A Lifetime of Ceremony

It’s another cliché, but you never stop learning in any of my roles, and yesterday demonstrated that when I attended a training session at Natural Endings Funeral Directors in Todmorden, facilitated by Alexandra Derwan from Sacred Circle Co CIC

, and I’d very much recommend checking them out if you are interested in this kind of work.

The session was fantastic: really well facilitated and a great chance to talk to other celebrants, which is always appreciated. I’m very much still digesting what was discussed, and will no doubt be back with more on that later, but one key thing for me was the idea that I’ve actually been doing this work my whole life.

As a child, I loved a bit of ritual and  ceremony, from putting on shows for pretty much any occasion (particularly the annual Easter week in the Lake District extravaganza, always performed on the last night), to something really simple that kept playing out in my head yesterday.

I think the memory was triggered by discussion around how the committal is one small part of a range of ceremonies and rituals that mark a death, and, during this conversation, I was suddenly aged 16 again, after my great aunt, known to the entire family and beyond as Aunty Flo, died.

Her funeral was a traditional CofE affair, which would have been perfectly fitting since that was her religion, and it was held in a church she’d played the organ in as well as run the Sunday School for a long time, but the vicar didn’t know any of this, and so didn’t mention it, and I’m pretty sure he referred to her as Florence throughout.

I can’t remember if we cleared the house the same day, or at some point afterwards, but the whole family were gathered in her terrace in Failsworth sorting things out, with numerous runs to the charity shops, and very quickly, it turned from a cluttered house, full of plastic bullrushes and old biscuit tins, into an empty shell.

That moved me and it felt like it needed marking, but nobody else seemed to feel that. So, I grabbed by baby cousin, and took her upstairs to the empty rooms, and we danced around each one together. Aunty Flo loved to dance. Not long before she died, she told me not to be sad because she’d danced every night of her youth, often in the Ritz in Manchester, where I went a lot at the time (illegally, but let’s not dwell on that). So, Anna-Lisa and I danced for her, in each room, round and round, while the others loaded cars up, and no doubt rolled their eyes!

Meanwhile, we said goodbye to her, and to all the other members of the family who had lived there over the years, to a house that had been a home to them, and a space of welcome for so many of us. We marked the moment together, with movement, just instinctually doing what felt right then and there, with something that might not have looked like ceremony to anyone else, but it was exactly that.

It marked the transition of our family from that building, of Aunty Flo’s belongings from the space, and of her spirit from life to death, with the promise that we’d keep dancing for her. I feel like we took a bit of her spirit with us, as well as a tonne of plastic tat, some of which I still treasure.

We have ways to mark the big, obvious, transitions, but we can benefit from marking others too: it doesn’t matter what that is. If it feels important to you, then it is, so do what feels right. Light the candle, put the biscuit on the fancy plate, salute the moon, bow to the sun, read the poem that reminds you, out loud if you can: whatever is calling you, ignore the voices saying it’s daft, and go for it. You will rarely regret taking that time, but you might regret not doing (although it’s never too late!).

And if you fancy a chat to bounce ideas around, hit me up! I’m always up for talking ritual and remembrance.