Last weekend as I prepared to lead a memorial service, the fourth in four weeks, I found myself soothed by the rituals I've developed around them.
It starts when I read the ceremony script aloud, sometimes to my patient spouse Amber. It's been approved by the client by that point but I always catch a little typo or two, a little stumble in how the words enter the room from my mouth. After making those fixes I print out a reader copy for myself, large font with sensible page breaks, and a keepsake copy for my client. I load the pages of the reader copy into my presentation portfolio.
The keepsake copy is more of a project. Following a prototype created by Mary Elliott, the virtuoso designer who did all of my graphic design, I clip the corners of the pages to a pleasing rounded shape. I add a sheet of card stock to the back, robin's egg blue or fresh spring green, punch two holes at the top, and bind it all together with some natural died hemp string bound round a stick of bamboo. Often I write a note to my client expressing my appreciation for the chance to get to know their loved one through their memories, and tuck it into a nice folder with my card and the keepsake.
I rehearse the script aloud another time or two into my Iphone voice recorder. This recording accompanies me, via headphones, on the drive to the ceremony. If it's a long drive I may listen to it several times over, in between my not very original vocal warm ups ("Doe, a deer..." and the Alphabet song).
But before I leave, I have to pack my bag. Presentation portfolio, cards, sometimes my Tibetan singing bowl. A thermos of Throat Coat tea with honey. Lately I've also brought along a purple pouch threaded through with dragon flies. It holds ceramic hearts created by the 18th Avenue Peace House community, offered through their nonprofit Griefwatch.
I discovered the hearts one day when I visited the Peace House, preparing for the Death Cafe they hosted. The whole front stoop of this mission-centered mansion was covered in ceramic hearts, basking outdoors for this phase of the production cycle. I've bought a few bags since then and find myself dipping into them for all sorts of ceremonies.
Just before the memorial I invite the bereaved partner to reach into the bag of hearts, selecting a touchstone to hold during the ceremony: a final, grounding point of connection before we begin the hard and important work of carrying the memory of their loved one through the raging river of grief, into the future.
It starts when I read the ceremony script aloud, sometimes to my patient spouse Amber. It's been approved by the client by that point but I always catch a little typo or two, a little stumble in how the words enter the room from my mouth. After making those fixes I print out a reader copy for myself, large font with sensible page breaks, and a keepsake copy for my client. I load the pages of the reader copy into my presentation portfolio.
The keepsake copy is more of a project. Following a prototype created by Mary Elliott, the virtuoso designer who did all of my graphic design, I clip the corners of the pages to a pleasing rounded shape. I add a sheet of card stock to the back, robin's egg blue or fresh spring green, punch two holes at the top, and bind it all together with some natural died hemp string bound round a stick of bamboo. Often I write a note to my client expressing my appreciation for the chance to get to know their loved one through their memories, and tuck it into a nice folder with my card and the keepsake.
I rehearse the script aloud another time or two into my Iphone voice recorder. This recording accompanies me, via headphones, on the drive to the ceremony. If it's a long drive I may listen to it several times over, in between my not very original vocal warm ups ("Doe, a deer..." and the Alphabet song).
But before I leave, I have to pack my bag. Presentation portfolio, cards, sometimes my Tibetan singing bowl. A thermos of Throat Coat tea with honey. Lately I've also brought along a purple pouch threaded through with dragon flies. It holds ceramic hearts created by the 18th Avenue Peace House community, offered through their nonprofit Griefwatch.
I discovered the hearts one day when I visited the Peace House, preparing for the Death Cafe they hosted. The whole front stoop of this mission-centered mansion was covered in ceramic hearts, basking outdoors for this phase of the production cycle. I've bought a few bags since then and find myself dipping into them for all sorts of ceremonies.
Just before the memorial I invite the bereaved partner to reach into the bag of hearts, selecting a touchstone to hold during the ceremony: a final, grounding point of connection before we begin the hard and important work of carrying the memory of their loved one through the raging river of grief, into the future.
Picture every surface covered in ceramic hearts (photo of & by 18th Ave Peace House)
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