Life, death and the mystery

So before I got distracted for a while with a rather intense patch of focus on all the day to day doings of motherhood, back in June, while I was working on some of my recent pieces of writing, into which my dear cousin James and dear friend Iain happened, very appropriately, to make their way, some important dates also passed.

It has now been more than one year since my cousin James has been gone.

And just after our southern winter solstice, on the next day, it was Iain's birthday.

So all in all I've been thinking a lot of both of them, extra in these last months, and I thought maybe it was time to share more of the story of how I have known them, before, and since, they've been gone, so I started writing this.

For some, particularly those with perhaps a more scientific or skeptical leaning, some of this may seem strange, or silly, or something, but it is my experience, and in that it is my experience, I know it to be true, and important - of value at least to me. Once upon a time I would have said my official opinion was that life ends with death and that is that. But now I believe it's not quite that simple.

To begin with, something that made a lot of sense to me, and that helped me to understand and deepen my own experiences, an explanation of mediumship from an amazing, and game changing, book I found, or that found me, in magical Glastonbury, four and a half years ago, called Practical Intuition, by Laura Day... Laura says:

"People always want to know how something works, believing that every result must be comprehensible and have a 'logical' explanation. How mediumship works is a mystery. I don't think anybody really knows if it is the spirit actually speaking or an energy that has been left behind or an intuitive's ability to enter a state in which he or she has access to information about things we normally don't perceive, at least not consciously. (I can tell you from firsthand experience, however, that genuine mediumship does exist.)"

And this seems entirely reasonable to me, particularly because of my own experiences.

Now I'm not a medium, by any means, but I have been practising using my intuition for some time now. At first this was less intentional, as my intuitive knowledge just finally made its own way more prominently into my attention more or less of its own accord, after being mostly blocked much of my grown up life by my intellect; and then more intentionally as I learnt more about intuition, its value as a way of knowing, and how to access and use it; especially since reading this aforementioned book, which helped me to expand my awareness, sharpen my focus, deepen my understanding and learn more intuitive techniques and skills… And one thing that seems to me important to remember, is that like any form of intuition, clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsensing, etc., mediumship is not the same as how we sense in our standard five senses. Much as these senses are also more or less completely different to each other as well. We can't expect to hear the clarity of a line on a page, or to see harmony, or taste red, that is unless perhaps we have synaesthesia anyway... And so it is with the knowing of the being of somebody who is no longer alive. It's a sensing that is different to these more well known and understood senses, which can make it tricky to understand at first...

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My cousin James and I, as I wrote about previously, were closest when we spent a lot of time hanging out - in those days of spending lots of time with friends - in our late teens through to early-mid 20s, and then we had a special summer as housemates in my rental house in Eganstown, the summer we were 29. We drifted apart after that somewhat, partly through the literal distance of just being in different places, sometimes even different countries, or just city and country away. And somehow we didn't fit so easily into each other's lives anymore. On one visit I made to Melbourne we had a falling out. I called him because I was running late to see him after fitting in other catch ups on my trip to the city where lived many people important to me. Because I was late we would only have had an hour or so together, and despite my feeling that it was better to at least see each other once in a while, James felt wasn't worth it for this amount of time, so despite him being already in our meeting place, he went home and we didn't meet. I didn't see him so many times after that. And he was always difficult to catch on the phone. He wasn't like this with everyone. Some, his best friends, he saw often and I guess he must have kept in contact by phone too, at least for the organising. But my tight schedules of city weekend visits didn't work for him I guess and maybe he was busy and not so interested in keeping up with me by phone either.

In an odd coincidence, a couple of years ago, I randomly became friends with an ex-girlfriend of his, after meeting her one day at a cafe not far from where we now both live. Maybe I might have met her once or twice in the couple of years that they were together, we're not too sure. They were together during the time when I first moved away from the city and so started seeing less of James. We realised the connection when I gave her my details and she asked about my surname that my cousin shared. She told me that when they were together he was sometimes funny about his phone. It makes me feel better that it wasn't just me. But I still wish somehow I'd managed to see more of him in recent times… She also told me he said he was close with his cousin - me. This knowledge brings me warmth and comfort, especially now. He was always important to me, and it was special to hear he felt that way too, even if it was just for that time.

