Memorial in the Mahurangi

A few weeks back, I attended a memorial service with friends and family in the Mahurangi Harbour (Hauraki Gulf). I woke the Sunday morning of the memorial to a phone call from my Mom telling me that our dear friend had died. She had been missing since Friday evening and we had been worrying about her and in frequent communication prior to that morning. We wouldn't know all the facts for close to a week (that Rose was taken by an aneurysm suddenly, while doing what she loved) but that day we knew that Rose was gone.

Rose was one of, if not the most, talented photographers I know. She carried her camera with her everywhere. Only a week or so before, Rose had photographed me, my sister and our Mom spreading the ashes of two of our beloved dogs on the beach at Taieri Mouth.

I did not plan to take my camera on Sunday to the memorial service, but I did because Rose would have. I wanted to honour my friend and keep her alive in this way. I hope to continue to do so by persisting in photographing, writing, capturing and sharing my experiences. Rose and I talked for hours about the ways in which we get in our own way, the frustrations of social media and putting work out in the world, the expenditure required and lack of income that seem to frequently accompany our deepest passions. As artists though, we grin and bear it. We make art despite all obstacles because it's just what we do. We don't really have much choice in it, we just get on with it. The same way we buy groceries or plant gardens or get a warrant for our car. It's just part of it. Whether we're paid or not, successful or not, whether we've captured that fleeting thing or not. My world won't be the same without Rose in it to share these thoughts and concerns with, to talk over our projects or to just walk the fields to the beach and sit quietly over a campfire. But I do feel lucky that I knew her because she was so much herself that I can't separate her from the things she loved and did. Anytime I pick up the camera or admire the rising moon, there she is. And in this way she will always keep me company. I hope she got as much comfort from my friendship as I did from hers. I wish we'd had more time.

At the memorial in Mahurangi, I was shocked after this news and still trying to process what had happened. Holding the camera was a really nice way to be a part of the memorial service without having to interact too much. The camera also acted as somewhat of a buffer to my feelings, giving me something immediate to focus on.

The memorial was itself beyond beautiful. The family met on the beach and walked over the rocks around to a small point. People of all ages crouched and leaned and offered hands to help each other across the gaps of water. It was a fitting ritual for a rite of passage, a literal and metaphorical journey of crossing the water, of crossing to the other side. When everyone was gathered at the point, family threw flowers into the ocean and released their loved ones who had passed. We stood for some time at the edge, the last point of contact between the two worlds, between before and after. We cannot cross back, at least not in anyway that we currently understand or are able to witness. Death is goodbye to the human form we have come to know and love.

We spent some time by the water, watching the ashes and flowers drift, and then we walked back around the rocks, making our way over rock pools and small stretches of water. Again hands were extended, palms held, old knees creaked and bent with the effort. These are my favourite photographs.

I walked behind in deep admiration of the symbolism I saw playing out simply and with no fanfare. Just a beautiful family helping one another across water, helping one another in carrying grief. I feel blessed to have been there and on that day in particular. I too was held and helped, my friends and now family and their family held my hands and helped me cross the water with them.