by Peggy Acott
This autumn I traveled to Colorado and upstate New York to be a part of two intensive writing workshops and study with teachers I have long admired. To be able to do this was made possible by a gift of money that had been held aside for me by my father, who died earlier this year. It has allowed me the wonders of travel to places I have never been and the opportunity to work and study in a realm that is very close to my heart. This is no small thing. My gratitude is immense.
On both of these journeys I took one of the pottery rings that hold a bit of his cremains with me, kept it in a pocket on my walks, and took a photo (a different sort of selfie) that juxtaposed the ring with a view of the landscape that his generosity allowed me to be able to experience.
This autumn I traveled to Colorado and upstate New York to be a part of two intensive writing workshops and study with teachers I have long admired. To be able to do this was made possible by a gift of money that had been held aside for me by my father, who died earlier this year. It has allowed me the wonders of travel to places I have never been and the opportunity to work and study in a realm that is very close to my heart. This is no small thing. My gratitude is immense.
On both of these journeys I took one of the pottery rings that hold a bit of his cremains with me, kept it in a pocket on my walks, and took a photo (a different sort of selfie) that juxtaposed the ring with a view of the landscape that his generosity allowed me to be able to experience.
The most recent trip was to the beautiful Hudson Valley in upstate New York, gorgeous in its resplendent autumn color and panoramic views. I stayed behind for a couple of days after all the other workshop participants had left in order to spend a little more time walking the trails and taking in the beautiful scenery, and to absorb a bit more of the amazing experience of the workshop before returning to my day-to-day life. The first morning “on my own” was November 1 – known as Samhain to my Celtic ancestors – like Halloween, Day of the Dead and All Saint’s Day, the time of the year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest and homage is paid to those no longer on this earthly plane with us.
I was thinking about all this while fingering the pottery ring in my pocket, while looking out at a valley cloaked in its autumnal beauty, remembering how it was my dad who so loved the changes of the season and taught me to appreciate them; every spring and fall my parents and I would get into the car for a drive (at what was hoped was the optimal time to see the best color) out of the city and into the countryside.
I was thinking about all this while fingering the pottery ring in my pocket, while looking out at a valley cloaked in its autumnal beauty, remembering how it was my dad who so loved the changes of the season and taught me to appreciate them; every spring and fall my parents and I would get into the car for a drive (at what was hoped was the optimal time to see the best color) out of the city and into the countryside.
I took some photos of the ring in the company of moss and rocks and leaves, thinking how much dad would have loved to see this part of the country. It then came to me: I should leave the pottery talisman containing a bit of his earthly remains here. That felt so right and appropriate! Alone on the trail, I walked along in an attitude of what I like to call “body dousing,” in an intuitive search of the right spot.
There was a massive stone nestled into the side of a hill with a thick cushion of fallen oak leaves off to one side of the trail. An internal whisper said... there. I went off the trail, up behind the rocky behemoth and found, under a ledge that both protected it and hid it from view, a naturally occurring niche in the rock, about the size of my cupped hand. I stood the pottery ring at one side of the hole and it fit as though made for it. I gathered some still green fallen tips of hemlock, a bit of bark with some lichen and a small stone, and arranged them in the niche to create a sort of natural altar. Then I stood back. Turned around to see what the view was from the niche.
It was perfect. It was right. I said my thank yous and felt my prayers, and returned to the trail…teary, but not out of sadness; rather out of a sense of wonder and gratitude that somehow I had felt the right thing to do, that I could give this bit of beauty back to my dad, wherever he now resides.
The spot is so hidden that it may never be found by another (though if I am ever back that way I will be able to find it again). Or if it is discovered, maybe it will be recognized as a sacred space, and left alone; or the ring will be taken and dad will be able to have another adventure. It doesn’t matter, really, it’s out of my hands.
But it pleases me, back home in my office with my memories of that time, to be able to envision that bit of him there amongst the falling oak leaves, the yellowing maples and the evergreen pines and hemlocks. It is a beautiful and (at least at this time of year) peaceful place. He would have loved it and I like to think does so now.
There was a massive stone nestled into the side of a hill with a thick cushion of fallen oak leaves off to one side of the trail. An internal whisper said... there. I went off the trail, up behind the rocky behemoth and found, under a ledge that both protected it and hid it from view, a naturally occurring niche in the rock, about the size of my cupped hand. I stood the pottery ring at one side of the hole and it fit as though made for it. I gathered some still green fallen tips of hemlock, a bit of bark with some lichen and a small stone, and arranged them in the niche to create a sort of natural altar. Then I stood back. Turned around to see what the view was from the niche.
It was perfect. It was right. I said my thank yous and felt my prayers, and returned to the trail…teary, but not out of sadness; rather out of a sense of wonder and gratitude that somehow I had felt the right thing to do, that I could give this bit of beauty back to my dad, wherever he now resides.
The spot is so hidden that it may never be found by another (though if I am ever back that way I will be able to find it again). Or if it is discovered, maybe it will be recognized as a sacred space, and left alone; or the ring will be taken and dad will be able to have another adventure. It doesn’t matter, really, it’s out of my hands.
But it pleases me, back home in my office with my memories of that time, to be able to envision that bit of him there amongst the falling oak leaves, the yellowing maples and the evergreen pines and hemlocks. It is a beautiful and (at least at this time of year) peaceful place. He would have loved it and I like to think does so now.
Read Peggy's tribute to her mother, Cast Iron Memories, shared on my blog last November. I was so happy that Holly Swan's Ash & Earth memorial stones captivated Peggy as much as they did me. I've written two posts about the memorial stones I commissioned for my father: Sacred Stones and Bringing My Dad Along.
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