This morning we said good bye to Isabelle. Paul Pierre called me Wednesday evening to let me know that she'd died that morning around 3AM. Yesterday the family arrived, and today was a day for friends. He asked me to contact our mutual friend Sophie, the beekeeper. And I took it upon myself to call JP. Ooph, not an easy call for me. I would have vastly preferred to leave a message.
It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.
I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.
In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.
And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.
And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.
Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.
And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.
Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?
I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?
And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.
I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.
This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.
And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.
Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...
Showing posts with label funerals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funerals. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Another Rite of Passage
Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel
In a life lived, there are rites of passage. Birth, Marriage, and Death. We joyously accept and applaud the former two, and rarely escape the latter. I am not an anthropologist, and my examples are from personal experiences. Funeral rites, saying goodbye to the dead, sending our loved ones on their voyage as they depart this world, every culture, every people, has its ways of handling this meeting of the life force as they depart the physical body.
In the last few years I attended too many funerals and/or memorial services, both in the US and in France. A close cousin from cancer and my father from Parkinson's on the continent to the west, and in France, a nephew of Erick's from a heart attack, a delightful old uncle from old age (98), a much-loved potter out of the blue with a heart attack, and more recently, a colleague and collaborator from Châteauneuf-du-Pape after a long battle with cancer. As Leo, who accompanied me (and it was important to me that he do so) to three of the above, rightly said. Too many.
I am writing from experience and sentiment, curiosity and wonder. I was startled, after the memorial services of my American family to then participate in the ceremonies in France. In the former we chose to bring the individual we so sorely missed back into the room with us through poetry, personal reminiscences, music and song; yet, there was no casket sharing the space, and we did not go to a cemetery afterwards. We did however, gather together for a reception. We extended our time together, the service serving as a family reunion. In my family, spread out as we are, many of us see each other only at weddings or funerals.
In France the ceremonies were of two sorts. In two, religious rites and tradition dominated. The family attended, the priest spoke, we prayed, lit candles, and then followed the casket to the cemetery, no personal words or sentiments were expressed. The patriarchal church tradition orchestrated the day. For the others, to whom religion no longer had a place in their lives, the words were few, but the rites of burying the heavy and imposing casket in a granite tomb still of great importance.
A French friend once expressed her shock to me that John Kennedy Junior and his wife were cremated and their ashes spread at sea. How could they not bury them beside his parents? she exclaimed.
The ceremonies I've attended surprised me in their lack of personal words, as well as by the emphasis on the solid and lasting tomb. From a point of ignorance, and otherness, I observe and wonder.
I'm trying to come to terms with what seems most important to each culture. Soon after my arrival in Provence, I buried my father in law who'd lived the last year of his life with us. I have pictures of him with baby Leo throughout my house, I have memories of this dear man who so befriended me. I welcomed him to my home and cared for him as he ailed. Then, with barely two cents to our name, Erick and I buried him as we were able, with little ceremony in a little plot that we purchased for 30 years. We did gather at the site of his burial, speak a few sincere words, sprinkle bay leaves atop before departing. The burial was written up in the local paper and family and friends came out to the cemetery to bear witness with us of this event. However, we didn't at the time have the funds to build a proper granite or poured cement tomb, and since then, other necessities have definitely taken priority. A proper tomb has not been built above his burial mound.
Have I betrayed this dear father in law in not caring for his grave? I think his sister and niece believe this. Caring for the tomb, cleaning it, putting flowers on it, sweeping it, visiting it at least every All Saints' Day are important traditions to this part of the world. I've been busy with my babies and businesses. I did not adopt this tradition. But nor was I encouraged to do so by my husband. I cared for my father in law during his life, loved him and learned from him, included him in our little family. But no, I have not tended his grave. I have to believe that if it had been important to Erick, I would have done so.
The cemeteries around Arles are fascinating to me. All the stones, the granite, the poured cement. Minimal plants outside of a few ornamental trees. Plaques dedicated to the dead placed upon the tomb: "to papa, from his children;" "To Emile from his pétanque club;" "To Mireille from her loving husband." There are photos under glass, images of a man dancing the Farandole. Mementos and messages writ in stone. And in the cemetery on the far side of the Rhône, signs directing you to the grave of Jeanne Calment, the Arlesienne doyenne who died a decade ago at the age of 122, at that time, the oldest living person in the world whose birth had been officially registered.
In the old world, space is at a premium. The American tradition of each person having his plot of land with a small (or large) headstone is impractical. For families with means, a large and deep granite topped tomb is constructed. It is purchased for the years to come. Into this vault, you can lay up to 4-5-6 coffins. With time, the coffins below decompose, and you can add others above. At the time of his death, my father in law had been immediately preceded by a brother and a sister in law. There was no room for yet another new casket in that particular family tomb. Hence the need to find another spot for Papi. The bureaucratic and cultural maze that Erick and I traversed, baby Leo in arms, to bury Papi stays with me. It was all quite surreal, and I suppose I am still reeling from my incomprehension and unease.
Both my parents purchased small plots beside their parents ahead of time. My father's ashes are in Louisville, KY. My mother has let it be known that she wishes to be in the small cemetery beside our summer home in Michigan. It does matter where we end up. And yet, being so dispersed as a family, I suppose for myself, the place of burial has never held much importance. It is the memories of our loved ones, photos, stories, letters and more that I hold dear.
