I sometimes feel that I say the same things each year, when I write about Sarah on 9th January, but I know that there are always new people reading. She’s still making new friends. So I think it’s OK to repeat a little. I’ve always tried to have something new in what I write, and capture my feelings right now, at this time, right after I return from the ride I do every year from the Marie Curie hospice, past where Sarah used to live, and then home.

Fifteen years ago tonight, I rode my motorbike from the Marie Curie hospice, down past Cameron Toll, past where Sarah’s flat was – and on to collect someone else who wanted to be there for her last moments. I didn’t realise that she’d died probably before I even got to the motorbike – I didn’t connect that with the strong dreamy feeling that she slipped onto the seat behind me, wearing a wispy dress, and rode with me, laughing happily and singing along with me, until we passed her flat.

But it was such a magical feeling that I can remember every moment of it, and every year since, I’ve done the same ride if I could, singing the same song, until I pass her flat.

Sarah had had a rough year in 2005. She’d had severe unexplained back pain all year, and an unsympathetic GP – and it was in December that she was taken in to hospital, and diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. She spent Christmas there, New Year, and her birthday before moving to the hospice.

I was priviledged that she let me visit, even when most others were turned away. If she was sleeping, I’d sit next to her and write her letters for when she woke up. The nurses would tell me what she’d said when she read them, or they read them to her. I’d often written her notes during the time I knew her, it just seemed like words on paper carried a little more of the feelings I had – so it was very natural to keep sharing thoughts that way.

In 2002, I wrote a poem for Sarah. It was terribly cryptic, full of references to songs we both listened to, or conversations we’d had, and looking back, I’m surprised it made sense to her at all. But it did. One of the last things she said to me was where she’d kept it, and that I should take it back. A few lines from that poem read:

Sometimes when in deep slumber,

You steal into my mind

You take hostage my dreams

To find and disquiet my soul.

That’s been even more true since she passed over to whatever magical world she’s in now. She haunts my thoughts, my dreams – she disquiets me, and I welcome it. She was always the friend who would tell me if she thought I was wrong – even if it was hard for me to her, it was always said with love. And she still does that – I hear her voice when I need to be told I’m wrong, or to have courage, or to believe in myself. And I often tell her I love her and remember her.

I promised her so many times in those last two months that I would never forget her.

So I do the same bike ride every year, and our Christmas tree stays up and lit, until I have done it. Then the lights go out, I share some words about her and maybe a picture with my friends, and pour a glass of excellent whisky.

There’s a glass waiting for me now.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted at: https://www.facebook.com/notes/malcolm-campbell/remembering-2020/10151333249134995 )

How can it be 14 years? I remember her as if she still lives a bus ride away…

Every year since Sarah died, I’ve taken my motorbike and ridden the same route I did the night she died – from the hospice to the end of the road she lived on. On that night, I didn’t yet know she was gone, I was riding to go and get someone who wanted to be there. But between me walking out the door, and getting to my bike, she slipped away. I didn’t know, but I felt her in the wind around me that night. I heard her whisper about taking one last ride with me, and I sang a song we both loved, loudly, inside my helmet.

It wasn’t motorbike weather today. There were frost warnings, the rain was torrential this morning – I made the decision that memories don’t always have to be on two wheels, and doing it in the car let me play the music, loud, as we’d often done when driving together. Music was one of the things we really connected with – I’d make her cryptic mix CD’s, and she’d figure them out in a few hours, and tell me how I could have done them better.

If she was still here, I’m sure we’d still be having adventures. On motorbikes, on boats, dressed up in castles, … so many ways. But then, Sarah was magic. Pure, unrestrainable magic. So maybe she is still here. Maybe I can go ride places she’d have wanted to go and leave the pillion seat open for her. Or more likely, she’d be riding another bike beside me, like the wind.

Another tradition we have is that our Christmas tree stays up till the 9th January. That year, I visited her in the hospital and hospice every day. I was out of the house a lot, and returning home to  Veronica, a cup of tea, and the lights on the Christmas tree gave me a lot of hope. We only turned it off when I got home on the day Sarah died.

So now we do that every year. The tree stays lit, until I get back from the ride to remember her. That’s when we turn it off.

Turning it off, putting it away together, never feels sad in itself. The tree is a collection of memories, as I’ve written before, and remembering isn’t sad in itself.

