the morning foreign shone
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Warning: this post includes photographs and descriptions of human ashes.
Today's subject line quotation is from Emily Dickinson's "As imperceptibly as grief."
As I told the BYM yesterday, the ongoing process of recovering from dental complications has not yet turned me into an axe murderer, but continues to be painful enough that I can too readily empathize with the going-out-of-one's-mind and subsequent decapitating-whatever's-unfortunate-enough-to-be-within-reach. (No need to worry about him or the dog, though, as they are both agile creatures...) I have been sipping bucketworths of ginger ale and swearing at length at both the inadequacy of painkillers and their plethora of side effects.
On the bright side, there is plenty of ginger ale in the house, my houseguests have been interesting and low-maintenance, and I plan to treat tomorrow as a true holiday: Sleeping in and napping often. Writing some letters. Watching some tennis. Reading some poems or essays or manga. The BYM took the brother to a Geek Social and the Lane Motor Museum, and there was a point this afternoon where the four of us (brother, BYM, me, and the dog) were stretched out in the living room, the boys reading Make while Abby and I napped. I live for such contented instances.
And I live also for pleasures such as (sometimes) being ready to offer a spare couch, clean sheets, and a full breakfast on less than an hour's notice to a friend of the BYM who is currently touring North America on his motorbike. I wasn't up to food prep last night, so we headed to Royal Thai for dinner and Pied Piper Creamery for dessert (lemon-ginger custard, mmmm). This morning, though, it felt good having the right supplies and tools on hand to offer the guys oatmeal, toast, eggs (with bacon and onion), juice, coffee, and fruit salad (nectarines, blueberries, and bananas). And R is a delight to chat with - he's a chemist whose likes include dogs and traveling - and another friend came over for some low-key visitin'.
After seeing R off, the BYM drove my brother and me to my church, where I'd arranged for the internment of my parents' ashes. Last year, after Mom died, I'd told my brother that I'd be okay with storing the ashes chez moi for a year or two, but not for a whole decade. (Dad's ashes had resided in a shopping bag in Mom's living room since his death in 1999, and I wasn't above being amused by that, but I'm generally more a fan of moving on...) Hence, this weekend.
I weighed the boxes before unwrapping them, out of curiosity: Mom's was approximately four pounds, Dad's was nine. Until I sliced open the brown wrappings, the only way I could differentiate between the two was the label on Mom's -- if there had been one on Dad's, it had fallen off during its various travels.
Underneath the well-sealed kraft paper wrapping, there were fully labelled white cardboard boxes, also impeccably sealed:
Within those white boxes, there were brown plastic ones. These too were sealed with tape:
The loose panel of each box was tight-fitting enough that it required both significant pushing/tugging/prying-with-a-knife to remove it. Inside, the ashes were in a plastic bag closed with a twist-tie:
Columbarium formats and structures vary from church to church. At the cathedral where I used to work (and where my duties included looking after the logistics of funerals and internments), ashes were placed into urns that were then permanently housed in niches at the back of the nave; there was a special toolbox for opening and closing the panels and doors to the niches. (Thinking about it, there is probably an essay or story to be written about how many physical layers there are to be found in the packaging and housing of remains, even for so-called "no frills" cremations -- for instance, I've seen velvet urn-coverings in use when the funeral directors are asked to handle matters more formally. For the record, I'm donating my body to Meharry and when they're done, what's left will go into First UU's columbarium as well.)
Anyhow. First UU's columbarium is basically under the lawn on the west side of the sanctuary. Most of the time, it is indistinguishable from any other lawn - kids race across it, people have been known to sit on it with plates full of potluck goodness, and so on. But there are two plaques just inside the sanctuary doors that bear the names of those whose ashes are buried there, and a map at the church office that preserves those details as well.
Some internments directly follow a public memorial service. I have witnessed several, and in some cases I was among the guest who placed a flower or stone or a trowelful of dirt into the waiting space.
For a number of reasons (including my mother's vehement antipathy to any such thing), my brother and I decided against a formal, public ritual. Instead, I spoke with my minister earlier this week to verify my understanding of the process, and she left a followup message yesterday warning through a volunteer-friend, advising us to wear plenty of bug spray, it being high chigger season. (I found this oddly comforting.) Last month, I'd sorted out various details with the woman who digs the graves (including whether my brother and I wanted "one hole or two") and reserved the time with the church so that our visit wouldn't clash with a wedding or picnic or other festivity.
