WOW. what a read. stunning and so moving … i loved the parallel of movement/aliveness and death/total stillness. and the movement of this piece too, from the woman on the train to your dad’s death to the ending in the psychotherapist’s office. you are right, we are so lucky. i think i probably think this every day, multiple times a day, and I’d rather remember it obsessively than forget. thank you Lindsay.
Thanks so much for reading and taking time with what I worried was a challenging piece for a Sunday morning, friend. I do need that reminder as well (though less so now, as I think about the parallels between yours and my experience of early parenthood as you've written about today). I'm in a different place now, thankfully, where in the main, I find I frame things positively without it being effortful to do so. Not all the time, of course, but on relation to my everyday and my health I think so.
This is lovely, Lindsay. Well done, it can’t have been easy to write. I remember seeing my dad too, but at home before they took him rather at the funeral home. My mum had given me advice not to touch him, to remember him warm, which I took. Each of us deal with this differently. But I remember just thinking that which you describe, it was him but it wasn’t him. He was a factory with the lights out, shutters closed. A shell.
Thank you for sharing this, having just released in paperback a book about death and why we don’t talk about it, I think this work is important.
I was thinking about you, actually, given the timing of this piece and the one you published earlier in the week. Thanks for your reflections, Anna. I really think we need more honesty around the reality of death (around life's big moments in general – hello, childbirth).
Thanks for sharing this Lindsay. RIP your dad, love the photo of your bumps! Death gets brushed under the carpet by most people which makes it harder for those of us who experience the gritty reality of it. For me my hardest was my own beautiful baby daughter stiff in my arms. I never told anyone tbh because it’s so horrible, but since you bring up the Gazan women…
It’s always a bitter sweet moment as therapy ends too, it’s the right thing but also a loss, for both. Also love your fabulous music! My aunt is a dance therapist and like you is always moving! 💛
Kate, thank you so much for sharing that memory you have with your daughter. It is the sort of detail I think we do not discuss, and that can only serve to shroud the reality in mystery for anyone else who goes on to experience it. That serves no one. I wondered in writing this about what and why we keep certain details private. I am keeping fewer and fewer to myself because I want to experiment with what happens when we don't. I think so much of what drove me to therapy was around all that I felt I couldn't talk about...
Yes there’s so many details I share too. I think for me it was about protecting others, it also it’s the fear of sharing the experience of someone turning away when you do, which happens. I’m glad you found a good therapist to witness you 💛
“You’re not sure if you want to see Dad, are you?” she’d said. Not ‘your dad,’ but ‘Dad,’ as if he had been hers, too. This slip of the tongue had been annoying me for days". That's exactly the usage of the undertaker dealing with my parents' funerals. It seems like some kind of professional patter.
This was so beautiful and also healing for me. I lost my dad (who also had a tangled relationship with alcohol) in March of 2020 - right before the world shut down and Covid kept us all separate. His was the very last wake before the funeral home shut its doors. Grieving his death got wrapped up in grieving the enormity of the pandemic and the tragedies that were happening worldwide. As a result, I think processing his death was delayed for me (and my family). The absence of that finality (he is gone) became its own presence. One I couldn’t quite name. Your words here capture so much of what I was feeling then. Thank you, Lindsay 🙏🏼
And the way you weave how different sorts of endings can actually stir up some aliveness in us, so powerful.
Hi Allison. Firstly, I am so sorry for your loss. I can relate somewhat as my father-in-law died suddenly just pre-Covid and there was a similar enmeshing and entanglement of the grieving process for my husband that.you describe here. One of the problems with our individual grief is that exploring it in the context of world events it can feel very challenging. Who am I to write about the death of my parent? But then I think, no. We need to air these experiences for our collective good, and to humanise the horror that we are witnessing. Attempt to imagine ourselves in someone else's shoes, and under far worse circumstances. Hope that makes sense! And thank you so much for reading.x
Oh that makes so much sense. The entanglement of it all can make processing so hard but writing through it (and sharing that writing with others) is a pathway to collective healing. Thanks for doing that 🫶
This piece is so moving, Lindsay. Thank you for putting into words something I haven’t yet been able to.
The first dead body I saw was my Granda’s. I was 24 and don’t regret seeing him but I was totally unprepared. He was so plump and rosy, 20 years younger than the 20 years older he’d looked just a few weeks before. It was like being transported back in time, pre-stroke, pre-paralysis.
And then there was my beautiful Harris who I could hold in my palms. I chose not to see him immediately after the birth, but I’m glad the midwife talked me round. I think the witnessing helped me with the processing. I was writing just yesterday about what I thought would be our last goodbye but I decided to see him once more on the day of the cremation.