While I was still on my big journey travelling, the story yet to come, he messaged he would be in Europe too. So close, in relative terms, but so far. I had spent time in the countries he visited, but I wasn't there at the same time, and our paths didn't cross, in the end. Since returning home I had texted, I'd missed his call, and he'd missed mine, months in between. I'd texted again, and again. But I didn't see him, or speak to him, since a couple of days before I went away, 5 years ago, at the wedding of dear mutual friends of ours. In Hindsight I am especially glad that I arranged my date of travel to be after that wedding, to see our beautiful friends make their commitment of love, and also so that I saw my cousin then. We had a good time together that evening.

Strangely enough, after he died, I found out he'd been living in the same apartment complex as a good friend of mine from school. I'd been there, so close, several times... If I'd known I might have knocked on his door, maybe I might have even seen him. But I didn't.

I feel sad that we had drifted apart, that it was hard catching up, and that I missed seeing him in these recent years. I feel sad that he is gone and I won't see him again.

But despite all this time passing and knowing he had changed, and I have changed, in that time, I still have this knowing that I know him. I could describe him but I can't find the words for all of him, not like I know that I know him.

And that knowing of him, even just that, in itself, is him somehow still being. It's not the same as him being here, seeing him, hearing him, giving him a hug. But still. It is part of his being.

Also, being his cousin, I know that my teeth are a bit like his. I used to embarrass him by grinning toothy grins at people, asking if they could see our family resemblance. I was happy to be hanging out with family, so important to me. And I know also my fingers are in some ways like his too. I know this for sure despite my hands also being a lot like my mother's, while he is my cousin on the side of my father, because that same ex-girlfriend of his saw it too. My fingers are shorter, and different in other ways, but there is a particular twist of the index finger, a tilt of the middle finger, something about the shape of our fingernails. There it is, joining us through time, space, family.

Time and space shared, memories. And for the reason of family, time spent together, or just because, the same ex-girlfriend also notices things I say that remind her of him. So in that way also we can still be together.

And knowing what I know about mediumship and intuition, I know also about noticing, and also asking.

So one day, last year, in June, when James was not long gone from this plane of existence, I thought as I walked, down a road near my house, that I should ask for a message from him. I intended to do this later, as part of a ritual at dark moon, since that is said to be a good time for divination. But wham. Almost exactly at the moment I had the thought, there was a tree, and the tree made a 4. A perfectly clear, definite 4.

And later that day, and the next day, I kept seeing 4s. They jumped out at me everywhere I went, and especially when I went to see James' mother and brother, my aunt and cousin. And I know that there are those that say repeated numbers have meaning, so I googled the meaning of 44444 and 4444. And the pages I found said, variously, that number 4 "resonates with the vibrations and energies of hard work" and "responsibility, progress and discipline." "Expect to see this number when you are working hard, only hard work can manifest your dreams into reality." "The number 4 symbolizes the principle of putting ideas into form and it signifies work and productivity. The essence of the number 4 is security, diligent work and strong foundations. It is constructive, realistic, traditional and cautious and is the number of system, order and management." "…you are toiling towards your goals and aspirations…"

And that is exactly what James was doing, always did. He had such tenacity and such strength in working towards his chosen purpose. In his own words, on a piece of paper his mother found, in his apartment…

When I saw that 4 tree, and all those 4s, I knew it was my message from James. And then when I found that meaning on those pages on the net, there was no denying it at all, because those words just summed up James.

Later on, at that upcoming dark moon, I also asked for more messages, and used some oracle cards to help with the task. I found messages of comfort there too. But those 4s remained the most amazing, as I had not expected anything in that moment, but there it came, just like that, so directly and easily and clearly. James, with me still.

When I helped his mother, brother and brother's partner pack up his things in his apartment, I saved a couple of jars he had kept things in - oats and tea, or something. I kept them because they are nice jars and they were going to be recycled, but also to keep something from him. And so when I open those jars, to cook lentils, or beans, I remember him. And my fingers, which are a little like his, open those lids, and I remember how his hands moved in particular ways when doing such things as opening a lid, and he is there with me, in my finger tips, opening those jars.

Back in June I was in North Melbourne with my family, for an allergy appointment for our daughter as it happened. We were to have lunch together beforehand after the drive to the city from home. In honour of James, memories of times spent together, and our old tradition, I took my family for lunch at the Classic Curry Company, in Elizabeth St. I took a menu to mark off what we chose to eat, like the old days. And before we left, I told the staff there: many years ago I used to come here with my cousin, every week before our choir practice. I didn't quite, but I almost then cried.

