I am not a good diarist. Frankly, I would rather be doing than writing. Time is the most finite of resources, and the most evenly distributed. If I wrote up every experience, impression and emotion of my life – and they are all worthy, to some extent – I would have no remaining time to work or embark on new adventures.
However, before resuming the account of my most recent travels, I noticed a comment in my last entry: “The performance ended with ‘Helvegen’ – roads to Hel – which always brings a big lump to my throat these days, for reasons that will become clear in my next blog entry.” This I must now elucidate.
Tineke had died on 15 May 2013 and, since the cremation, her ashes had resided in an urn in my study. What should be done with these, her last, mortal remains? Options were presented by the local authority department that deals with such matters. A ‘burial’ plot at the local crematorium, complete with headstone, for example – available at a price (how they love to shake money out of us) to be renewed again after a mere 12 years. My preference at that stage would have been to dig a hole in the ground, deposit the ashes in it, and plant a tree over them; a living monument. This, I was informed by the undertaker, was illegal, but we could have got away with it if it was done discreetly. But land use and ownership changes; trees eventually die; memorial stones crumble in frost and sun or are removed to make room for new development. I wanted something more permanent.
Although I am anything but dogmatic regarding the passage of the soul after death and the relationship of mortal remains to that soul, I was concerned; concerned to see that she reached whatever happy hunting ground she was destined for. By most accounts, it is not an easy passage, involving a long journey through dark, cold and trials. A journey that calls for help and energy from the world of the living. Even Christians, with their simplistic faith in redemption by virtue of a saviour, feel impelled to light candles for the dead. Had Tineke been Ásatrú, I would have had a better idea of what to do, but to the end she remained as enigmatic as ever.
Something had to be done, and soon. It was fast approaching Samhain, 31 October, the traditional day of the dead in so many traditions, and I wanted to see her at peace by then. Bending my mind towards the matter, the solution became clear. Tineke had always been a ‘water baby’; she was born under the water sign of the Crab and she had always revelled in the element. She swam whenever possible. So often, when I asked her “What does this music remind you of?” she answered “A river”. When she needed to think (or even bear a baby), her first resort was to take a bath. And, of course, by virtue of being fluid, water is more permanent than earth. Structures fail and decline, but water is eternal – in the seas, in the rivers, in the rain and in every puddle. So water would be Tineke’s monument, and whenever we want to be close to her, all we would have to do would be somewhere close to water.
I discussed this with Ranulph and Ingrid, and with her Dutch family, and everyone was agreeable to this solution. Came the day and hour, 30 October, we took Tineke’s ashes and drove to the nearest beach at Bridlington. It was a sunny day for the most part, if a little cool and windy, as we stood together by the water’s edge. I asked the children if they would like to say any last words before the ashes were committed to the sea, but they declined; perhaps they were too full of emotion. I addressed the urn with respect and love, speaking on behalf of everyone, telling Tineke in a few, brief phrases what she had meant to us and wishing her safe journeys and a happy homecoming in the hereafter. Then I waded into the sea and deposited the ashes into it, singing as I did so those immortal lines from the Hávamál:
Deyr fé, deyja frændr,
deyr sjalfr it sama,
en orðstírr deyr aldregi,
hveim er sér góðan getr
Deyr fé, deyja frændr,
deyr sjalfr it sama,
ek veit einn, att aldregi deyr
dómr um dauðan hvern.
And that was it. The rite was concluded and I felt a lot happier. Sox, our dog, brought us back to the world in all his animal innocence as we threw driftwood into the waves for him to retrieve, then brushed the sand from him and drove home to the music of Wardruna.
However, before resuming the account of my most recent travels, I noticed a comment in my last entry: “The performance ended with ‘Helvegen’ – roads to Hel – which always brings a big lump to my throat these days, for reasons that will become clear in my next blog entry.” This I must now elucidate.
Tineke had died on 15 May 2013 and, since the cremation, her ashes had resided in an urn in my study. What should be done with these, her last, mortal remains? Options were presented by the local authority department that deals with such matters. A ‘burial’ plot at the local crematorium, complete with headstone, for example – available at a price (how they love to shake money out of us) to be renewed again after a mere 12 years. My preference at that stage would have been to dig a hole in the ground, deposit the ashes in it, and plant a tree over them; a living monument. This, I was informed by the undertaker, was illegal, but we could have got away with it if it was done discreetly. But land use and ownership changes; trees eventually die; memorial stones crumble in frost and sun or are removed to make room for new development. I wanted something more permanent.
Although I am anything but dogmatic regarding the passage of the soul after death and the relationship of mortal remains to that soul, I was concerned; concerned to see that she reached whatever happy hunting ground she was destined for. By most accounts, it is not an easy passage, involving a long journey through dark, cold and trials. A journey that calls for help and energy from the world of the living. Even Christians, with their simplistic faith in redemption by virtue of a saviour, feel impelled to light candles for the dead. Had Tineke been Ásatrú, I would have had a better idea of what to do, but to the end she remained as enigmatic as ever.
Something had to be done, and soon. It was fast approaching Samhain, 31 October, the traditional day of the dead in so many traditions, and I wanted to see her at peace by then. Bending my mind towards the matter, the solution became clear. Tineke had always been a ‘water baby’; she was born under the water sign of the Crab and she had always revelled in the element. She swam whenever possible. So often, when I asked her “What does this music remind you of?” she answered “A river”. When she needed to think (or even bear a baby), her first resort was to take a bath. And, of course, by virtue of being fluid, water is more permanent than earth. Structures fail and decline, but water is eternal – in the seas, in the rivers, in the rain and in every puddle. So water would be Tineke’s monument, and whenever we want to be close to her, all we would have to do would be somewhere close to water.
I discussed this with Ranulph and Ingrid, and with her Dutch family, and everyone was agreeable to this solution. Came the day and hour, 30 October, we took Tineke’s ashes and drove to the nearest beach at Bridlington. It was a sunny day for the most part, if a little cool and windy, as we stood together by the water’s edge. I asked the children if they would like to say any last words before the ashes were committed to the sea, but they declined; perhaps they were too full of emotion. I addressed the urn with respect and love, speaking on behalf of everyone, telling Tineke in a few, brief phrases what she had meant to us and wishing her safe journeys and a happy homecoming in the hereafter. Then I waded into the sea and deposited the ashes into it, singing as I did so those immortal lines from the Hávamál:
Deyr fé, deyja frændr,
deyr sjalfr it sama,
en orðstírr deyr aldregi,
hveim er sér góðan getr
Deyr fé, deyja frændr,
deyr sjalfr it sama,
ek veit einn, att aldregi deyr
dómr um dauðan hvern.
And that was it. The rite was concluded and I felt a lot happier. Sox, our dog, brought us back to the world in all his animal innocence as we threw driftwood into the waves for him to retrieve, then brushed the sand from him and drove home to the music of Wardruna.