Time to Mourn by the Sea
‘After the unexpected death of my teenaged daughter’s biological father, with whom we’d had very little contact for several years, I asked Wendy to support us in a ceremony to acknowledge the importance of the event and help us to grieve. I had imagined something reverent and ceremonial, perhaps with candles and music.
We put all our ideas on paper and then put them to one side and left it open to the flow of the moment. Wendy confidently held the intention to do ‘something’, without any need to have a fixed plan or control how things went.
It turned out that what my daughter really needed was time and connection with me, and what I really needed was someone to hold and support me while I gave her that time. Wendy provided materials for us to make a memorial collage together, a wreath to paddle into the ocean with, and prompts to recount some memories, but she also provided permission for us to be just as we were.
With this trust in the flow and in our own ability to create something beautiful and meaningful, we were able to come away feeling that we had touched both the beauty and the sorrow of the moment, its magic and its ordinariness. I feel so glad that I made time and space to feel and mark this loss with my daughter and so grateful to have been able to call on Wendy to help us do that well.’ R.L, Queensland
RL, who I had met online at one of my programs, called me to discuss what ceremony might be appropriate to conduct with her daughter whose father died overseas. We chatted and talked about the family and the loss. I put forward a few ideas and invited RL and her daughter to come down to the area and we could make plans that would meet what they both needed: A holiday, mourning, connection, and an intimate ceremony.
RL then replied by email: “Some ideas I had vaguely imagined are crafting some words to speak to the ocean or sky, making a necklace (as this was something he loved to do and I have shells and beads from where we lived overseas together). Something that just came to me now is a line of candles and lighting one candle with the previous one down the line as we talk about what is passed down through families and what my daughter now carries of him in her (e.g. a love of music, clown energy, a love of sport, curly hair). We’d also go for a surf together (he was a lifelong surfer) and maybe put a flower in the ocean for him during the weekend.”
We emailed back and forth a few ideas. I wrote, ‘We can be very organic about how we proceed even though we might create a loose structure. We could make a wreath and you could paddle out and lay it out the back of the surf. We could harvest a few flowers and I have some dried natives on hand we could use. What we might do:
- lay photos on the floor
- tell/write/listen to stories,
- craft words to speak to the ocean or sky
- make a necklace of shells and beads
- create a line of candles—as you mentioned, light one candle with the previous one down the line as you talk about what has been passed down through her family line. (a love of music, clown energy, a love of sport, curly hair…)
- shared dinner — spaghetti bolognaise
- if it’s not raining, an outside fire and play guitar
- morning pancakes with fresh strawberries
- make a wreath
- paddle out
- walk around the headland.
Any of these or none of these… we can adapt to the moment.
What to bring: photos, beads, guitar, shark jumpsuit to lounge around in, pancake things
Most importantly, let’s keep it organic and simple.”
RL and her daughter arrived Saturday afternoon. We chatted and they settled in. I asked open ended questions about when RL first met her daughter’s father. The conversation was slow at first but I trusted that all was well. Somewhere something happens in the listening, the sharing, the silence and the questions. I brought out the art canvas and glues and magazines and the collage work began as we talked some more. We went to the beach and shared dinner. I was out with my family the next day so I left them to find their own way and as it turns out it was perfect. RL wrote,
“On the Sunday morning we spoke with my daughter’s dads sisters and brother (overseas), made pancakes and had a quiet time in your garden with all the beautiful flowers and made the wreath. We then walked down to the beach and paddled it out and, despite my daughter being a bit reluctant and me feeling a little bit awkward about talking out loud to the ocean and to her dad, this brought a huge emotional release for both of us and a lot of tears came.
Since then my daughter has received a package from her dad’s sister with some things she saved for her from his belongings, including her blue soft toy hippo that he had kept all these years. It also included a beautiful letter to my daughter from her auntie about all the comments she’d had from his friends about how much he talked about her and loved her and was proud of her. This was exactly what she needed to hear I think and there were lots more tears.
My daughter is so social and involved in so many activities that it’s really easy for her to distract herself from uncomfortable things and I consciously drop in reminders now and again to try to keep the process alive. It is a weird situation in that nobody else here even knew him and so it’s not going to really come up in conversation or be on anyone else’s mind. Taking that intentional time with you was so important to attempt to give this event the space and gravity it deserved.”
We need to take time to grieve, in whatever way works best for us personally and as a family. Sometimes it looks like a short break away, photos and a collage, a wreath, a paddle out and a phone call to family. Whatever it takes, I encourage you gently, make it happen.
