The River and Sea are One

We spread mum’s ashes in the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire. We found a quiet spot, undisturbed by walkers and dogs, where an overgrown island divides the water into two channels, making it run quickly over the rocks. The music of the river accompanied the scene of drooping willow trees caressing the ripples and a thousand shades of green fractured by intermittent rays of sun. 

I read on ‘On Death’ by Kihlal Gibran and was pleased with the line ‘just as the river and sea are one.’ It felt right that Mum’s remains would enter the eternal cycle, flowing to the ocean, evaporating into the clouds and then falling as rain on the mountains, before returning to the spot where we stood. The sense of movement was important, a current and a breeze, to help her on the way. 

The peace that follows an outpouring of grief settled on our small group. We spread a picnic blanket on the uneven bank and, harassed by midges, ate strawberries and drank Prosecco from plastic tumblers. 

The cork, fired skyward, landed among rocks at the water’s edge and lodged there. Suddenly all our attention was focused on this small object bobbing obstinately out of reach. It became symbolic of mum’s passing and her journey to the beyond. Nature heard our silent prayers, a duck appeared and freed the cork with her furious pecking. 

We threw the strawberry tops into the river where they were gobbled up by the same duck who pounced on the morsels before they were swept away by the current. She stuck near to the bank where the water was slower, all the better to grab our cast offs. Once or twice a greedy lunge launched her into the faster flowing water and she was swept downstream, backwards. She seemed unconcerned, expertly surfing the rolling flow until she could exit, like stepping off a travelator at the airport, and paddle back to us. 

The ceremony, which took place the day after our granddad’s (mum’s dad) funeral and a few days before the 2nd anniversary of her death, was an important milestone. I still get a shock when I open my wallet, see her picture and remember that she is gone. But by sharing grief, one can process it better and begin to accept what cannot be changed. 

Bridge over the River Wharfe at Burnsall, North Yorkshire