The worst thing about living overseas

Some of the most poignant memories I have from the days just after you died are from people who weren't able to be here. Chaals. Jarkko, Sarah J. D and her "fuckoff big bunch of bright red roses" which we all heaped on your coffin.

Jonathan's email from Dublin, which began simply "The worst thing about living overseas..."
I'm reminded of these days just now because of the emotional farewell of our friend Nick, once of Islendinga, on the death this week of his great mate Raynes, whom you knew. You would appreciate Nick's tribute:"You were a true believer in all things viking and punk..."

Jonathan was right, you know. In the four and a half years I have lived in England and Italy, being away for marriages and even births is hard. You aren't there for some of the happiest moments in the lives of the people you love best. But eventually you go home, and meet the nieces and nephews, the new husbands and wives, see the new homes, the photos, or you follow unfolding adventures on blogs and facebook.

But the worst part is not being there to say goodbye, being unable to share in the final rituals, the making sure that people have the means to be okay... or at least to begin to cope. Sharing memories and laying the foundations of the mental tributes we will take forward, becoming the people we will be, because we knew you.

So if you see Raynes in Valhalla (for the gods know that some fall in battle against foes that wield weapons far more deadly than a mere blade, so we know that's where he's gone), have a drink with him, for us. Because I will have to wait a long time to tell those at home how much I wished I could have been there, for a final drink with them.

Birthday wishes

Today, you would be 38, and as always, I find myself wondering what you would look like. As the texts roll around through our little band of 'friends who remember', I wonder what kind of bash it would have been this year. I wonder where you would be working, would it be with wine, or food, or both? What gorgeous new look would you be sporting - a hat, a waistcoat, some new scarf... I wish, I wish we could see you now.

I figured out a long while ago that if Mikko could have found a way to reconcile the beautiful and terrible within (to say nothing of the way he experienced these forces in the world), he'd have done it. I have wished, more times than I can count, that I could have worked out how to bottle whatever it was that makes the difference between climbing out of a hole, and not.

He is not the only one of us to have sat alone in the dark at the bottom of that hole... but he is the one of us that is no longer here. I look at this circle of friends - all the people who leaned on one another during those terrible first few months - and even while I miss him, I am relieved - proud, even - that the rest of us are still here. I think he's a bit of an arse for missing it all. But more than that, I wish he was still here, because the more birthdays he doesn't have, the further away he drifts from the rest of us. He is falling behind.

Because whatever it is, there IS something that CAN keep rising in the face of darkness, even when the ground beneath our feet rumbles, shudders and disappears. There IS a capacity for Life, the Universe, Divine Intervention, the power of the human spirit or whatever you want to call it, to keep inspiring us to reach beyond ourselves and toward the stars.

I wish I could bottle that, and toast you with it every year, to keep you going til the next one.
But I can't, so I will toast you and drink it for me, and for all of us still here.

Happy birthday Mikko.

Blowing away cobwebs, and drying old tears

I'm back today from my first trip home in two years. I don't know how on earth you stayed away from Finland as long as you did... 9 years ... now I know why you shook as we were landing. I was a jumble of tears and excitement on the plane.

For Anthony, the break has been even longer - four years and a half. All his siblings have moved back home to Invercargill since we've been away and have been busily bringing forth the next generation.

So there was much rejoicing, but I also found myself contemplating a collision of past worlds and present that bears retelling here.

Anthony's dad has been sober for more than 29 years. On my first trip to meet Clan Cundall, it was his 25th 'birthday' (its an AA thing.... it wouldn't work for me, and I know you used to bag AA - but perhaps you were just afraid it might work? Anyway, it does work wonders for my father in law). So we had a party.

You had been gone a year and a week and a couple of days. I helped hand around food and stood with Hailey, my sister in law to the end of the speeches, blinking back tears of pride for this man I hardly knew, but whose struggle I can vividly imagine.

Then I quietly fled, overcome by a huge sense of 'if only' and a desperate desire to not cry at someone's party.

Anthony's family doesn't talk much, but nothing escapes their notice and after about 10 minutes, my father-in-law came looking for me. I could hardly speak through trying to hold back tears.... but eventually I managed to say that I hoped it was okay if I was enormously proud of his achievement, because I can imagine ... because I used to know someone, who never found his way.

I was embarrassed. I needn't have been. Next came a great big hug, from this man who still goes to meetings each week, still has hard times of his own, and still mentors others. On this latest visit, as I watched my father in law playing with his grandkids in the afternoon, pouring the rest of us a glass of wine at dinner then slipping out to his meeting, I felt an enormous bout of respect. He hasn't conquered his demons either - maybe you don't, in this life - but he is determined to take them on.... one day at a time.