This night, 14 years ago, I was drinking whisky with Sarah’s sisters. Telling stories, sharing memories. Memories that’ll go on forever.

In her last few weeks, I promised her I would never forget her. That was the easiest promise I ever made. No-one who met her ever could. I remember her with traditions on this night, but I remember her every other night too. She is magic, and she is all around me, every day

“I want to be magic. I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile. I want to be a friend of elves and live in a tree. Or under a hill. I want to marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing. I don’t want to pretend at magic anymore. I want to be magic.”
Charles de Lint – an author we shared our love of frequently

And now I’ve written this, I’m going to grab a glass of whisky and play a game with some friends. Those are both good ways to remember her too.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted at: https://www.facebook.com/notes/malcolm-campbell/remembering-2019/10151163314784995 )

It’s a cold night, there’s a faint sparkling of frost on the road, and it’s not the kind of night I’d take my motorbike for a ride. But it’s that night – thirteen years on from the night when my beloved friend Sarah died. You’d think you’d remember someone less, year on year – but I remember her more. Every year, I revisit everything I’ve thought, and written, and sung, and drawn… and I remember something else, another memory bubbles into my mind as I ride from the hospice where she died, the same route I rode that night, past her old flat, and then turn off for home.

I want to be magic. I want to touch the heart of the world and make it smile. I want to be a friend of elves and live in a tree. Or under a hill. I want to marry a moonbeam and hear the stars sing. I don't want to pretend at magic anymore. I want to be magic.

(Charles de Lint)

Magic was always around Sarah – from the time we sat on top of a huge rock near Crieff and she told me about the faeries that lived under it, to our walks in Roslin Glen finding the hidden faces in everything, to gathering only the right number of mussels on the shore on Bute to make breakfast (who else would have mussels for breakfast?).

This picture, one of my favourites of her, was shared with the first writing about her I did after she left us – but with the demise of Livejournal, the picture vanished from the internet. It’s such a magical picture of her, it deserves to resurface. It captures her as well as any words could – she always said she was a creature of fairie that the world couldn’t hold forever – and when I see this picture, I see her heading away on new adventures.

I ride on this night every year, I write about her every year, I raise a glass to her every year – because there is no better way to remember someone than to create traditions around them. But I remember her every single day. I remember her laugh, I remember her being annoying, I remember her being wise when I didn’t want her to be, and how much of a social chameleon she could be. I remember her introducing me to the Foo Fighters, or me introducing her to Live, or swapping Charles de Lint books, watching movies together, our usual spots for coffee. Every memory is precious, and as they bubble to the surface, I hold onto them.

It’s an easy promise, Sarah. No-one could ever forget you.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted at: https://www.facebook.com/notes/malcolm-campbell/remembering-2018/10150958528224995 )

I can’t quite believe its been 12 years. Twelve years ago today, I rode my motorbike from the Marie Curie Hospice, where my beloved friend Sarah was dying, to drive back some others who wanted to be there at the last. I was too late, but I didn’t know it at the time. As I rode, the wind seemed to dance around the back of my bike, I heard her laughing, felt her close – and I imagined this was the last ride we’d take together. Every year since, I’ve made sure it isn’t. I take my motorbike up to the hospice gate, and ride most of the same route. Sometimes I have a clear feeling she’s with me, sometimes I just feel an empty space I wish she filled. But she’s always remembered.

The promise I made to her in the hospice, was that she’d never be forgotten. It’s an easy promise to keep.

 

This is the first year I’ve done the ride on a bike Sarah never saw. Last year, I predicted my TDM900 wouldn’t see another January, and I was right. The spirit of my motorcycle lives on though, but now in the form of an Indian Scout.

I think Sarah would have loved this bike. I think she’d have been sceptical at first – custom bikes are usually slow, and she liked fast. But the Scout isn’t slow, and I think she’d have loved how it moves, as well as how it looks.

This year, I definitely felt her with me. I had a strong feeling that I should, when its warmer, do a roadtrip – to some places we visited together. Just me, Blufhofi, and those swirling memories of Sarah. I think I will.

 

Sarah also loved whisky. The oldest whisky I have, and one I think she’d like.

