PURE DEAD SCOTTISH

 

The force is an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together. 

 

Obi-Wan Kenobi

 

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Whenever someone we love dies, it can feel unbearable that the world just keeps going.​ People still go to work. Cars still pass. Shops still open. And inside, something in us wants to scream, "Can’t you see what’s happened?!" We want time to stop.

 

We want the world to notice that everything has changed.​ And everything has changed. Regardless of what you believe about death & the afterlife, when someone you love dies, nothing will ever be the same again.

 

But for me, death is not the end. Instead, I see it as a threshold .... a crossing. A moment where someone’s physical body is no longer here, but something of them remains. Their energy. Their presence. The way they have shaped us and the world around them. They are different now, but they are not gone in the way we often fear.

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Still, for those left behind, it can be disorientating, tender, and overwhelming. We’re asked to keep living while carrying something that has fundamentally altered us. Nothing feels solid. Nothing feels certain.

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My role as a ceremonialist is to help hold that moment.

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Sometimes when people think of the word "funeral", they think of it as an event ... something to get through to bring a sense of closure. I see it as a sacred rite of passage ... for the person who has died, and for the people who loved them. It’s a moment that deserves time, care, and intention. A sacred moment to pause when everything else feels like it’s rushing on without us.

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But it can also be a moment to smile ... and to laugh. Because a good funeral ceremony should reflect who the person was in life. Their warmth. Their humour. Their contradictions. Their quirks. The things they loved deeply, whether that was gardening, heavy metal, baking, football, or science fiction. The stories that make us shake our heads, and the ones that make us laugh through tears.​ I'm a total geek!.... Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Dune... I love them all, and if I died tomorrow I'd love my ceremony to be filled with references from them! A farewell doesn’t need to flatten a life into something generic ... it should feel recognisable, personal, and real.

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The other thing is that often, when people are organising a funeral, they’ll say they want it to be “non-religious” ... and that's absolutely fine. But what I've come to realise is that what they usually mean is that they don’t want anything formal or doctrinal, or a ceremony that feels imposed on them. But in my experience, that doesn’t mean people want the ceremony to feel flat or stripped of depth. Many families I work with still want something that speaks to connection, meaning, and whatever it is that feels bigger than us ... especially if the person who has died felt that way too. I think of this as spiritual support, even though it doesn’t always come with clear language or labels.

My own spirituality is quiet and grounded, rooted in a deep sense of connection ... to the land, to the natural world, and to something larger than myself that holds us when things feel fragile and uncertain. I don’t feel tied to one name for this. Some people call it God, others the sacred or the universe ... and as a Star Wars fan, I even think of it as the Force. The language isn’t what matters to me. What matters is the felt sense of being supported, of not being alone when everything feels raw and exposed.

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When I’m leading a ceremony, I’m not there to explain death or tell anyone what to believe. I’m there to create a space where people can show up exactly as they are. Where grief, love, anger, relief, confusion, memories, tears, laughter, and silence are all welcome. Where there’s no pressure to behave a certain way, to be “strong,” or to make sense of things before you’re ready.

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I believe that when we gather to say goodbye, we are held ... by the people around us, by the stories being shared, and by something larger that’s carrying us through the moment. My job is to tend that space carefully, so it feels safe, honest, and true to the person being remembered.

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You don’t need to share my beliefs for me to do this work well. You only need to know that I will listen, I will move at your pace, and I will hold the ceremony with warmth, care, and respect.

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Because at moments like this, being held matters.