An advert for Cirque de Soleil’s Corteo popped up on my Instagram feed earlier (Click here for trailer ):
“Meet Mauro, the Dreamer Clown, watching his own funeral. He suits up to perform one last time, to dive into his memories, before ascending to the afterlife in a bittersweet farewell.”
A clown performing at his own funeral.
It took me straight back to a beautifully illustrated book by Tomie dePaola that my mother gave me as a child, called The Clown of God .
Set in medieval Italy, it tells the story of a young juggling clown whose special trick is to cascade a myriad of colours until they whirl into a rainbow, then, with a flourish, “And now, for the Sun in heaven,” a single golden ball tossed high into the air.
His fame grows. Then, as the years pass, it begins to wane along with his skill. He drops the catch. No longer able to entertain, he grows old and poor and is chased from town to town, cold and hungry. Until one Christmas Eve he takes shelter in a Franciscan church. Watching the beauty of the procession and the candlelit singing, he notices a statue of Mary and the Christ child looking far too solemn for his liking.
So he performs. One last time.
“And now, for the Sun in heaven.”
The following morning the friars find him dead at the foot of the statue. The Christ child is smiling. In his outstretched hand is the golden ball.
I found that book again on Boxing Day when Mum asked me to look in the bookcase for a guide to Scottish birds she wanted passed on.
“Do you remember getting this for me, Mum? Shall I read it to you for old times’ sake?”
I had forgotten what a tear-jerker it was. Thank goodness my eldest sister Jenny was there. I made it as far as the arrival at the church before becoming overwhelmed. My voice gave way and she quietly took over and finished it. We sat in companionable silence for a bit and then conversation moved on. My birthday was approaching, falling on my day off, and I was planning to spend it with Mum.
Instead, I received a call at lunch-time from my sister, the first week back at school. Mum was going downhill rapidly. I had one lesson left that afternoon and that was all I had to give. The following day was my day off and I was able to spend it with Mum. She came to in the afternoon. I reminisced about the good times and thanked her for all the fun of the fair.
“You know Mum, you’re a tough act to follow.”
“Well, good luck!" she replied, "God bless!” and fell back to sleep.
I am blessed to be one of six, so alongside the carers and the angels from the Rosemary Foundation, we were able to play tag team at home. When I next went down at the weekend there were no more conversations. Just quiet time by her bed, or moments by the open window, taking a deep breath and looking out over the garden and across the Downs.
Mum loved hills and mountains, maybe those Highland genes. At the bottom of the garden she had built a small Swiss-style chalet, inspired by Alpine walking holidays and the refugio of St Francis in the woods outside Assisi. She named it Ystrad Fflur, The Valley of the Flowers, after the ruins of a monastery in Wales we once stumbled across on an impromptu road trip. Dad had taken up woodcarving in retirement and carved a sign which Mum painted. The same double act created the plaque of mountain flowers that hangs by the front door. There were hiccups too though. I still smile remembering the time Dad mowed down the wild meadow Mum had been carefully cultivating around the hut. He never made that mistake again. Mum could work wonders with mistakes anyway. When an overflowing basin (possibly mine) leaked through to the kitchen ceiling once, out came the stepladder and Mum used chalks and charcoal to transform the watermarks into the fresco of a koala sitting in a eucalyptus tree.
Mum had taught me the art of butterfly kisses from a young age, eyelash fluttering to cheek. It is a tradition I passed on to my own children and I was reminded of that the Saturday after she died, when a bouquet of wild flowers labelled “The Butterfly Kiss” appeared anonymously on my doorstep. Since then turquoise butterflies have surfaced in small places. On a supermarket bag. In the delight of a bike ride. On a card from my department covered also in messages of support. I am told butterflies are common after loss. I had never heard that before. When Dad died, for me the messenger was, and still is, the garden robin.
I miss Mum. It hits in waves. And yet I am at peace too, for Mum had a complete life, leaving behind six children, sixteen grandchildren and a further sixteen great-grandchildren. When we all gathered to say goodbye, the tone was one of gentle presence, quiet dignity and stoicism, so entirely in keeping with her spirit, one of the heroines of planet earth, as a friend observed.
Being the youngest of six, it was a real privilege that my siblings entrusted the eulogy to me. This time my voice did not give way. When I stood to speak, the tightness in my chest and the jelly legs from the minutes before dissolved into something steadier. The liminal space where balance lives. A place of flow. Mum used to say, “Lucy always has to have the last word.” And this time, I spoke for us all.
Since time immemorial, stories have prepared us for the hardest moments of life. In her own gentle way, Mum had been preparing me too. Circus knows how to bow out. To release light into darkness. To send colour upward one final time. That is the power of the arts. A rehearsal for life, and sometimes for death.
Katharine Ann Margaret
Dearest Mum
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