The following was written by Quadra resident and death doula Joanna Lumley, who buried her father in June 2025. 

Daisies, foxgloves, and the bright yellow flowers of broom will forever remind me of my dad. They lined the roads, as I raced back and forth between my home and his, early this summer. He taught me the names of things. Without explanation, he taught me knowing the names of birds and flowers was a nod of respect.

The wilted vase of daisies was the last to go from his cabin, where he lived some 10 plus years. That and his rocking chair, the last place he sat while we shared one final night together. The same chair I had rocked my babies in before it was his. No shared wine that night, and only a few cautious chuckles, just two people trying their best to be brave for each other.

The cabin was where my boys learned to walk, and that grandpa made better pancakes. Where they picked buckets of fruit, climbing the ladder my dad would carefully hold for them. Where they raced the field playing “What time is it Mr. Wolf?” They would all run to his door, waiting to see what Grandpa would pretend to grumble about, before he filled them with oatcakes, pancakes, or his famous egg sandwiches.

The daisies are still in the vase. Completely dry now, but I cannot bear to throw them out. Is that not just grief? Wanting to hold on to that space in-between. That time when it is clear what to savour. He was so pleased with how long they’d lasted by his bed. “Look, they’ve barely wilted,” he said, days after I picked them for him. When he was gone, they were long slumped over, and all I wanted was to have that moment back.

My dad was everything for me from a young age. In adulthood he was at my door the minute something went wrong. Calmly, steadfastly. While I swore and cried, he would fix what was broken, without flinching. Whether it was a hot water tank, or a crumbled marriage. He never left us, and never panicked. When my husband left, my dad came out of retirement to support us. Crossing the ferry and sleeping on my awful couch, while I worked at night. My dad was quietly incredible. This loss should be catastrophic in a hundred ways. I spent most of my youth and adult life fearing this time, that is here now. Besides my children, the last of my immediate family is gone.

The months that led up to my dad’s death were something of a whirlwind. Our community, and a number of families within its fold, were hit with deep losses of their own. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so honoured to witness such a coming together. Through the network of volunteers at Way to Go, the Quadra Island Cemetery team, The Threshold Choir, and many others in the community. These families were held up, and held each other with unsurpassed capability and connectedness.

My own dad, when having to tell me he had weeks to live, in the next breath, asked to change his end of life plan. A stoic, and a practical man, it was the beauty that he saw through the work I was able to be involved in. The healing in it, that changed his mind, not the practicality. He asked for a green burial, and for me to handle all I could after his death. And I did, stubbornly, and as independently as I could, until I couldn’t. And then my community was there to catch me. Without the support of my partner, my boys, community members, and the support of my incredibly valuable team members at Way to Go, I do not believe the healing would have begun as it has for me.

I have been part of, and witnessed, some incredibly rich conversation around death and dying in this little community of ours. In sharing about what Community Supported Death Care is, there are times it can be challenging. How to craft a clear picture of the tangible value in it, or what it can look like in a myriad of ways, especially for those completely unfamiliar.

I will tell you, witnessing families create their own rituals and honourings, watching them take long tender moments to just stop and be. This has awakened a love and respect for the process, and this way of honouring our dead. An impact and understanding, that practical knowledge and learning could not. We all know, death is where time slows for those at the epicentre, to a jarring halt.

But oh, the richness and opportunity in that stopping. In the slowing right down, and tending to the vessel that carried your loved one for the time they were here with you. Honouring that. However that might look for you. There is no formula. That time can be as complex and unique as the person you are honouring. Or as simple and practical as feels right. No matter the how, that is where the deep healing starts to rise up from our bones, like an ancient gift.

This is not a new age, grass roots movement, this is a reawakening of the connectedness, quietness and healing that comes with the end of something, and the beginning of something else. From laying flowers on the grave site, to picking out the most perfect pair of pyjamas. Or nestling the right memory item into the crook of their arm, as they begin their journey back to the earth. Some of the harder things, we (at Way to Go) are here to help with. Or, we step back and talk you through what feels unknown, until you remember the knowing within you. There are a hundred moments rife with a potential healing salve.

I pivot gently, if I might, back to my own loss, my dad. He rests next to a friend’s mom in Quadra Cemetery’s Green Burial grounds.  Her family bore her great loss, not long before my own. I like that they are neighbours, and we sometimes leave flowers for each other’s parents. A habit of honouring, quirkily born out of the confusion of unmarked graves.

There is a connection among those buried there. My dad taught me that naming shows respect. Some of the others near him, on their journeys back to the earth, I had the privilege of being a part of. My boys and I visit as often as we can. We walk the row, and name them all as well as we are able. They ask simple questions about the ones I knew however briefly, and challenge themselves to remember everyone by name, and their spot in the earth. I like that they are not scared, and would prefer to picnic there some days, even over the beach.

I am grateful that their first experience with the dead was without fear. Just a resting, peaceful, well honoured vessel, where grandpa once was. I am grateful they helped dig and adorn his grave, and helped shovel the earth over him. That we shared one last family birthday cake, even though no one could bring themselves to eat it through tears. That the last image my dad had was my eyes locked with his, and the painting the boys did of them all fishing in their secret spot. Dad sailing ahead in his own boat, and they in theirs. I am grateful to my neighbours, who helped us carry him out and onward, with a practical and reverent tenderness I will never forget. I am grateful I got to dress him just so, place around his familiar shape, ferns and flowers, from the land he tended. For the gift of talking to him again somehow, while I did. I am even grateful for the chasm of sorrow that I sometimes am smacked into, because that means great love once was there. And I am grateful for the healing found in supportive and connected community, ancient ways rediscovered, and the simple reminder that we are not alone. Grief is a tie that binds us all, and I am grateful for the ones it has bound me to.

This is the best I have to paint a picture in your mind’s eye, of what community supported death care can be. I have had many losses, all as they were meant to be, but this way of honouring my dad brought much more healing than I knew possible. If I had a wish around this, it would be that everyone that wanted it, had this kind of opportunity. There are a million more words and feelings. But for now, I hope my words spark conversation worth having in your homes, around your fires. After all, as Ram Dass said,

“We are just walking each other home.”

Written by Joanna Lumley