Ashes. My mother’s ashes Well, half of them, to be precise; my sister scattered the other half last year sometime. She made a pilgrimage down from the English village we grew up in, Wadworth, towards a canal called Sprotbrough Falls in Yorkshire, a charming stretch of the Trans Pennine Trail that links the Atlantic Ocean to the North Sea, and sprinkled half of our mother in the rushing water that mixed with her salty tears.
Today, November 4, 2023, one day before Bonfire Night, is Mum’s final odyssey. I’m standing on the edge of Lake Windermere in the Lake District, ready to do the same—with my sister and her husband by my side—four years and three months since our little Ann passed. I’m not sure why I waited so long. Well, that’s not strictly true; initially, I wanted to scatter half of her ashes in the River Ganges. The Ganges is the largest river in India with profound religious significance, and even though it has several names, my favourite is - Mother Ganga. It is said the river begins in heaven, emerges in the western Himalayas, and flows down across northern India into Bangladesh, where it empties into the Bay of Bengal. It provides over 40% of water to Indians, and nothing can match the ever-lasting divinity of the holy River Ganga; the sacred river is a true mother by all means.
I daydreamed about how scattering my mother in the Mother Ganga would symbolically create a link directly back into the womb of creation, propelling her directly into her mother’s arms in the very epicentre of the Promised Land. I was romanticising. She was already there, not just four years and three ish months ago on July 12, 2019, but always. We are always being held by Mother Earth, and this is the Promised Land.
Now, it makes me chuckle to imagine having had that conversation with Mum (a conversation we never had), my no-nonsense northern mother would have bitten my head off with her quick dry wit if I had even suggested such an outlandish idea. I never booked that flight to India, but I did wait for a sign.
Last year, my sister moved to the Lake District. The sign arrived. The Lake District is England's largest national park and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, a magical place we used to go to with Mum.
Mum’s absolute favourite story, one she’d take immense pleasure in reminding me of, was the time when I refused to take off my white-heeled boots to trek an incredibly steep and lengthy incline. I was also wearing a mini skirt. I was in a very rebellious adolescent stage, and being fashionable was of the utmost importance. Even when trekking a mountain.
Mum loved the story mostly because she said that even in the boots, I made it to the top of the mountain first. She thought I was mentally strong. She liked that. I don’t have that determination anymore, however, but I do love climbing mountains. In flat shoes.
So here we are. I’ve caught the train up from Doncaster via Manchester Piccadilly. I had a quick changeover in Oxenholme, set to arrive at Windermere station. My sister and her husband greet me on Platform 1 (there’s only one platform), and we enjoy a group hug—all naturally a little bit tense. We know why I’m here and what we are planning to do.
The first thing I notice is the air. It feels pure, fresh, and vital, very different from the night Mum passed away. That night, the air was running out, and now it’s flowing abundantly. The second thing I notice is the beauty, from the sturdy wicker baskets all the respectable-looking folk are using to load up their organic veggies in the supermarket that sits next to the train station; to the gothic and mediaeval architecture; to the plenitude of independent shops selling art and country walking clothes; to the lineup of elegant restaurants and bars. It’s pulsating with life, romance, and culture, and as much as I valued the opportunity to hold my mother’s hand when she took her last breath, death does not feel like this. Death is very cold; it possesses a penetrating silence, despite the loud gasps for air that I can not even try to explain with words; it’s so very silent and so very final. And yet, where I am with my mother right now feels unlimited, never-ending, and full of magic, just like her soul. I have studied enough Indian philosophy to know that the act of dying is separate from the soul. The soul never dies.
We get back to my sister’s house, cut some baguette bread and cheese, pour a glass of red wine, and discuss where we should ‘do it’. We have tickets to a fireworks display at 7 p.m., and then we decide that after this, we will get our torches and music and trek up to a viewpoint called Biskey Howe. We have a plan.
Biskey Howe viewpoint provides a panoramic view of the Mere (remember, that’s the correct term for the lake!) alongside mountains and a stretch of sky that represents the vastness of our hearts. And so, as the wind blows and the night sky is still alight with hundreds of spectacular fireworks, we throw her final ashes in the ether. She lands all over the rocks, the grass, and the earth, Mother Earth.
I didn’t think I’d cry, but I do. I begin touching the ashes that lay on the rocks and cry and cry and cry and I think I can’t let her go.
But then I stop, and it’s done, and it was nothing short of perfection.
The next day I wake up early and walk down to the bay. I catch a ferry tour around the Mere and discover that the closest island next to Biskey Howe is named after a lady called Isabella: Bella Island, the name of Mum’s first and only granddaughter - my daughter, Bella. At that moment I truly realise she planned it all.
Mum - It will never be goodbye, you are an angel watching over us and even though I keep telling you to let-go and follow the light, I know you never will; that is what Mums do.
And to you: YOU WILL NEVER EVER BE ALONE - even when your mum dies. Smile, it’s all perfect.
Until next time.
My heart goes out to everyone in the entire world that will have already and have to loose a parent - my advice is to try and go with the flow, day by day and just know - there is beauty, strength, meaning, happiness… and nice boots afterwards.
All my love, Kathryn x
