Celebrating Susan's life

Yesterday we were at Jane's funeral. Today it was  gathering in the Village Hall to remember Susan who died last week. Susan did not want a funeral and was cremated without ceremony, but her family persuaded her that they and friends would like to have some small "do" in her honour.

The hall was packed. Antiphon, one of the choirs Susan sang with, came. They sang Linden Lea and The Long Day Closes at the beginning of the afternoon. We heard stories of Susan's life from her brother and sister. They will return to America next week, hopefully buoyed up by everyone's concern and good wishes.

Margret read a passage from The Secret Garden, which was Susan's favourite book as a 9 year old and which she reread just before she died.

We heard the contents of a children's book she was in the process of writing and illustrating (no one knew that), more poetry and then Antiphon closed the proceedings with a moving performance of Morten Lauridsen's Sure on this Shining Night. The words are by James Agee, poet. 

My photograph was taken at the end of that piece and shows the conductor, John Roper, delighted with the response. Many people were in tears because the music and words were very moving.

You can just see the groaning tables in the far hall beyond the stage. Lovely food.

People left with paintings, fridge magnets (yes) and vases to remember Susan by. She was a wonderful artist, but never rated any of her own talents. We have a lovely little glass vase with an etching of daffodils on it. It contains daffodils from her garden. (Did I mention she had green fingers?)

It's been an emotionally draining weekend, but a happy time too.

PS Here is the extract from Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden:

One of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever. One knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one's head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the East almost makes one cry out and one's heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun—which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years. One knows it then for a moment or so. And one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries. Then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in some one's eyes.