One of our first friends in Caithness passed away last week. It was a long drive down to Inverness and back for the funeral on Monday, but we made it, and the ceremony was actually the most beautiful I’ve been to.
Of course it was difficult, and I feel for the surviving Donald (the couple were both named Donald; quite confusing), but this really was a celebration of the other Donald’s life and impact. Lots of these events claim to be a celebration but end up being either a sad dirge, or an advert for a brand of religion in which the deceased receives an incidental mention. Not so this, which really did powerfully invoke the sense of our friend. We didn’t know him especially well, and I left the service, having heard a number of his (very eloquent) friends speak about him, feeling like I knew him better.
Donald wrote and taught about Celtic spirituality, so the service had a gentle touch of that, leaving room for anyone to believe what they like. By the end, I was intrigued to know more, and at the reception his partner very kindly laid out out copies of Donald’s book Walking the Mist for guests to take. I’ve since had a chance to start reading it, and Donald’s courageously, disarmingly, invitingly imaginative presence comes through loud and clear.
How rare, to have the person you’re missing actually provide you with a context for thinking about losing them.