That night, after she was gone, a small group of family and her closest friends gathered in her flat, and we shared some whisky and memories. So, tonight, some whisky, and more memories. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I’ll be reliving many of them as I finish this glass.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted at: http://calum.dreamwidth.org/257523.html )

Oh now feel it, coming back again
Like a rolling thunder chasing the wind¹

11 years ago, tonight, my beloved friend Sarah died, in the Marie Curie hospice up beyond the Braid Hills.

She was taken into hospital in early December, and spent Christmas, New Year and her birthday in there. I was lucky enough that she let me spend time with her nearly every day she was there – sometimes just sitting with her as she slept and writing her a note for her to read when she woke. Even now I can remember all of that – I haven’t words for what it was like – both the terribleness of the whole situation, and the magic of her being able to laugh and share stories though all of it.

Memories of Sarah have haunted me constantly since – but I treasure every one. Because the one thing that Sarah was scared of, was that people would forget her when she was gone. Anyone who knew her would know how impossible that would be – but I made her a promise to keep doing things to keep her in my thoughts.

On this night in 2006, as she was close to death, I got on my motorbike and went to collect someone else who wanted to be with her. Every year, on 9th January, I get on my motorbike and repeat that ride.

I do it to remember her. But also because motorbikes were one of the connections we shared. We first really go to know each other, playing games in her sister Karen’s flat, when I offered her a lift home on the back of my motorbike.

She’s the only person to ride with me on every one of my motorbikes since I passed my test – my little red GPz305, the XJ600 – and then Bluhofi in both incarnations.

Forces pullin’ from the center of the earth again
I can feel it.¹

Sarah understood my spirituality too – she shared my animistic worldview, seeing life and spirit in things around us. She knew it was important for cars, and motorbikes, to have names – and for you to get to know their personalities.

My first two bikes were always intended to be temporary – while I found the money to buy the right bike for me. And when I found it, a blue TDM850 – Sarah was involved in helping me find his name, in checking that the name fitted. So she was there, from when Blufhofi – the spirit of my motorcycle, was first awakened.

And she was around when I upgraded to a new TDM900, also blue of course, and totally understood that the name, and spirit, would move from one bike to another.

She was the only person (motorcycle mechanics aside), who I ever let ride Blufhofi. After she passed her bike test, I let her try him in a car park. Definitely not the right bike, or spirit, for her.

I was so lucky to have Sarah in my life. She would listen to anything I wanted to talk to her about. We used to ride to the cinema in Fountain Park, and sit in the cafe upstairs for hours, talking. Once we even missed the film. She was that rare person who made you feel like the centre of the world when you talked, who accepted you all, and shared as much as she could

That night, in 2006, I didn’t know as I rode down the road that Sarah had already died. So when I felt the wind swirling around me, felt or imagined her riding pillion behind me, encouraging me to go fast – I was imagining that she was dreaming, and sharing the ride with me. She stayed with me until I passed the end of the road she lived on, then was gone. I didn’t find out till I arrived at the other end that she was already dead.

So, since 2007, ever year, I’ve ridden Bluhofi from the hospice, to the end of the road on which Sarah lived at the time. It feels like something the three of us do together.. Me, Sarah, and Bluhofi.

A few times, I haven’t been able to take the motorbike. Once, he wouldn’t start, another time the weather was treacherous. And this year, he’s not roadworthy. Bluhofi, in this form, probably won’t see another January.

Sarah would just tell me that its time for his spirit to find another home. And it will. Because we’ll be doing that ride again. I’ll never forget her. I don’t beleive anyone who knew her ever will.

—————————

1. Lyrics in italics from “Lightning Crashes” by Live, a song I was singing to myself that night

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted at: https://www.facebook.com/notes/malcolm-campbell/remembering-2016/10150588188954995 )

I spent today with friends, playing games. Then I got on my motorbike, and rode up to the hospice, as I do each year, and repeat the ride I did ten years ago, on the night Sarah died. Before she died, Sarah told me she was terrified of being forgotten. There was no chance of anyone who knew her forgetting her, she was, and still is, a magical presence that pops up in your thoughts all the time. But I promised her I’d never forget her, and the ride is a way of proving to her that I still remember.

But it’s not the only thing we do to remember her. That year, when she was in hospital and then the hospice, I visited her every day. It made for a strange Christmas and New Year, I was out of the house a lot, and returning home to Veronica, a cup of tea, and the lights on the Christmas tree gave me a really feeling of hope that made the challenges so much easier.