And that week I listened to Nick Drake, on CD - vinyl loving James music blasphemy - but Nick Drake as I listen to him anyway, Five Leaves Left. James' last post on his Facebook, a week or so before he was gone: Saturday in Melbourne - photos of city scenes, and his Nick Drake record. All these years since back then, in those days of time for cousins and friends, when I suppose he must have first introduced me to Nick. A perfect soundtrack for remembering.

Thank you James for telling your then girlfriend you were close with your cousin. Thank you James' ex for passing this on this year. And thank you for bringing him to my mind perhaps more often in recent times, despite his lack of replies, so that I can sadly say that I tried to see him again, even though I didn't.

"I miss you James. It would be nice to see you again." - I'm glad I told him that. Before he was gone.

Can you see the family resemblance?

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My dear friend Iain, as it happens, was part of my life that same summer, when my housemate was James. Another dear friend called that summer The Summer of Love. I don't know why he did. But I guess it was. We had good times that summer, all of us, hanging out under the sun. Swimming in lakes, going for walks, rock climbing, gigs and parties. Good times.

After my housewarming that February, the next day, my friends who had crashed with us were all in the kitchen, including Iain. And I told them all I loved them. And boy I'm glad I did. Because I loved Iain. He was impossible not to love really.

Housewarming hijinks

The next day in the kitchen

The day I met Iain, two friends and I were at a gig at the Old Hepburn, one November afternoon, 10 years ago, and as it happened the singer was an old Uni friend of Iain's, and so he came along. I saw him outside walking, on his way in, and straight away I knew I wanted to know him. And too easy it was, as he came and sat next to my friends and I and "Are you guys the locals?" he said. He had recently moved to the area, and was hoping to make some local friends. My friend Ivan invited him to a party, up the hill in Mollongghip. He came late, we danced, and in the kitchen he put his arm around me, and we kissed.

We were both not long out of relationships, and neither wanted anything to go on, but for a time we had a little romance, and so we were close for that time, perhaps each just what the other needed. He valued me and encouraged me, and he named me a sustainability freak; I admired and appreciated so much about him and I enjoyed his easygoing, fun company, and managed to cope with his cheek...

On New Years Day I met him in the city, after both celebrating the year in with friends. We gave each other a new year kiss and I told him I thought I was starting to like him too much.

We cooled it after that. We weren't meant to be together, but still, of course, I loved him. How could you not. And so we remained good friends. And so I'm glad I told him, a month and a bit later, after my housewarming, the next morning, in the kitchen, along with the rest of my friends still there, that I loved him.

And I'm glad that for my housewarming he brought me a chopping board made with his own two hands, out of 5 kinds of wood, twice recycled. That chopping board tells me that I meant something to him too. That I was his good friend. Maybe he even loved me too. And I keep that special treasure, and I remember him.

After that I saw him just two more times. He took our friend Alex and I rock climbing one day, at Dog Rocks, near Castlemaine. That day I said to him, somewhat strangely, in hindsight, "I can't imagine a world without Alex in it." I don't know why I said that. And I don't know why I didn't say it about him too. Hard to imagine still, that it's a world without Iain in it.

I saw him one more time after that. I rode to his house on my electric bicycle, after a building course that was sort of nearby. We hung out a while and then when it was time to go I realised I'd forgotten to charge my bike battery. It was a long ride up hill towards home that night, my battery gone half way, but forever Iain's parting words remain in my mind - "It'll be good for you." And he gave me some chocolate, that I savoured on my way up that big hill.

I spoke to him one more time after that, on the phone. He was sick and said it'd be a little while before he was better, so we didn't make plans to see each other again. And we didn't.

Our friend Alex called me that morning, to tell me he was gone. She said to me, "Iain's not alive anymore." Because he wasn't. He was the first person I'd been close to and lost. And I miss him still, all these years later.

After he was gone I had this strange sense that I could feel his long arms and long body and long legs. I could feel how it felt to be in his body. I can't explain what I mean by that, but that's what I felt. He was tall, and his arms were even longer. So I stood on steps and chairs, and made myself the right height, and gave people hugs from Iain. I don't think they minded, and I don't think he minded either.

A bunch of his friends, from near and far, came together that week. We camped where he had lived, shared stories, and hugs. One friend told how Iain encouraged him riding his bike too. "You can do it!" Iain said. We built a coffin like no other for Iain, made from cedar wood he'd been eyeing for a sauna, in the shape of a canoe. Head and foot slabs chainsaw cut from a massive log, rounded, cracks car-bogged, and sanded smooth. Sanded with love by Alex and I. The coffin was lined with a quilt I think his mother had made, and in the lid a gauge he'd long kept, that he'd taken from an old truck abandoned in the middle of central Australia, so he could still see how fast he was going. Even a special screwdriver was hand forged, to screw it closed. That week we had a fire in an outdoor fireplace, and we kept it lit for him.

