Tiny Stories

I arrive early for the wedding, on a hot summer's day in Hawkes Bay. It's an auspicious date - or at least a memorable one - a palindrome and an ambigram, I'm told - the same backwards and upside down: 22022022. It is early, so we hide inside, the aircon buzzing, a few guests waiting under the trees outside. A name from the past shoots past my ears, and my subconscious starts ticking over. I look at the man, his height, his laughter, and it clicks. We were school mates, 46 years ago. We hug, we laugh, and he reminds me my hair was jet black back then. It is two years since my mum died. She was a gentle woman who loved pansies.  After my gorgeous brides say their vows, I drive to meet Mary for a commemorative afternoon tea. I have promised I'll bring the crockery, and she is puzzled to say the least. When I unpack the fine bone china from the bag, in mum's favourite colour, she gets it: it's our way of celebrating the Life of Joy, her crafty friend and confidant....

My mother leaves in autumn. It is not text book dying, pain carefully managed in a contemporary setting, but a struggle for her to go. The nursing staff are kind, but there is only so much you can do at the end without breaking the laws of our country. I think about birthing, the intense but somehow worthy pain of labour, and wonder if death is the same, hard work to let ourselves go, stubbornness and fear slowing the process. We drive across the region, wineries and orchards marking the space between the twin cities. He chooses the Cadillac, mum’s last ride the classiest of her life. There are just the three of us: me sitting oddly on the right minus a steering wheel to hold; mum in the back, her koru-crested casket a nod to simplicity. When we arrive, I place the flowers from my friend’s garden on top of the poem, grateful for their colour and compassion. “If I die in autumn”, I begin as I stand beside her at the catafalque. It’s a couple of days short, but she wouldn’t mind. Already...

It’s late at night as I sit at my computer compiling a funeral service for David, a person I’ve never met. Earlier in the day, I sat with his partner and family, devastated that the man they spent Christmas Day with has gone, his life extinguished in a heart beat. My job is to craft the words, provide structure to the ceremony, hold space for them as we farewell him on a hot summer’s day in Auckland. But first I need to write, I need inspiration, I need energy. Fragile and fragmented - and oddly enough, sometimes funny - conversations with families and friends are my starting point, even when a death is unexpected. But after the meeting, after the tears, it's time to explore, and the internet is a great place to begin. Start with Google (or other search engines) to see what’s available, what’s already been done, and what’s popular. Here are a few things I’ve found useful:   1. Quotes: there are millions of quotes on the internet. Type in a few key words, and you’ll be flooded ...

"The only way to find your voice is to use it." Austin Kleon's quote appears from the endless store of resources I have. I squirrel stuff away, in hard copy and electronically, knowing I'll find a use for it one day. Austin from Austin. A Texan. A man who creates, regularly, without hesitation. He posts when it's good, he posts when it's not. He works at creativity. And then it comes to me - I'm creating a habit, a habit of creativity. I'm inspired by this distant man, though distance is irrelevant in our new normal. It's a fresh start, and a vision board has taken over the glossy side of my pantry, in my line of view as I sit at the laptop. My quote - creating a habit, a habit of creativity - in the centre, surrounded by images and sayings and stickers and the best process for an apology. I ruminate, I wonder, I stare at the wall.  Then it comes to me, the epiphany I'm waiting for, as I walk in the summer rain. It's time for a new blog. Th...