I bounced this strange idea I had of writing about my limited experiences in this domain with JP. He said to me, in what concerns the ceremonies, "few feel creative at such a time of pain," and "it would be unseemly and poorly viewed to be original." But he also corrected me and underlined my limited experience. When his father died, they decided upon a very personal service, without a pastor or priest, and with words prepared and spoken by the eldest son. They then played Fauré's Requiem as their father had requested, bringing this man back into their midst.
In a life lived, there are rites of passage. Birth, Marriage, and Death. We joyously accept and applaud the former two, and rarely escape the latter. I am not an anthropologist, and my examples are from personal experiences. Funeral rites, saying goodbye to the dead, sending our loved ones on their voyage as they depart this world, every culture, every people, has its ways of handling this meeting of the life force as they depart the physical body.
In the last few years I attended too many funerals and/or memorial services, both in the US and in France. A close cousin from cancer and my father from Parkinson's on the continent to the west, and in France, a nephew of Erick's from a heart attack, a delightful old uncle from old age (98), a much-loved potter out of the blue with a heart attack, and more recently, a colleague and collaborator from Châteauneuf-du-Pape after a long battle with cancer. As Leo, who accompanied me (and it was important to me that he do so) to three of the above, rightly said. Too many.
I am writing from experience and sentiment, curiosity and wonder. I was startled, after the memorial services of my American family to then participate in the ceremonies in France. In the former we chose to bring the individual we so sorely missed back into the room with us through poetry, personal reminiscences, music and song; yet, there was no casket sharing the space, and we did not go to a cemetery afterwards. We did however, gather together for a reception. We extended our time together, the service serving as a family reunion. In my family, spread out as we are, many of us see each other only at weddings or funerals.
In France the ceremonies were of two sorts. In two, religious rites and tradition dominated. The family attended, the priest spoke, we prayed, lit candles, and then followed the casket to the cemetery, no personal words or sentiments were expressed. The patriarchal church tradition orchestrated the day. For the others, to whom religion no longer had a place in their lives, the words were few, but the rites of burying the heavy and imposing casket in a granite tomb still of great importance.
A French friend once expressed her shock to me that John Kennedy Junior and his wife were cremated and their ashes spread at sea. How could they not bury them beside his parents? she exclaimed.
The ceremonies I've attended surprised me in their lack of personal words, as well as by the emphasis on the solid and lasting tomb. From a point of ignorance, and otherness, I observe and wonder.
I'm trying to come to terms with what seems most important to each culture. Soon after my arrival in Provence, I buried my father in law who'd lived the last year of his life with us. I have pictures of him with baby Leo throughout my house, I have memories of this dear man who so befriended me. I welcomed him to my home and cared for him as he ailed. Then, with barely two cents to our name, Erick and I buried him as we were able, with little ceremony in a little plot that we purchased for 30 years. We did gather at the site of his burial, speak a few sincere words, sprinkle bay leaves atop before departing. The burial was written up in the local paper and family and friends came out to the cemetery to bear witness with us of this event. However, we didn't at the time have the funds to build a proper granite or poured cement tomb, and since then, other necessities have definitely taken priority. A proper tomb has not been built above his burial mound.
Have I betrayed this dear father in law in not caring for his grave? I think his sister and niece believe this. Caring for the tomb, cleaning it, putting flowers on it, sweeping it, visiting it at least every All Saints' Day are important traditions to this part of the world. I've been busy with my babies and businesses. I did not adopt this tradition. But nor was I encouraged to do so by my husband. I cared for my father in law during his life, loved him and learned from him, included him in our little family. But no, I have not tended his grave. I have to believe that if it had been important to Erick, I would have done so.
The cemeteries around Arles are fascinating to me. All the stones, the granite, the poured cement. Minimal plants outside of a few ornamental trees. Plaques dedicated to the dead placed upon the tomb: "to papa, from his children;" "To Emile from his pétanque club;" "To Mireille from her loving husband." There are photos under glass, images of a man dancing the Farandole. Mementos and messages writ in stone. And in the cemetery on the far side of the Rhône, signs directing you to the grave of Jeanne Calment, the Arlesienne doyenne who died a decade ago at the age of 122, at that time, the oldest living person in the world whose birth had been officially registered.
In the old world, space is at a premium. The American tradition of each person having his plot of land with a small (or large) headstone is impractical. For families with means, a large and deep granite topped tomb is constructed. It is purchased for the years to come. Into this vault, you can lay up to 4-5-6 coffins. With time, the coffins below decompose, and you can add others above. At the time of his death, my father in law had been immediately preceded by a brother and a sister in law. There was no room for yet another new casket in that particular family tomb. Hence the need to find another spot for Papi. The bureaucratic and cultural maze that Erick and I traversed, baby Leo in arms, to bury Papi stays with me. It was all quite surreal, and I suppose I am still reeling from my incomprehension and unease.
Both my parents purchased small plots beside their parents ahead of time. My father's ashes are in Louisville, KY. My mother has let it be known that she wishes to be in the small cemetery beside our summer home in Michigan. It does matter where we end up. And yet, being so dispersed as a family, I suppose for myself, the place of burial has never held much importance. It is the memories of our loved ones, photos, stories, letters and more that I hold dear.
I bounced this strange idea I had of writing about my limited experiences in this domain with JP. He said to me, in what concerns the ceremonies, "few feel creative at such a time of pain," and "it would be unseemly and poorly viewed to be original." But he also corrected me and underlined my limited experience. When his father died, they decided upon a very personal service, without a pastor or priest, and with words prepared and spoken by the eldest son. They then played Fauré's Requiem as their father had requested, bringing this man back into their midst.
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