Another friend looking at the art that I didn't know Iain had painted, until after he had gone

As we grieved together, we made this

One night by the fire I sat alone and tried to work out the monkey puzzle knot he had tied in one of my ropes. I got it eventually, got it right. Different to how he'd done it though. The fire told me. The fire grew hotter when I was getting it right, and chilled when I was getting cooler... It kept me on track until I got it. And I know that was a message from him. I could feel him there with me, vying for me to get the knot right, to meet the challenge. "You can do it."

Iain tying knots in my ropes, putting up my hammock

And that week by the fire, I wrote a song, a song for Iain, filled with the love for him and from him, of all those people close to him that were gathered there, working on his coffin and sharing stories of times with him, remembering the beautiful man and all his unique traits that made him just the man he was. A song that helps me hold him in my heart.

I went to view his body, leaving his old place on my bike. That was the moment I crashed, my first injury in the string that followed. My world was changing. A new knowing was making itself known. Now this I know in Hindsight. That day I kept on riding, to the station, and it wasn't until I'd caught the train all the way to Melbourne, and on through to the other side, that I realised quite how injured I was, and I limped from the station, pushing my bike, to see him. Until then I don't think I really quite believed he was gone.

His family asked myself and Alex to represent his new friends in his new home town, and speak at his funeral. Both of us chose to sing a song. Alex played guitar as she sang; I just stood, shaking, and sang. Forgetting I was in front of hundreds of people, I sang, more clearly than ever before. After being frightened all the way there, and worrying about singing badly, none of it mattered anymore. It wasn't about me, or how I sang. It was about Iain, it was for Iain, and it felt like because of this, my voice soared. The song was what mattered, the words, the message, the feeling, the sharing, the remembering, the missing, the loving.

The next month his family invited us all to gather at the Grampians, Gariwerd - Iain's favourite place, to walk up Flat Rock and be present for the scattering of Iain's ashes. That weekend I also walked up to Hollow Mountain, where Iain had taken me the first time I went to the Grampians with him, and I stood inside a little cave that he had climbed up under that day. And I recorded his song in that cave, while I sung it there for him.

Song for Iain, and for everyone 

Listen or download on Soundcloud

Many times, in the years since, I have felt Iain with me, urging me on. "It'll be good for you." "You can do it." Sometimes it feels hard, but always, in the end, it is good for me, and I can do it. And in January this year I had a dream. In the dream I was feeling afraid, for some reason that I couldn't remember when I woke up. And then Iain walked in the door, shining, like a spirit would, and in that moment the fear dissipated and was just completely gone. At that particular point in time I was feeling quite stuck and was struggling to work out how to move forward in my life, and in fact I realised I had some fears that were holding me back. After that dream, the fear was gone, and since then I have begun to move forward towards goals I had thought were out of reach.

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Special people, loved and lost - James, Iain, others too - even those I didn't know so well, like my grandparents, who lived far away. I carry them all with me in my heart. I love them always. And I miss them. But I also know they are with me still. I know that I know them and I know what they would tell me, in certain moments, on certain days. I can almost feel them, hear them, see them. But it's different this knowing, a different kind of colour, a different kind of sound, a different kind of sense. But no less real, or true, or important. Those we have loved and lost are with us still, they are freed from the complications of life, earthly relationships and communication. It is less clear but more clear at the same time. This brings comfort, and understanding, and helps ease the longing. Though still, always, it would be nice to see them, some time again…

Instead I honour the pledges I made to them when they passed. For James - to make sure that I find the time and space to always express my creativity - that which he described as a human necessity; and to always work hard towards my goals. And for Iain - whose creativity I hadn't fully known about or appreciated while he was with us - to share my music, and whatever beauty and joy that I can, without being afraid, just as I shared the song I wrote for him at his funeral; and to always remember that "I can do it," and that "It'll be good for me," whether it be riding my bike to the top of a big hill, rock climbing, or singing in front of an audience, writing my own songs, or any other challenge that I set my body or mind to do. And for my cousin Janet, who I said goodbye to on my travels, whose anniversary is now upcoming, and who I also wrote about previously - to take care of myself, and also others, through my healing work, reiki and beyond.