Dying to meet you all

Wake at 6:30, as usual, but turn over and go back to sleep until 8:00, when I get up, definitely don't feel worse and that's a good sign, although I have developed a slight cough. Outside it's raining but easing, and the weather seems to be clearing. After a leisurely, full English breakfast, get out my navy blue, Pierre Balmain suit, which I haven't worn for seven years, since the last funeral, a clean white shirt, cuff links and a pair of black, Grenson, Oxfords. After showering and dressing, decide to dig out my gaberdine, cream aquascutum raincoat. Dressed in a totally formal and anachronistic fashion, set off for the funeral, but first call at the presbytery, to confirm arrangements for the St John of Beverley lunch on Sunday and afterwards visit my daughter, Sarah, who is revising for her finals on a conversion Bsc. in podiatry.
Then I'm on my way to my cousin Irene's house at Copmanthorpe, near York, for my Aunty Marion's funeral.
I am in good time and enjoy the drive over the wolds to Market Weighton and across the rich agricultural land of the vale of York, despite the rain, which becomes progressively heavier as the car progresses. There are two great barriers to awareness, one is fear and the other is hurry. The two are closely linked, many of us spend our lives running away from a sense of inadequacy or lack of control. And yet the consequence of living in a world in "real time", is that we are constantly being forced to make decisions based upon incomplete information. Small wonder that we sometimes get things wrong. It's taken most of my lifetime to realise that this is OK, as long as we recognise this as a condition of our existence, and own up to, and apologise for our mistakes, and extend this forgiveness to others in the same position. "forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us". A fair and compassionate deal for everyone. Today, I am neither frightened, nor am I in a hurry, and I spend the journey remembering what a kind and beautiful human being my deceased Aunt was. When I arrive the family are there, as hardly anyone gets married anymore, it is only funerals which gather us together. Funerals, I find are much more relaxing than weddings anyway. For a start you tend to know everyone, and as my Aunt was 95 when she died, we all considered it a "good innings", her cremation more a celebration and a thanksgiving for her life, than deep sadness at her passing. The service was simple but beautiful, we all sang, the 23rd psalm and "How Great Thou Art", despite the organist, who played as if on a drugs combo of speed and Mogadon. (Thus making it nigh on impossible to keep time.) Afterwards we all retired to Irene's for drinks, a buffet, and those reminiscences and anecdotes that constitute a family narrative and in our case, span a hundred years and four generations. My Aunt Dorothy, is the last of my mother's generation, she was married to my mother's younger brother, Benny, who died almost thirty years ago. I spent quite a while chatting to her, she is still bright and lucid though well into her eighties, and pretends shyness when I remind people what a beautiful soprano she was, and how she resembled Snow White, petite, with dark hair and large eyes. I have arranged to meet up with some cousins tomorrow and walk around Hayburn Wyke to Ravenscar along the coast and back. My Aunty Marion would approve.