Last was my Granny, but that experience has been overshadowed by the pandemic and politics. I had to say bye to her through a window and the only chance I got to touch her was when she was cold. Her hands still soft like they always were. That’s what I told my mum who didn’t want to go. She died the week of the parties at number 10.
Sorry pal, I keep on pressing the tender spots with my work at the moment. Thank you for reading and sticking with what will no doubt have been a hard piece for you. Thank you also for being so open in sharing your own experiences of being with those you love after death. I think we do no favours to ourselves or others shrouding it all mystery. As I said in response to another comment, it's what happened with childbirth, isn't it? No one wants to give voice to the reality because it's often too traumatic and there's a worry that it'll cause more distress. I find the opposite is true and no only can blew feel more prepared but also like we have more of a voice because then we're not absorbing newness we're completely underprepared for at the same time as working out how we feel about it.
I'm thinking specifically about the death industry as I write this, as once the traditional wheels are set in motion there's very little you can do to stop them. I think I'd have liked to know far more in advance, but at least I do now.
Oh, don't get me started on childbirth. I'm still processing my experience with Lowen!
We'll have to compare notes on the death industry. What a treat that conversation will be! I did so much research before seeing my Granny. Partly out of curiosity but also because I wanted to know what to expect. But it was a strange thing seeing her mouth stitched shut. Or glued, as you suggest? It didn't look like her at all and I was almost haunted by the image for a while...
Stitched... Oh my. Now that wouldn't have been easy to see. It's funny trying to work out what the best thing is to do. Whether seeing them after death will be helpful or not, but we have to trust our gut, I suppose.
I suddenly need to hug my children, my husband the same way you did with your therapist. Only much more tightly and for a lingering while. Beautiful and loaded. Thank you.
Beautiful words that caught me up in memories of seeing my mum’s body at the funeral directors. Like you, it felt important that I saw her, and almost impossible to leave her, knowing that I’d never see her again. I experienced a strong visual hallucination - I kept seeing her chest rising and falling with breath...even though I knew she was dead I couldn’t stop seeing it. Also hated the funeral director referring to her as “mum” - reminded me of how midwives say “baby” rather that’s “the baby”, which I found equally infuriating.
Yes, 'baby' rather than the definite article; so annoying. And I'm really struck by what you say about the visual hallucination. I can imagine that so clearly. The complete inability to believe in what you are seeing. Sending love to you, and I'm sorry for your loss.x
This is incredibly moving and powerful Lindsay. Thank you so much for sharing this with us and for counteracting the silence and taboo around death.
I am 34 and have never seen a dead body. And I (thankfully) have quite limited experience with death so far. I always find this an interesting contrast with my partner who is a doctor - death is part of his day to day.
I appreciate when artists like yourself use your creativity to invite us into the themes we're scared to look at or explore. It's really important and makes a massive difference. It takes a huge amount of courage too, I'm sure.
Beautifully written and structured as well. And the photos of you and your dear Dad are lovely to see.
Thanks, Janelle. And that's so interesting that your partner has such an everyday relationship with bodies alive and dead while you (and the rest of us) don't. I do marvel at doctors and other healthcare professionals who face this in their work. Thanks for your kind words, as always.x
What a brilliant and honest piece, Lindsay. Thank you for writing and sharing.
I have so many things to say about the death industry and the taboo of death and of grief. Sharing our stories is so important. We won't get better at this until we stop hiding from it I wish someone would have told me what to expect before I kissed Mick's face for the last time aged 24.
Oh, Ingrid. I was thinking about you when I was writing this and wondered about how it would land with you. Thanks for reading and for what you're saying about the need for honesty around it all. I really think that the funeral arrangers and undertakers don't see what we see and so don't prepare you for what they'll actually be like. And that the version you last saw of them, even if they were dead at the time (imagining your situation with Mick in hospital, pal) that by the time they've been through the embalming they will look really different.
I've had so many messages from people here and elsewhere saying how problematic they find the industry, too. Wonder when this concert will hit the mainstream? Xxx
Lindsay, this really moved me. What a beautiful piece, and so relatable. The picture is really unforgettable. It's funny how photos sometimes give us that ability to see a moment in a different way, or remember something we'd forgotten.
