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Ruth Silverstone Celebrating LIFE!
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to conduct a memorial celebration of someone’s life? It’s a big responsibility and there’s no dress rehearsal!
I recently conducted a memorial celebration of the life of a remarkable woman – we shall call her D. As a Humanist, trained and accredited by Humanists UK, I am constantly trying to improve my practice, and one of the ways we do this is to be observed by a peer. I invited along my friend and colleague, fellow Humanist celebrant, Karen Turnbull and she has written up a guest blog-spot to tell us all about the event.
Hello, I'm Karen Turnbull, another Humanist Celebrant but one who creates Naming Ceremonies; so, when Ruth offered me the chance to observe a Memorial Ceremony she was hosting, I relished the learning opportunity. I'd like to share that experience with you now.
The memorial, in D's honour, was held at a Grade II Listed garden in a small valley, which sloped down to a brook. Created during the 20th Century, the gardens also feature a collection of contemporary sculptures, ceramics and architectural salvage and for D’s celebration of her life, a perfect venue. Some 200 guests were welcomed into this oasis, no dress code, everyone included, just be yourselves; D would have loved that.
Emotions were running high…
A short walk down the wooded valley into a clearing, we were met by a scattering of people engaging in quiet catch-up conversations, but their shocked and sad faces told a different story. Picnic blankets unfurled and fizz bottles popped; there was a little fussing and gentle chatter, but emotions were running high – people sought the essential distractions from the enormity of the loss, the awfulness of it all, the rawness of it all. But Ruth acceded to all requests: it would be fine, well, not fine but bearable; we were in safe hands. And once it got going Ruth became part of this nurturing space, joining the woodland around us, her words weaving a cocoon around a fragile humanity of the evening.
Ruth took to the small stage, and this space provided our focal point; behind her, the valley-side gently rising back and away, backlit by the leaf-filtered light of the early evening sun.
As Ruth prepared to speak, a hush fell and looking around the gathering, I saw people clinging to one another in their family and friendship groups. They knew D, they loved D, and one month on since her death, they had come to hear her story, to learn more about her, to be put on the same page together, to take whatever comfort they could to say goodbye to her, together.
True empathy is the only way I can describe what followed. I became one with the mesmerised throng to meet a woman I'd never known and as D’s story slowly emerged, Ruth reassured us that it was fine to laugh, to join in, to weep and to be angry - D died unacceptably early. It would be bearable; we were held.
I knew that it would be alright; Ruth was there…
D's life story played out, peppered with anecdotes, stories and tributes. Ruth had deftly stitched together a patchwork of tales and presented them wrapped in a comfort blanket. Each speaker: her mother, a friend and her daughter was welcomed to step up and share their heart breaking words, an experience described by one as “having a walnut in my throat - with the shell still on”. And Ruth’s invitation to do so came with warmth, encouragement, kindness and sincerity. Other tributes were read by Ruth as she checked in with the authors and it transpired, they were participating without even knowing it.
I knew that it would be alright; Ruth was there, as bedrock for their indescribable pain and every word she chose was swathed in kindness. No mention of “having died” - that would have been too much, too brutal, too final. Instead, D “took her last breath”- a softened, more palatable phrase for those choked and swollen throats. It was an appreciated kindness.
Looking around, I saw cheeks dabbed, nods of sad recognition, glances shared, and notably for many in this youthful gathering, no phones, not a distraction in sight! For many gamers used to living much of their time in another world, this might have been the first experience of loss in all its searing reality. The urge to dive into the safety and familiarity of their hand-held world must have been so great and yet, no. Each was experiencing this event in the moment. Together, learning.
There's always a tipping point…
"There's always a tipping point," Ruth advised. For me it was a few tributes from the children in D’s class where she worked as a specialist support worker. How much they needed her, how much they loved and learnt from her, how sorry they were for her family, how would they ever be okay without her. I joined the dabbers, not realising that a more profound experience was to come: a life-lesson for me from a striking 17-year-old who I'd spotted her earlier as she talked to her friends about her nerves. I hadn’t made the connection that she was D's daughter.
As she stepped shyly onto the small stage, the gathering held its collective breath. How would she ever be able to give her tribute? Then, a shout of 'G'wan girl' broke the tension and appreciative murmurs and nods rippled around the glade and gave her the gentle nudge she needed to gather her composure to begin her poem. Words flowed, voice calm, eye contact. Damn but we wanted to savour this! To appreciate her words and to admire her; to respect her and urge her on but it was done and the crowd erupted into applause. She introduced a piece of music for her mum: music that only she knew she would play. She recalled a memory of a Bombay Bicycle Club gig she had been to with her Mum when times were good. It was a spell-binding accomplishment and reeling now, I felt compelled to beg this impressive young woman to keep writing. Such a talent should not be denied to the world.
Ashes to Fireworks…
And so Ruth drew this part of the evening to a comforting close. There would be live music, dancing, eating and drinking and more shared stories to celebrate D's life. All that she was and had been to this community of friends and family. And as darkness fell, D's ashes became the latest addition to a constellation of other stars as they were released skyward in a sundown firework display to the sounds of Celebration by Kool and the Gang.
A bridge had been crossed for D's friends and family to enable them to move into another dimension of their grief. A phase where sharing memories was welcome and her name said without fear. In this way, D would remain with them always.
People came up to Ruth afterwards thanking her for her tour de force, for “getting it spot on”, being in awe of being able to do that, being the bedrock for them in their time of utter desperation. She knew; she’d been there herself, and it showed.
And as we left the gathering to the strains of Club Tropicana by Wham! I reflected on my first experience of a Memorial Ceremony. The drive home eastwards meant I saw the sun sink into a salmon sky from my rear-view mirror and I reflected on the learning this evening, learning about working with families, listening to them and guiding them, supporting them, enabling them to be their best selves and to be so very brave. I learnt about story-telling, inclusion, celebration and the comfort that can come from pain shared. I learnt about authenticity, generosity, trust and empathy and the importance of the shared experience of ritual.
I will also remember D. I wish I'd met her. What a star she was and continues to be; how her daughter shone; how her husband's heart bled its terrible pain in simple, devastating words; I will remember her young son being comforted by his mates. I'll hold dear the learning from this evening: it was life changing and life affirming.
Thank you Ruth for inviting me, a very memorable Memorial indeed.
