I'm back in Tokyo now, holing up in my pretty little Autumn-tinged home to shake the bone-weariness off and to do some quiet thinking, as you do when you lose something you can't truly replace, despite everyones best efforts to fill the void.

"...when we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings"

Sogyal Rinpoche

"Grief drives men into habits of serious reflection, sharpens the understanding, and softens the heart"

John Adams

I believe my father was ready for his death and he approached it bravely and matter-of-factly, and I find solace in that fact. I also rejoice in the idea that perhaps, in that great unknown, my parents are exactly where they should be - together again. In the eulogy, my fathers great friend, Peter Jenkins spoke of Friday evening thunderstorms taking on a new meaning - Helen and Hugh throwing a big party for all their friends, just like they always used to. I like that idea. They both lived life to the fullest - drinking, partying, surrounded by a wide circle of friends.

Sadly they neglected a fairly important aspect: their health. Mum died after spending 2 weeks at 61, Dad died at 69. Both had full renal failure (daily beer and rum) and emphysema (end to end ciggies) , not to mention the diabetes, angina, anemia or various small ovarian/breast/skin cancers that were removed over the years. Too young, too young! Be warned, party people. Your body can't support you if you keep pulverising it. Look after yourselves or you'll never get to know your grandkids.

Anyways. I digress, as I am wont to do.

So I am just back in Tokyo and life goes on. I have learned that there is an art to living with grief. It involves a delicate balance of action and reflection, of celebration and tears, of moving forward and wallowing in the echoes of memories. I guess it's called living in the moment, and I am kinda giving into whatever emotions I feel at any given moment.

I'm doing OK, and I feel shielded by the love of family and good friends who have given both Dave and I their quiet, stalwart caring support through this almost unbearably sad time. The Sogyal Rimpoche quote above has really taken on a strong meaning. Everything has become precious. Sunsets. Flowers. Relishing a fine cup of coffee or glass of wine. Taking turns to read silly poems aloud. Home cooked food. Because life is too damn short and these are the things that matter, don't you think. These things and the people we share these things with.

Actually, memories echo all around me constantly - in Mooloolaba all I could hear was the sounds of my childhood floating up from the river. It was quite incredible, and I thought it might go away once I got back to Tokyo but it hasn't. Strange how vividly aural these memories are - if I close my eyes, I find myself there, in vivid technicolor.

Thanks sooo much to everyone who wrote in and offered their condolences - it is great to have such a sweet circle of support through the website. Words can't express.... Thank you. I've been wanting to write almost everyday but there were too many words and it was all a bit daunting. It's still a bit daunting and even writing this took over an hour and some tears. Damn fickle thing, grief. Never know when the tears will come.

Ciao for now. Back soon.