You cover so much ground in this piece—the movement/stillness, the feeling of separateness... all so rich and stunning. I've certainly felt that separateness in these significant moments. It's ironic, isn't it, that reading about someone else describing the solitude of those moments can make one feel less alone? That's certainly how I feel, reading your piece. 🙏
Thanks so much for these reflections, Rob. I know exactly what you mean, and the conversations I've bene having since I published this have shown that in so many ways we box up images and memories that in everyday life we don't readily access. When someone writes on a topic that you can relate your experience to, it's really helpful to be able to be able to use that opportunity to access your own memories. I get that all the time when I read. Thanks for taking the time to share. More of this, and more openness generally.
Thanks, Lily. I can completely understand why seeing your dad in that state wouldn't have been at all the thing to do. I think that each death is so unique, and perhaps I won't always choose to see the body afterwards... We'll see (if I'm spared, of course!)
Such a powerful, moving piece Lindsay, so thoughtfully wrapped and beautifully written. It takes great courage to share experiences like this. And I agree, it’s important that these conversations can take place. Thinking of you as you continue to navigate it all. 🧡
Thank you Lindsay for this really brilliant piece of writing/spoken word, I had the privilege of listening to you as I walked through the shadowy crow-filled woods this morning. The piece felt so full, you had me laughing at the description of your travelling companion, in awe of the facts of the infant brain and in a welcome and necessary kind of discomfort listening to your experience with your dad. Thank you for taking us there with you, it is something that should be talked about and integrated into life. It is something I think about more and more these days… I loved the parallels of movement and stillness / warmth and cold. It is a really powerful experience to have listened to your exquisite storytelling, thank you for sharing it with us xx
Thanks so much for listening and responding so fully, Lyndsay. It means such a lot particularly given the deeply personal and potentially triggering nature of this piece. I really do think that we need more openness in how we address death. I went to a death cafe once... Not an actual cafe, but a safe discussion circle which was very well held by an experienced practitioner where we could discuss our fears, thoughts and beliefs openly. It was incredibly powerful and so moving.
WOW. what a read. stunning and so moving … i loved the parallel of movement/aliveness and death/total stillness. and the movement of this piece too, from the woman on the train to your dad’s death to the ending in the psychotherapist’s office. you are right, we are so lucky. i think i probably think this every day, multiple times a day, and I’d rather remember it obsessively than forget. thank you Lindsay.
oh and also, WHAT a pleasure to hear/see you sing and move! ❤️ what a multi talented woman you are xx
Haha! We all of us are more than words on a screen! I love glimpses into the other facets of people's lives. Humanising! Thanks, Chloe 😘
Thanks so much for reading and taking time with what I worried was a challenging piece for a Sunday morning, friend. I do need that reminder as well (though less so now, as I think about the parallels between yours and my experience of early parenthood as you've written about today). I'm in a different place now, thankfully, where in the main, I find I frame things positively without it being effortful to do so. Not all the time, of course, but on relation to my everyday and my health I think so.
Wishing you a restful Sunday.x
Beautiful piece, thank you!
Thanks for reading, Kirsteen.x
This is lovely, Lindsay. Well done, it can’t have been easy to write. I remember seeing my dad too, but at home before they took him rather at the funeral home. My mum had given me advice not to touch him, to remember him warm, which I took. Each of us deal with this differently. But I remember just thinking that which you describe, it was him but it wasn’t him. He was a factory with the lights out, shutters closed. A shell.
Thank you for sharing this, having just released in paperback a book about death and why we don’t talk about it, I think this work is important.
I was thinking about you, actually, given the timing of this piece and the one you published earlier in the week. Thanks for your reflections, Anna. I really think we need more honesty around the reality of death (around life's big moments in general – hello, childbirth).
Absolutely xx
Thanks for sharing this Lindsay. RIP your dad, love the photo of your bumps! Death gets brushed under the carpet by most people which makes it harder for those of us who experience the gritty reality of it. For me my hardest was my own beautiful baby daughter stiff in my arms. I never told anyone tbh because it’s so horrible, but since you bring up the Gazan women…
It’s always a bitter sweet moment as therapy ends too, it’s the right thing but also a loss, for both. Also love your fabulous music! My aunt is a dance therapist and like you is always moving! 💛
Kate, thank you so much for sharing that memory you have with your daughter. It is the sort of detail I think we do not discuss, and that can only serve to shroud the reality in mystery for anyone else who goes on to experience it. That serves no one. I wondered in writing this about what and why we keep certain details private. I am keeping fewer and fewer to myself because I want to experiment with what happens when we don't. I think so much of what drove me to therapy was around all that I felt I couldn't talk about...
Yes there’s so many details I share too. I think for me it was about protecting others, it also it’s the fear of sharing the experience of someone turning away when you do, which happens. I’m glad you found a good therapist to witness you 💛
I did. And it was transformational.x
Such dazzling writing!
