Ashes to ashes

On Monday November 3rd we interred Jen's ashes down in the Otways, on a property that belongs to my mother. The choice of location was something that Jen and I had discussed a couple of times earlier this year. It's a beautiful place to be - trees everywhere, the sound of distant waves, the calls of native birds - and we'd been going down there for all the time we were married (and I'd been going there for the whole of my life). After Jen died, my only hesitation when I came to consider it was the idea of scattering her ashes on the land. Eventually I came to realise that I was unhappy with the symbolism of scattering, and the practical problems that it presented. So my decision was to inter Jen's ashes in their plastic container, which would leave the option of moving them should that ever be necessary.

I haven't felt very attached at all to Jen's ashes - indeed, I wouldn't have been too worried if they had somehow been lost at the crematorium. The ashes are not Jen in any important or emotional way, only a tenuous physical link to her body. Yet I still had to make a choice, and as often now I sense that I am making the choice for others - the boys now and in the future, perhaps even for myself in five or ten years' time.

Some dear friends came down to the Otways with us for this weekend -- a year ago, when Jen was at the start of chemotherapy, we were all in this same place. After some preparation on the Sunday - choosing the site, assembling the outside bench - on the Monday we dug a hole for the box of ashes and held a simple ceremony. One friend read the section from the Anglican liturgy for the internment of ashes -- essentially a selection of relevant bible verses, ending in the prayer that contains the phrase "ashes to ashes, dust to dust". The boys lowered the box into the hole, and together we put the earth back on top, then settled the outside bench over the spot. Below is a view from that bench - as Jen envisaged, it takes in trees, sky, sea and sand, the beauty of the earth.


Another friend played part of a Bach violin sonata to mark the end. It is much more moving to hear music performed with an expressive purpose, right before you, than to hear the very best recording. Although Jen wasn't very knowledgable about classical music, we overlapped in an appreciation of J.S. Bach. Jen's brother-in-law played the opening of the first Bach cello suite on guitar at our wedding, and again at Jen's funeral. Our friend who played for the internment also played in the room where Jen's body lay on the morning she died, and again at the funeral. I shall always connect those pieces of music with Jen, and I hope I shall always enjoy them.

One more parting is over. Perhaps grief is forever saying goodbye. Right now the internment of the ashes seems just another step amongst many, both an act of memory but also a step forward. Who knows how it will seem in years to come?