So, as expected, the hole was ready when we arrived, marked with a flat rock:
My brother poured in Dad. Some of the ash rose up like smoke during the pouring, and some of it clung to the wrinkles of the plastic bag:
I poured in Mom. I couldn't help noticing that the grind was less consistent with hers -- more sizable chips and shards of bone. There may have been a grim joke about the decline of quality control over the years.
At my church, the mourners can choose to fill in the hole themselves or to leave it to a volunteer to complete the task. My brother filled in the hole. During my supermarket stop yesterday, I'd looked for white carnations (a flower I personally associate with rejection and grief and funerals); there weren't any in the racks, so I went with a bundle of alstroemeria (inexpensive and pretty, but still would have offended Mom's frugal soul) instead:
They'll be scattered and/or trampled and/or crumpled and/or withered by the next time I set foot on the church campus - it was over 95 F today, and there will be kids or dogs or lawnmowers or whatever who won't recognize the spot as a grave, and that's perfectly fine. At the end of the month, much of the water collected during Water Communion will be poured over the columbarium, and those buried there remembered, and for a number of reasons, I feel very good about placing my parents there -- no other option was as right or fitting.
A couple days ago, I received a beautiful hand-crafted bag from a friend who expressed the hope that I would find it handy (for beach books, papers, etc.). My first reaction was that it was almost too pretty to use, but today it happened to be within reach when I needed something in which to stash Kleenex, a screwdriver (just in case), and other tools (just in case):
The digger-thing used to belong to the BYM's grandmother, and both Mom and Dad had been into gardening as well. Mom had also been very fond of seashells (I found stashes of them all over her house after she died; I poured some of them into planters and shipped most of them to a high school craft club). So, the bag ended up being very appropriate on several levels.
And, that's about it. I still have a whale-load of estate-related duties to work through, but they can wait another day or two. First I'm going to write a thank-you note to my needle-gifted friend, and then I'm going to complete several more letters and cards to take along on my next walk to the post office:
Today's subject line quotation is from Emily Dickinson's "As imperceptibly as grief."
As I told the BYM yesterday, the ongoing process of recovering from dental complications has not yet turned me into an axe murderer, but continues to be painful enough that I can too readily empathize with the going-out-of-one's-mind and subsequent decapitating-whatever's-unfortunate-enough-to-be-within-reach. (No need to worry about him or the dog, though, as they are both agile creatures...) I have been sipping bucketworths of ginger ale and swearing at length at both the inadequacy of painkillers and their plethora of side effects.
On the bright side, there is plenty of ginger ale in the house, my houseguests have been interesting and low-maintenance, and I plan to treat tomorrow as a true holiday: Sleeping in and napping often. Writing some letters. Watching some tennis. Reading some poems or essays or manga. The BYM took the brother to a Geek Social and the Lane Motor Museum, and there was a point this afternoon where the four of us (brother, BYM, me, and the dog) were stretched out in the living room, the boys reading Make while Abby and I napped. I live for such contented instances.
And I live also for pleasures such as (sometimes) being ready to offer a spare couch, clean sheets, and a full breakfast on less than an hour's notice to a friend of the BYM who is currently touring North America on his motorbike. I wasn't up to food prep last night, so we headed to Royal Thai for dinner and Pied Piper Creamery for dessert (lemon-ginger custard, mmmm). This morning, though, it felt good having the right supplies and tools on hand to offer the guys oatmeal, toast, eggs (with bacon and onion), juice, coffee, and fruit salad (nectarines, blueberries, and bananas). And R is a delight to chat with - he's a chemist whose likes include dogs and traveling - and another friend came over for some low-key visitin'.
After seeing R off, the BYM drove my brother and me to my church, where I'd arranged for the internment of my parents' ashes. Last year, after Mom died, I'd told my brother that I'd be okay with storing the ashes chez moi for a year or two, but not for a whole decade. (Dad's ashes had resided in a shopping bag in Mom's living room since his death in 1999, and I wasn't above being amused by that, but I'm generally more a fan of moving on...) Hence, this weekend.
