before, when Don’s family along with our Charlotte, all beloved, had arrived and were busy being enchanted with our house and its surroundings, the emotional overwhelment struck me with such vehemence, I was truly surprised. From my delight the day before to despair and longing, I was driven to the depths of my closet, where we had created a cloud bed for Charlotte as all other rooms were taken with our guests, including Bridget nestled in our itty bitty camper van, her own little house on wheels. I stripped off my uncomfortable clothes and lay under her sheet in the airless closet, in a foetus position, sobbing as I hadn’t in a long while. The unpredictable animal of grief had snuck up and snatched me and thrown me down. My loving family let me be as they created yet another beautiful meal and took care of me in my own house, gently rounding me up for dinner, swaddling me in their love, a baby with swollen eyes, greedy for comfort.
A deep sleep later, I woke feeling the heaviness lifted and a clear presence of mind and of Emily. We all drove up to Mt. Washington and walked the alpine meadow, serene and quietly majestic. Along the way, we stopped and Kevin, Don’s brother, shared a Bahai prayer for Emily, a beautiful moment of release in a place Emily had also enjoyed. Don’s sisters prepared the evening meal while I sat on the porch of the driftwood cottage, putting the packets of Emily’s ashes into the origami boxes, as Don planed the driftwood for the boats. My equilibrium was restored. I felt strong. Some ashes escaped. I licked my fingers, wanting something of Emily inside of me, though I already knew she was all around and within my in her purest form.
Days before another easy decision had been made: after our beachside ritual we would return to the house and have a fire (propane as there is a fire ban) and make S’mores and Taffy Cracks (Ritz Crackers with melted caramels). Emily loved nothing more than tending a fire and roasting things on sticks. This, we thought, would be a joyful ending after our rite.
It had been a hotter-than-hot day, but around eight pm the wind picked up dramatically, swinging our Chinese red lanterns and sending us inside for warmer clothes. Julie had made us cream puffs, which we consumed with gusto and ecstasy, and our additional guests began to arrive. Julie, who lives on the beach, was texting, concerned about the wind and if our plan to drift off the little Emily boats would work. The wind and the weather seemed against us. Ease and flow. What will be will be.
I chose not to worry and to embrace anything that might happen. Emily would see to it that whatever it was, would be as it was meant to be. When one has not definition of perfection, there is no issue with results.
We walked down to the beach under the veil of stars at about 9:30, the gustiness blowing my hair into tangled nests. Each of us carried our own boat. When we arrived, we had agreed there would be silence, though the sea most certainly was not. It was the most active that it had been since the early days of our arrival in April.
A large piece of driftwood was just at the shore, serving as a cove to rest our boats in front of, facing the sea. One by one, we placed our boats, and Caleb patiently lit each with his lighter, some blowing out, though he reignited them. We watched as the tide grew closer and I wondered how the boats would wash out. It seemed they might rather be swallowed up. Suddenly Don picked up a boat and waded into the freezing water, in his pants and shoes, casting off a boat. Caleb joined him. Then Jess went out with his boat, and a brilliant flash of red lightning hit the horizon to his right as he released his boat. Charlotte asked if I might go out with her so we too waded in, holding hands, me with my boots on and camouflage pants. I felt no cold. Just release. Just love. Many of us headed out, some of us stayed on shore. We all cried. Julie took care of Moondog and was our gentle angel, guiding us, observing, comforting.
I too, took on the role of comforter. Somehow the day before had given me an early catharsis so I was able to, in these precious moments, be a purveyor of peace, a calming presence in this release of pent-up grief that was so viscerally present as the sea swallowed up all remnants of our Emily boats. As I hugged and held racking bodies, I saw the brilliant gold sliver of moon behind the towering trees, then I saw a shooting star. So many signs. So much love.
Emily adrift and at peace and the same with us. Eventually we made our way back to the house and the campfire and our roasting of marshmallows and we laughed and we cried and we catharsed.
I hadn’t realised how much I had needed this rite of passage. It was a step of healing for us all. Thank you, Emily. You have brought us closer to you and closer to one another. How we love you.