“You’re not sure if you want to see Dad, are you?” she’d said. Not ‘your dad,’ but ‘Dad,’ as if he had been hers, too. This slip of the tongue had been annoying me for days". That's exactly the usage of the undertaker dealing with my parents' funerals. It seems like some kind of professional patter.
That's so interesting, Jeffrey. Not something specific to her, then. Sorry for your losses,and I hope that today's words weren't too hard.
This was so beautiful and also healing for me. I lost my dad (who also had a tangled relationship with alcohol) in March of 2020 - right before the world shut down and Covid kept us all separate. His was the very last wake before the funeral home shut its doors. Grieving his death got wrapped up in grieving the enormity of the pandemic and the tragedies that were happening worldwide. As a result, I think processing his death was delayed for me (and my family). The absence of that finality (he is gone) became its own presence. One I couldn’t quite name. Your words here capture so much of what I was feeling then. Thank you, Lindsay 🙏🏼
And the way you weave how different sorts of endings can actually stir up some aliveness in us, so powerful.
Hi Allison. Firstly, I am so sorry for your loss. I can relate somewhat as my father-in-law died suddenly just pre-Covid and there was a similar enmeshing and entanglement of the grieving process for my husband that.you describe here. One of the problems with our individual grief is that exploring it in the context of world events it can feel very challenging. Who am I to write about the death of my parent? But then I think, no. We need to air these experiences for our collective good, and to humanise the horror that we are witnessing. Attempt to imagine ourselves in someone else's shoes, and under far worse circumstances. Hope that makes sense! And thank you so much for reading.x
Oh that makes so much sense. The entanglement of it all can make processing so hard but writing through it (and sharing that writing with others) is a pathway to collective healing. Thanks for doing that 🫶
This piece is so moving, Lindsay. Thank you for putting into words something I haven’t yet been able to.
The first dead body I saw was my Granda’s. I was 24 and don’t regret seeing him but I was totally unprepared. He was so plump and rosy, 20 years younger than the 20 years older he’d looked just a few weeks before. It was like being transported back in time, pre-stroke, pre-paralysis.
And then there was my beautiful Harris who I could hold in my palms. I chose not to see him immediately after the birth, but I’m glad the midwife talked me round. I think the witnessing helped me with the processing. I was writing just yesterday about what I thought would be our last goodbye but I decided to see him once more on the day of the cremation.
Last was my Granny, but that experience has been overshadowed by the pandemic and politics. I had to say bye to her through a window and the only chance I got to touch her was when she was cold. Her hands still soft like they always were. That’s what I told my mum who didn’t want to go. She died the week of the parties at number 10.
An emotional read, but a cathartic one 💛
Sorry pal, I keep on pressing the tender spots with my work at the moment. Thank you for reading and sticking with what will no doubt have been a hard piece for you. Thank you also for being so open in sharing your own experiences of being with those you love after death. I think we do no favours to ourselves or others shrouding it all mystery. As I said in response to another comment, it's what happened with childbirth, isn't it? No one wants to give voice to the reality because it's often too traumatic and there's a worry that it'll cause more distress. I find the opposite is true and no only can blew feel more prepared but also like we have more of a voice because then we're not absorbing newness we're completely underprepared for at the same time as working out how we feel about it.
I'm thinking specifically about the death industry as I write this, as once the traditional wheels are set in motion there's very little you can do to stop them. I think I'd have liked to know far more in advance, but at least I do now.
Oh, don't get me started on childbirth. I'm still processing my experience with Lowen!
We'll have to compare notes on the death industry. What a treat that conversation will be! I did so much research before seeing my Granny. Partly out of curiosity but also because I wanted to know what to expect. But it was a strange thing seeing her mouth stitched shut. Or glued, as you suggest? It didn't look like her at all and I was almost haunted by the image for a while...
Stitched... Oh my. Now that wouldn't have been easy to see. It's funny trying to work out what the best thing is to do. Whether seeing them after death will be helpful or not, but we have to trust our gut, I suppose.
I suddenly need to hug my children, my husband the same way you did with your therapist. Only much more tightly and for a lingering while. Beautiful and loaded. Thank you.
Thank you so much for reading and taking the time to comment, Cheniece. And you are so right – we must live in the moment and love as best we can.x
Beautiful words that caught me up in memories of seeing my mum’s body at the funeral directors. Like you, it felt important that I saw her, and almost impossible to leave her, knowing that I’d never see her again. I experienced a strong visual hallucination - I kept seeing her chest rising and falling with breath...even though I knew she was dead I couldn’t stop seeing it. Also hated the funeral director referring to her as “mum” - reminded me of how midwives say “baby” rather that’s “the baby”, which I found equally infuriating.
