Death brings out love
It's a call to love more while we're alive
I don’t know why I have performance anxiety this week, but I do.
I gained 100 new subscribers after my F#ck Purpose edition about Elizabeth Gilbert’s recent tour, and that’s given me some ‘shit; these people are new and will expect something as interesting as me paraphrasing Liz live’ panic. When, of course, I don’t have weekly access to international authors’ wisdom to share. Instead, readers are getting little ol’ me.
I guess it’s a tiny taster of what it’s like to write a second book after an international bestseller. I’d welcome a dose of the jitters if the stakes were that high! I wish.
I’m guessing jetlag is also fuzzing my brain. I’ve been awake since 3:30 a.m., and today was my aunt’s funeral. So I’m sad and worn out from overstimulation.
As I type, I’m shovelling forkfuls of Jamie Oliver’s microwave moussaka for one into my mouth, feeling the pressure of showing up for Substack. Because being a writer means committing to writing no matter how you feel.
Four days in England and a funeral
After 24 hours of flights and a couple of Ubers, I’m back in England. I had no intention of coming ‘home’ so soon after visiting in June and the long-haul flights I did over Christmas to Toronto and Bali. I was done flying for a while.
But Auntie’s death rocked my world. Not in a good way. The ache in my chest needed to be filled by the love of family. Watching a funeral on Zoom wasn’t going to cut it.
I got permission from work for time off, booked a $ 3,000 return ticket, and went off in search of solace and love.
Once I arrived in Stockport and settled in my Airbnb, waiting for my cousins to pick me up, I had a few collywobbles (nerves in northern English). I hadn’t seen them in thirteen years. Facebook made me feel like I knew some of what had happened in their lives, and Auntie used to tell me, but seeing them in person might be weird.
It wasn’t. It was delightful.
From the moment we hugged on the doorstep, through the walk around the stately home gardens that were their mum’s fav, to the pub lunch, it was as if we’d hung out every month of our lives.
Next, Mum arrived on the train. I met her at the station, and we hugged so hard, oblivious to the world, that the conductor shouted for us to '“Clear the line” so the train could pull off.
Getting together the day before the funeral meant we had time to visit a couple of special places. We walked Bramhall Park and Bramall Hall (according to Ancestry.com, it’s in our family lineage) and did our ‘usual’ bonding activity of coffee and cake. Every time I visit England, I come back a few kgs heavier.
As we sauntered in the crisp spring air, admiring the snowdrops and crocus, a robin perched on a wooden bridge sang to us. Mum, who isn’t a particularly spiritual person, said, “Robins are a sign of the death of a loved one. Hello Gillian.” I tried to take its photograph from a distance, and it let me get closer, and closer, and closer until it was singing into the camera lens. Passers-by stopped to watch. And then she was gone.
That afternoon, Mum and I wound our way around Stockport Centre so Mum could reminisce about one of the areas she used to visit as a teen. We ate a Sunday roast with salt-of-the-earth locals who were our new mates by the time we’d mopped the gravy from our plates using the last bite of a crunchy Yorkshire Pud.
At night, we got to share a hot chocolate with my uncle before the busy funeral day, when his attention would be required everywhere all at once. I gave him the kind of hug when you imagine your heart’s energy coming out of you and wrapping around the person in your arms. I hope he felt it that way.
Funeral day - a case of the YOLOs
It was the funeral today.
And it was all the feels. Sad, beautiful, funny, nostalgic, unfair, and peaceful.
Auntie was a woman of faith, so the service was held at her quaint local church. It was comforting to be in a place she loved, listening to a eulogy that made me equally grateful and wish for more time. The wake was in the pub where my aunt and uncle fell in love at first sight in 1973.
It was the perfect send-off.
The whole day made me think of the times I didn’t make that phone call, that year I didn’t come back, or the trip we didn’t get around to making.
But there’s no point regretting the time we didn’t get. I choose to spend the energy savouring what we did share.
Losing Auntie has made me want to love harder and more often.
In the last four days, I held Mum’s hand everywhere we went.
I hugged relatives and told them, “I love you,” for the first time.
We’ve planned future in-person catch-ups and committed to online chats.
I got what I came for. Solace and love.
I lost one of my favourite humans on the planet and in her wake (literally) got my extended family back.
So, now what?
Now I have the YOLOs. You only live once - in this incarnation.
This jolt has made me think hard.
What do I need to shake up to be fully living?
What do I need to appreciate more?
Who do I need to spend more time with?
How do I stay connected to family when I’m 10,000 miles away?
I don’t know the answers right now.
What I do know is that I’ll honour Auntie by living in gratitude, faith and love.
Phew, I made it.
I wrote a blog.
Over and out.
I love you.
Mwah. 💋
Tears, sending you so much love 💜