Rituals of remembering
This morning at an old scholars’ breakfast of all places, I was told of a lovely tradition in a family who gather and eat lamingtons to commemorate the birthday of a long passed relative, and another about posh lunches to celebrate the heavenly birthday of a much-loved mother. There was such fondness in the sharing of the stories as well as the experience itself, and it reminded me that meaning is wherever we decide it is. More than a gesture to bring a family together and give people something to mark a calendar with, traditions like these maintain a connection to those no longer with us. They keep some part of the person present and witnessing of the life that comes after.
It's been five years today since my father left us. On that day, as my second parent died, I experienced a visceral un-tethering, as if whatever anchored me to the ground was no longer there. I felt the air around me differently, with a simultaneous sense of caution and anticipation, as if a gust of wind might pick me up and carry me away. That feeling has subsided but never entirely left me. I am free, and also without anchor. I am used to it now, but it was a strange feeling indeed.
April 11ths (and November 7ths) roll by now with surprising regularity. They feel normal, they feel significant. They feel like something and like nothing. And I am coming to realise that without gestures of remembrance it all just fades away.
This morning’s talk of traditions - the transmission of customs from generation to generation – made me sad that there are no such customs in my family. And so, I have decided that these posts I make each year on the anniversary of his death can be my offering. Last year I wrote about how photographs are a gateway – a powerful portal to memory and sense. This year I guess I’m talking about how we form rituals of remembering. It is important because without such gestures the fear of forgetting or erasure is very real. You can feel it ebb away day by day, year by year. So I dug out a photo that captures a moment and a man worth remembering.
The blonde bombshell hanging on by one hand is my father Laurie and the boat’s captain Alan Cotton with pipe in hand in the foreground. The location is somewhere outside The Sydney Heads on board ‘Cabaret’, my uncle’s legendary yacht which he, dad, and a motley crew had sailed up to Sydney to be party of the historic Tall Ships Australia in 1988. In the background is the Polish tall ship Dar Młodzieży.
It was all as epic as it seems. And so was Laurie. He did big, brilliant, audacious, and occasionally dangerous things. I can’t imagine who he passed that on to….
Remembering Laurence Henbest (1946-2019)
Originally posted to Facebook on 11 April 2024
