She was in pain; she went to hospital; she was diagnosed with aggressive, advanced cancer; she weakened rapidly; and then she passed away.
All in the space of two weeks.
It is a lot to take in.
It is like a hole opening out from under you. It is like the stars being blanked out.
It feels a lot like the end of the world.
But her story is a lot bigger and more beautiful than this.
The story of Anna is about all the ways she lived and loved and inspired and created and healed and connected and transformed.
It is about her last days…and all the days before.
It is about how she is here now, living through us, and in spirit, everywhere.
This is the eulogy I wrote for my darling Anna. I spoke it at her funeral service yesterday.
I called it out, to all the wonderful people who loved her so very much, and to the world she loved back.
Eulogy for Anna
Hello everybody.
Hello [Anna's children, Anna's husband]. Hello dear friends. Hello to Anna's Lay Carmelite family and all those she worked with at [the Hospital]. Hello to those
who cannot be here. Hello [Anna’s mum], and all of Anna’s loved ones in
Czech and India. Hello rolling hills of Jamberoo, which [Anna's daughter] tells me look
just like Anna’s village in Czech, where she grew up. Hello sky, hello trees
that Anna walked among, hello beautiful sea. Hello artists and thinkers. Healers,
makers, and companions. Hello family.
I have come to
tell you a story about Anna. It is my story, but it is also yours, because we
have loved Anna together, and we still do. Because we have been lucky enough to
share someone extraordinary.
I want to start by
saying, that the last week I spent with Anna, was a lot like the hundreds of
moments I spent with her over the past ten years.
In those hospital
rooms, we spoke as we always had, in words of wonder and love, and delight.
We spoke about how
beautiful the world is. She had just told me she was leaving, but in the same
breaths she spoke about the sea. And of art and her family, and how fulfilled
she felt by the things she had done in her life. We talked about writing, colour,
and amazing sunsets. We shared our thoughts, our new ideas and we laughed.
At some point, as
we were smiling at each other, feeling so connected and so thankful, I said to
her, “It’s beautiful,” and then I paused and said, “I know that’s a strange
thing to say right now.”
But she nodded, and said emphatically, “But it is. It is beautiful.”
But she nodded, and said emphatically, “But it is. It is beautiful.”
That whole last
week, all I could feel was Anna’s serenity. Her acceptance, her love, her
peace. It radiated from her. Her serenity and her depth of spirit held me every
second I was with her, and not just during that last week, but as it always
had.
Anna has always
been the person who saw further and understood the world more deeply than
anyone I have ever met. Anna saw possibility, she made room for hope, she saw
endings as beginnings. She was true and real, and she looked for beauty
everywhere.
I hope you can
feel that and see that with me now.
Anna meant the
world to me, and to my children. She was their mentor and our dear, dear friend.
We made and celebrated art with Anna almost every week for ten wonderful years.
She was our ‘understander’, our supporter, our inspiration.
She was my kindred spirit, my corner stone. Anna was light, to me.
She was my kindred spirit, my corner stone. Anna was light, to me.
She was all those
changing forms of light, that you can’t always capture in a photograph. You can
try; you can get close, but the best way to understand light like hers, is to
stand quietly and breath it in.
Anna was that
trembling, silvery light that comes off the sea in the morning. The rich, honey
light that pours into windows in the afternoon. The floating light of twilight,
the kind that feels like you’re suspended when you walk in it. She was the gentle
light that wakes flowers. She was the brave torch light that travels into caves,
despite the shadows. She was the dancing, electric light that comes with storms, bright and filled with energy, and she
was the searching light that stands tall on headlands, reaching and exploring,
illuminating.
She was my
laughing light, my true light. She was all the colours that light brings.
One of my
favourite memories of Anna was the morning she came to our house with an art
therapy idea she had. We were to be her test subjects, she said, to see if her
idea would work. So we filled these little squirt bottles with watery paint,
which we then squirted onto damp paper, turning the pages into these kaleidescopic
patterns of swirls and cosmic colours. We did page after page, and what I most
remember of that day was our laughter, and the running outside with our wet
pages to lay them on the lawn.
The sun was so
rich that day, and Anna kept opening and shutting the sliding door, keeping an
eye out for our indoor cats, as we leaped out and in, out and in, laying the
pages on the singing grass. The day felt
filled with dancing. I can still see it, in technicolour. Anna’s smile was so
wide you could have fallen into it and been happy forever.
And Anna was peace.
She was my safe
space. She was that pocket of time every week, for years, that I could rest in,
where I knew I would be heard and loved and valued.
She was the same for
my children. And she was a safe space
for all the people she taught and shared her creative energy with, all the
lucky, lucky people who were guided by her. We all were safe in her hands.
This is what my
son wrote about Anna, and shared with me last night:
“Anna brought with
her peace, safety and joy, and an infectious excitement for art and creativity.
She taught me the technical skills to draw and paint, and gave me the courage
and inspiration to use my imagination.”
Yes. YES.
I remember early
on, when my children were very small, she told them, “There are no wrong lines.”
And because there
were no wrong lines, they could go anywhere.
With Anna, you could
do anything. You could be truthful,
strange, and fearless. You could experiment, you could imagine beyond, and
without borders. You could go way past
your comfort zone because here, walking or flying beside you, was Anna. Your
own personal guiding presence, your calm fellow traveller. Always offering encouragement,
suggestions, ideas. Telling you that you mattered, that your ideas were bright,
good things. And that your journey was your very own.
Can you imagine
the feeling this brings? The gift this is. I know you can, because I know she
gave that to you. In her friendships, in her work, in her parenting, and in her
marriage. She gave us all space to breathe. She gave us moments of inspiration.
She delighted and energised us. She held us, and gave us room to be. She gave us the
tools to see and love ourselves, and to heal.
And, very importantly, she gave — to herself, and to us — her art.
She shared her truest stories. She told,
through her art, of her exploration of the world. She documented, more and more
deeply, her contemplations and discoveries, her loves, her memories, her emotions,
her celebrations. She painted her special connection with the world, physical, intellectual,
and spiritual.
Here, in Anna’s
art, lived, and lives, spirit and shadow, light and earth travelling side by
side. Everything sacred. In her life-long work, Anna poured out the deepest
parts of who she was. She lay down, on page after page, her soul self.
Anna’s spirit, her
soul self, was and is, immeasurable. It reaches out far beyond anything the
eye, or even dreams, can see. Her spirit is a singing note, resonating through
every one of us. How extraordinary. How beautiful.
One of the last things
Anna wrote to me, is something I would love for you to carry out with you
today.
I’d love for you
to keep it in your pocket, sew it into the inside of your shirt, write it on
your skin, weave it into your hair like ribbons. Wear it. Hold it close.
Anna wrote:
"Take care, and let
your heart be not troubled, but filled with colours."
So today, I say
her words to all of us who are here, walking this new path together, we who love her so very much:
Remember to take
care. Let your heart be not troubled. But let it be filled with colours.
 |
| 'happy brain' |
