If death comes at 98, it is a reason to be thankful. That is of course what people tell you, and it is true. One is not allowed to be sad, to mourn the loss. But the contradiction is that it is extremely difficult to live without a person who has always been in one's life, and for so many years. How can one imagine life without that beloved person? When that person is talented, creative, very gifted, kind and generous, it is even harder. If a person is famous, his workshop or painter's studio or writer's den is kept intact, incorporated in a museum. The pen positioned in the right place, the diary or notebook opened, as if the writer is just having a coffee and could come back any minute to go on with his writing. If a person has never acquired fame or wished for fame or recognition, the studio is dismantled, only photographs may remind people of what it looked like. There is this unfinished painting still on the easel, the brushes in an old jam jar, pieces of soiled cloth stained with paint lying around, the multicoloured apron hanging from a hook on the easel. The hall and all the walls overflowing with paintings, drawings, watercolours. It is heartbreaking to clear out that space, sell the house, get rid of the turpentine, the canvasses in various shapes and sizes, the tubes of paint, squeezed in odd places. The smell will linger. Whenever one enters a studio and encounters those familiar smells again, one will be overcome with grief, nostalgia, or just joy. The organ will be sold, the still open music books closed, the private library, so characteristic of the owner and collector, divided among several people. The letters written to dear ones, to fellow believers, all will be shredded, or scattered. Perhaps the life history which we can extract from the many handwritten diaries may be saved, but for whom? Just for children and grandchildren, who will wonder about the life of a parent or grandparent which was so different from theirs, totally alien in a way. But the feeling of love, of togetherness, this bond will stay, in spite of the tangible traces being wiped out, the parental home being lost, sold.  The leather bound family Bible, the art books, the camera's and the photo albums, who will want them? Why do we collect memorabilia when the next generation is not interested, neither in the photo albums with pictures of unknown aunts and uncles, long lost friends and forgotten acquaintances? It is what we feel in our hearts, a love for the essence of the person who died, his or her core. It is not the deeds we remember, although we sometimes do, it is the heart of that person, the spirit, the mind, the attitude towards life and his fellow beings. That is what matters and what we remember. We may never know a person completely, not our own parents, not even ourselves, neither the motives for our behaviour, but we do know if a person is good at heart, if there is not a single bad thought in him or her; a person without guile, a person in whom there is no deceit, a person incapable of hurting anyone wilfully, a person who is able and willing to forgive and forget, a person who is spiritually generous.

Life and death

Is there anything worse in the world than sitting at the bedside of a dying parent? I am sure a dying child is more heartbreaking. Children shouldn't die, but usually they accept death quite naturally. They know they can no longer live, accept the inevitable, and let go. Not so with adults. A parent who has always lived life to the full, enjoyed it, woke up each morning thanking God for a new day, rain or shine, for being alive, a parent like that, independent, strong-willed, creative, doesn't want to let go. And so the struggle is prolonged. Dying isn't easy, isn't at all romantic in spite of what some poets may say. Dying is hard work. It is like closing down a factory. Not all the valves are closed at the same time, but the taps are turned one by one, a gradual process. It is the same for the human body. Memory may or may not go first, the ability to walk, to steer one's feet in the right direction. Muscles waste, organs no longer function, sometimes the heart keeps beating in a skeletal frame. The pain gets worse, the fight for breath as the lungs fill with fluid, the hallucinations, the fear.

         And then peace, the spirit leaving the body behind, which lies there motionless. The first day the body seems to be unsure of its status. The spirit is still hovering over it, reluctant to go. Till it becomes an empty shell, the hull of a chrysalis after the butterfly has escaped to freedom, spreading its wings. Why should one be afraid of a dead body? It is a pod, a coat, left behind, no longer needed. And yet, the coat was so characteristic of the person who wore it. If we keep a wake in the days before the funeral and observe this body, we gradually realise that we do not bury a person, we bury his earthly shell, his coat which is useless without the person who wore it. Then it is far easier to let go. After all, we do not bury the spirit, which returns to its eternal home, carried on angels' wings to the throne of God, the Creator of all.

         Of course it is often argued that spirit and body are one, inseparable. Here during our earthly existence that is quite true. We wouldn't be anybody without our physical appearance. But there is a different truth, there is more than just this body. Leaving it behind is hard and painful. But it is the way to a new existence.

Chants

Chants and all that

A weekend filled with music. Two evensongs to sing and enjoy , plus Matins. Rushing from Amsterdam on Saturday to The Hague on Sunday and on to Haarlem. Two Mag and Nuncs in one weekend, utter bliss. Plus two different sets of Preces and Responses and two anthems. Amazing to have a rather full church for evensong on a bright and very cold Saturday afternoon in Amsterdam, in a big, icy, but beautiful church. It was a joy and a privilege to sing with such accomplished singers. The short sermon in Amsterdam was to the point and enjoyable. I won't mention the Sunday one in The Hague, mainly because I could not hear a thing, as the pulpit in The Hague faces the congregation and anyone speaking from there stands with his or her back to the choir. With just one good ear, it is a hopeless battle, but an excellent opportunity  to meditate on whatever one likes to meditate on. I must admit this time I fretted that the sermon might take ages, as I had to rush on to Haarlem. Made it just in time for the most important part of the practice. The anthem by S. S. Wesley, "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace" is really beautiful. Saturday was devoted to Sumsion, (Mag and Nunc in G, and the Preces and Responses). Sunday it was Reading (Preces and Response) and D. Purcell for the canticles.

In fact we celebrated Candlemas in church, although it isn't Candlemas till February 2^nd, on Tuesday. Antoine Bodar, a Dutch priest, art historian and lecturer who now lives in Rome said during a broadcast about his choice of classical music, that in Rome Christmas decorations were not taken down till February 2^nd. It is the last day of Christmas, a new beginning. It is the day of the presentation of the Child in the temple, and the song of Simeon, the text of the Nunc Dimittis (Luke 2:29–32). Moving words, very appropriate for anyone who is old, weak and in pain,  and longs for peace and the kingdom of God.

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word.
For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people;
To be be a light to lighten the Gentiles, and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

January 28 The Last Station

Friday afternoon I went to see The last Station, which is about the last stage of Tolstoy's life.  Not in a cinema, but in a community building. Many of the public were not far from their own last station, as this was especially organised for our local seniors. And doesn't my village have seniors in abundance (forgetting that I am supposed to be in the same category, but feeling eternally young)! Anyway, excellent acting, beautiful photography, even captivating on a small screen. Helen Mirren and Christopher Plummer are great actors. Normally cool Helen Mirren shows uncontrolled passion, and that very convincingly! If you are a fan of steam-trains, it is a must as well. A costume drama, with great landscape shots. Besides it was a nice and cheap way to enjoy a very cold and windy afternoon, in spite of needing to shut out the sun. Some unexpected good came from it: After living in this house for some 30 years, I finally met the neighbour whose back garden is facing mine. I do know her husband, who often works in the garden, but not his wife. She said she had always wondered what I looked like. Well, now we both know.