I weighed the boxes before unwrapping them, out of curiosity: Mom's was approximately four pounds, Dad's was nine. Until I sliced open the brown wrappings, the only way I could differentiate between the two was the label on Mom's -- if there had been one on Dad's, it had fallen off during its various travels.
 |
| From internment |
Underneath the well-sealed kraft paper wrapping, there were fully labelled white cardboard boxes, also impeccably sealed:
 |
| From internment |
 |
| From internment |
Within those white boxes, there were brown plastic ones. These too were sealed with tape:
 |
| From internment |
The loose panel of each box was tight-fitting enough that it required both significant pushing/tugging/prying-with-a-knife to remove it. Inside, the ashes were in a plastic bag closed with a twist-tie:
 |
| From internment |
Columbarium formats and structures vary from church to church. At the cathedral where I used to work (and where my duties included looking after the logistics of funerals and internments), ashes were placed into urns that were then permanently housed in niches at the back of the nave; there was a special toolbox for opening and closing the panels and doors to the niches. (Thinking about it, there is probably an essay or story to be written about how many physical layers there are to be found in the packaging and housing of remains, even for so-called "no frills" cremations -- for instance, I've seen velvet urn-coverings in use when the funeral directors are asked to handle matters more formally. For the record, I'm donating my body to Meharry and when they're done, what's left will go into First UU's columbarium as well.)
Anyhow. First UU's columbarium is basically under the lawn on the west side of the sanctuary. Most of the time, it is indistinguishable from any other lawn - kids race across it, people have been known to sit on it with plates full of potluck goodness, and so on. But there are two plaques just inside the sanctuary doors that bear the names of those whose ashes are buried there, and a map at the church office that preserves those details as well.
Some internments directly follow a public memorial service. I have witnessed several, and in some cases I was among the guest who placed a flower or stone or a trowelful of dirt into the waiting space.
For a number of reasons (including my mother's vehement antipathy to any such thing), my brother and I decided against a formal, public ritual. Instead, I spoke with my minister earlier this week to verify my understanding of the process, and she left a followup message yesterday warning through a volunteer-friend, advising us to wear plenty of bug spray, it being high chigger season. (I found this oddly comforting.) Last month, I'd sorted out various details with the woman who digs the graves (including whether my brother and I wanted "one hole or two") and reserved the time with the church so that our visit wouldn't clash with a wedding or picnic or other festivity.
So, as expected, the hole was ready when we arrived, marked with a flat rock:
 |
| From internment |
 |
| From internment |
My brother poured in Dad. Some of the ash rose up like smoke during the pouring, and some of it clung to the wrinkles of the plastic bag:
 |
| From internment |
I poured in Mom. I couldn't help noticing that the grind was less consistent with hers -- more sizable chips and shards of bone. There may have been a grim joke about the decline of quality control over the years.
 |
| From internment |
At my church, the mourners can choose to fill in the hole themselves or to leave it to a volunteer to complete the task. My brother filled in the hole. During my supermarket stop yesterday, I'd looked for white carnations (a flower I personally associate with rejection and grief and funerals); there weren't any in the racks, so I went with a bundle of alstroemeria (inexpensive and pretty, but still would have offended Mom's frugal soul) instead:
 |
| From internment |
 |
| From internment |
They'll be scattered and/or trampled and/or crumpled and/or withered by the next time I set foot on the church campus - it was over 95 F today, and there will be kids or dogs or lawnmowers or whatever who won't recognize the spot as a grave, and that's perfectly fine. At the end of the month, much of the water collected during Water Communion will be poured over the columbarium, and those buried there remembered, and for a number of reasons, I feel very good about placing my parents there -- no other option was as right or fitting.
A couple days ago, I received a beautiful hand-crafted bag from a friend who expressed the hope that I would find it handy (for beach books, papers, etc.). My first reaction was that it was almost too pretty to use, but today it happened to be within reach when I needed something in which to stash Kleenex, a screwdriver (just in case), and other tools (just in case):
 |
| From internment |
The digger-thing used to belong to the BYM's grandmother, and both Mom and Dad had been into gardening as well. Mom had also been very fond of seashells (I found stashes of them all over her house after she died; I poured some of them into planters and shipped most of them to a high school craft club). So, the bag ended up being very appropriate on several levels.
And, that's about it. I still have a whale-load of estate-related duties to work through, but they can wait another day or two. First I'm going to write a thank-you note to my needle-gifted friend, and then I'm going to complete several more letters and cards to take along on my next walk to the post office:
 |
| From internment |
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