Yes, 'baby' rather than the definite article; so annoying. And I'm really struck by what you say about the visual hallucination. I can imagine that so clearly. The complete inability to believe in what you are seeing. Sending love to you, and I'm sorry for your loss.x
This is incredibly moving and powerful Lindsay. Thank you so much for sharing this with us and for counteracting the silence and taboo around death.
I am 34 and have never seen a dead body. And I (thankfully) have quite limited experience with death so far. I always find this an interesting contrast with my partner who is a doctor - death is part of his day to day.
I appreciate when artists like yourself use your creativity to invite us into the themes we're scared to look at or explore. It's really important and makes a massive difference. It takes a huge amount of courage too, I'm sure.
Beautifully written and structured as well. And the photos of you and your dear Dad are lovely to see.
Take care <3
Thanks, Janelle. And that's so interesting that your partner has such an everyday relationship with bodies alive and dead while you (and the rest of us) don't. I do marvel at doctors and other healthcare professionals who face this in their work. Thanks for your kind words, as always.x
Love this Lindsay❤️
Thanks so much for reading, Sam.x
What a brilliant and honest piece, Lindsay. Thank you for writing and sharing.
I have so many things to say about the death industry and the taboo of death and of grief. Sharing our stories is so important. We won't get better at this until we stop hiding from it I wish someone would have told me what to expect before I kissed Mick's face for the last time aged 24.
Oh, Ingrid. I was thinking about you when I was writing this and wondered about how it would land with you. Thanks for reading and for what you're saying about the need for honesty around it all. I really think that the funeral arrangers and undertakers don't see what we see and so don't prepare you for what they'll actually be like. And that the version you last saw of them, even if they were dead at the time (imagining your situation with Mick in hospital, pal) that by the time they've been through the embalming they will look really different.
I've had so many messages from people here and elsewhere saying how problematic they find the industry, too. Wonder when this concert will hit the mainstream? Xxx
Lindsay, this really moved me. What a beautiful piece, and so relatable. The picture is really unforgettable. It's funny how photos sometimes give us that ability to see a moment in a different way, or remember something we'd forgotten.
You cover so much ground in this piece—the movement/stillness, the feeling of separateness... all so rich and stunning. I've certainly felt that separateness in these significant moments. It's ironic, isn't it, that reading about someone else describing the solitude of those moments can make one feel less alone? That's certainly how I feel, reading your piece. 🙏
Thanks so much for these reflections, Rob. I know exactly what you mean, and the conversations I've bene having since I published this have shown that in so many ways we box up images and memories that in everyday life we don't readily access. When someone writes on a topic that you can relate your experience to, it's really helpful to be able to be able to use that opportunity to access your own memories. I get that all the time when I read. Thanks for taking the time to share. More of this, and more openness generally.
Such a moving piece, picking up your threads. I didn’t see my dad dead thankfully as he was in an awful state then. I’m glad of that. Sending love xx
Thanks, Lily. I can completely understand why seeing your dad in that state wouldn't have been at all the thing to do. I think that each death is so unique, and perhaps I won't always choose to see the body afterwards... We'll see (if I'm spared, of course!)
Such a powerful, moving piece Lindsay, so thoughtfully wrapped and beautifully written. It takes great courage to share experiences like this. And I agree, it’s important that these conversations can take place. Thinking of you as you continue to navigate it all. 🧡
And you, friend. Hope that was an ok read for you.xxx
Thank you Lindsay for this really brilliant piece of writing/spoken word, I had the privilege of listening to you as I walked through the shadowy crow-filled woods this morning. The piece felt so full, you had me laughing at the description of your travelling companion, in awe of the facts of the infant brain and in a welcome and necessary kind of discomfort listening to your experience with your dad. Thank you for taking us there with you, it is something that should be talked about and integrated into life. It is something I think about more and more these days… I loved the parallels of movement and stillness / warmth and cold. It is a really powerful experience to have listened to your exquisite storytelling, thank you for sharing it with us xx
Thanks so much for listening and responding so fully, Lyndsay. It means such a lot particularly given the deeply personal and potentially triggering nature of this piece. I really do think that we need more openness in how we address death. I went to a death cafe once... Not an actual cafe, but a safe discussion circle which was very well held by an experienced practitioner where we could discuss our fears, thoughts and beliefs openly. It was incredibly powerful and so moving.