Annō Dominī 2008

In recent days I have been coming to terms with some truths about myself. And what I have been finding has come as a surprise, because these truths are stirrings of emotion, at the deepest level.

In part, they are a response to a brochure that I have been reading recently; and if I tell you that the visual aid that appeared, and reappeared, as I turned the pages, was of a mature man and his dog, (in a variety of tranquil locations), you might have some idea as to where I am headed. And if by chance you have been reading the same document, you will know that there is a £50 discount if I take out a contract within the month. But which contract? for there are three of them. And in keeping with the man and his dog, there isn't a hint of menace in any of them. They are The Chiltern. The Marlvern, and The Highland. And if you pay up front, the difference between the first, and the last, is £550.

Well with my "loved ones" in mind, it hardly seemed decent to go for anything less than the best; and then I had an idea. I Googled it. And as I sat there looking at what was on offer, I felt as a boxer must feel when, during the count, he is picking himself up from the floor.Imagine looking at your own coffin. Or better still, having it delivered to the door within twenty four hours. Or trying to decide as to whether or not in the interests of ecology, you should be buried in a basket. And supposing I had a basket delivered, (I wondered), how long would it keep in the loft?

Now all this pondering began in April, when myself and Jenny, together with a group of like minded people, visited Colney Wood. We had passed it often, going to and from the supermarket. But what we hadn't known, was, that it is an ecological burial ground.

So there we were, what my friend would call, "coffin dodgers", listening intently, to the carefully modulated tones of the funeral director, as he made an unarguable case for this new approach to funerals. One from which everyone benefits: The owner, who has an income from the woodland that otherwise would not be the case. And the general public who, on most days of the year, have unrestricted access to an area that (because it is a burial ground), is now managed by conservationists. And schoolchildren, for whom special woodland projects are organised in term-time, and other more general fun events during the long summer holidays. And not forgetting, "those left behind" who, have the satisfaction of knowing that their relatives and friends are buried, (as they had wished), in a manner that is environmentally sound.

And when we moved from the foyer to the chapel of rest, my conviction about the rightness of the project grew. For there beyond the lectern, was an expansive panoramic window, the effect of which, was to bring the woodland in to where we were seated.

For her part, Jenny was moved by the experience, to the point of feeling, that this was where she would like to be buried. And as we made our way at a leisurely pace along the natural pathways, and observed the lightly marked burials, (encircling trees), she informed me that my biodegradable memorial plaque, would be engraved with a likeness of the Giant's Causeway. Flattered, but not willing to concede the presumption that I would go first, I described her memorial plaque as I would have it. On it, I told her, I will have engraved a bowl of porridge, together with the recipe.

As for myself, well, I was never wholly convinced that this was the place for me. And for reasons that were as illogical as the feelings were real.

What was missing was the usual graveyard clutter. And as a consequence, the feeling overall, was one of space and sameness. And it was this sameness that bothered me. Because, somehow, it had the effect of making burial seem more brutal. Which is why, at the outset, I wrote of "stirrings of emotion at the deepest level". And even with the reassurance that it would last for several generations, I didn't like the idea, that my miniature, biodegradable memorial plaque, would disappear completely.

Now if I state the obvious, in straightforward language, that graveyards are places where the dead are buried, it might make it easier for me to convey the idea, that for me, graveyards have long been places of interest, and not infrequently, of inspiration. In a special way, they heighten my sense of self, reminding me both of my humanity, and of my place in the scheme of things. And I have strong fellow feelings, not just for those who have completed the precarious business of living; but for those who, in their own, and sometimes very particular way, have remembered them.

So allow me to share with you, one such experience, as recorded in my poem, Time - A Sequel. An experience that, somewhat ironically, came as a consequence of falling asleep at a Christmas pantomime:

In the fading light of a dank December evening and as a stranger to the place, I left the High Street, preferring instead to find an oasis of calm on the hillside. Slowly, I climbed past forgotten headstones, some upright, some tottering, and some laid low until high above the mossed tree-trunks, birds, like children, frantically twittered. Beyond and more defiant still, stood the dumb church, its duelled towers and distended shape, a vulgar and sinister testament. Gone now, was the incessant noise of traffic, the thump of drums, clang of symbols and the balmy And pantomime laughter of children. And there in front of me were the twins, Paul and David, loved by their parents, and recently dead. Paul, who had lived for "41 hours". And David. Who had lived for "2.1/2 hours". And there in the damp and fading light I saw it proclaimed as truth. That Love is Eternal. And that Time - is never past. _____ Now despite my most recent musings, the matter is still not resolved. Because what was on offer, in the brochure that I have been reading, was - tomorrows cremation at today's prices - And though I have no moral or practical objection to cremation, I just don't like the ideas, of a process being applied to me, that is even more brutal than the process of bio-degradation. So, what in my own case is likely to happen?

Well, the only thing that I can tell you with certainty is, that I wont be buried in Scotland. For when I mentioned this to Jenny some years ago, she told me, (as only a wife has a right to), that if I wanted to be buried in Scotland, I could get myself up there. And I have it second hand, that should it fall to him, Leo has no intention of getting me up there either. But to his credit, he would consider getting me across to Ireland, to my home town, Portrush.

But even there, "all is not sweetness and light". Because, by tradition, Catholics and Protestants have been buried on opposite sides of the cemetery. Something that I had long forgotten. But when I was reminded of it at my brother Kevin's funeral a few years ago, my response was one of anger. And there is something else.

As someone who has often advanced the view, that funerals are for the living, I am not sure that I should have too much of a say in what happens to me after my death. But never short of something to say, I have all but conceded this to Jenny: -

That if she really does want to be buried in Colney Wood or some such place, that is what will happen. And that I, will follow after, (or go before), for the same reason.

_____ 

 © Cormac McCloskey

Note: This blog, "Annō Dominī 2008", was first published on Windows Live Spaces, by me, on 3rd August 2008.