So the tree stayed up when we went back to work. It stayed up through Twelfth Night. We only turned it off when I got home on the day Sarah died.

The tree’s become an important part of our winter holiday together, Veronica and I choose a new decoration each year, and remember each year and what we did as we put them up. But the tree stays lit till tonight. Till I get back from the bike ride, and turn it off.

The tree carries a lot of symbolism and memory for me, but the light reminds me of Sarah. It stays on to remind of those precious last days. It goes off to remind of the light that’s gone.

The tree will stay up till tomorrow – when I can take it down with Veronica – each of the memories associated with it carefully put away till next year. But I’ll keep remembering Sarah, in many ways, through the year.

In fact, Ill start right now, with a small whisky…

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted on Livejournal – mirrored to: https://calum.dreamwidth.org/214470.html   )

The real problem is, people think life is a ladder, and it’s really a wheel
Pad Cadigan, in “Johnny Come Home”

Our Xmas tree is a signpost, that marks out the dark of the year for us. It always has to be up before the longest night – and we used to leave it up till we went back to work. Around 12 nights, signalling that time of rest and reflection, spending time with friends and family. Each year we add something else to it, marking time. Some of those things are personal to us, some of them remind us of others.

The year Sarah was dying in hospital, I couldn’t bring myself to take it down when it was time to go back to work. It was heartening to come home after visiting her and find the lights shining. So, it stayed up, until we took it down the day after she died.

Now, it always stays up till then. That bike ride I mentioned in my last post, that marks the end of the dark winter festival for me. I go ride with Sarah, come home, turn the tree off for the last time.. and the next day, we take it down.

It’s just one signpost that marks time, one cycle. It interacts with other cycles – before Xmas I was in Vancouver wrapping up a project. Now I’m in Vancouver starting another. It’s not the end of one ladder and the beginning of another – it’s just a notch on a spinning wheel, whose teeth intersect with other spinning wheels, all turning interlinked but at differing speeds.

It’s our intention and will that gives many wheels the energy to turn. If we put negative energy in, it slowly spreads from wheel to wheel, and things start to slow down, or even jam. But positive energy turns much more than the wheel its applied to.

I don’t want my thoughts at this time of the year to be chipping cogs off wheels – I want them to be like the Xmas tree, spreading light and hope long after it’s put away in the box.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted on LIvejournal and mirrored at:   https://calum.dreamwidth.org/214196.html)

Four years ago, tonight, my friend Sarah (seolta) died.

She was taken into hospital in early December, and spent Christmas, New Year and her birthday in there. I was privileged enough to be able to spend time with her nearly every day she was there.
New Years night sticks in my memory – sitting in the Western General with her and Syd, watching the Hootenanny on TV, then moving through to the other side to watch the fireworks at New Year. It truly was the best view in Edinburgh that night, we could see three of the five hills.

I can’t really even begin to describe what it was like. It was the worst you could imagine it could be for her – and yet, she was still able to find moments to laugh, joke, and share wonderful secrets.

Since that dark winter with her, she’s haunted me every Christmas and New Year season, but I wouldn’t chase those ghost-memories away for one second.

I can never find the words to capture what she meant to me, how I feel now, how I remember her. But I can at least share one part.

The night she died, I’d jumped on my motorbike to ride off and get someone else who wanted to be there. I didn’t realise as I left, she’d already died; I still had a hope in my mind that I’d be able to get out, fetch the others, and get back in time to say goodbye. But as I rode off, the wind whipped up around me, and I had a really strong image of her sliding onto my pillion. I still didn’t get it at the time.. I thought she was dreaming, or I was imagining it, but she rode with me.. urging me to go faster the whole way, laughing, and singing.. until we passed her flat.. Then, she was gone.

I didn’t find out she had died till I got to the other end. I still didn’t let go my feelings.. those were locked down tight till.. well, till someone poked me in the right way. (And if you’re reading this, consider a lot of swearing.. and a lot of thanks.. in response).

I was honoured to share whisky in her flat with her family and closest friends that night – it felt as if I’d finally caught up with her.. that she lingered there to watch what we said about her. She wanted, so much, to be remembered. As if anyone who knew her would ever forget her.

I did promise her, so many times, that I would never forget her. So to make sure she knows that.. I do that same bike ride every year, on the day she died. I take a roundabout route up to the hospice.. then ride off, the same way.. singing the same song.. until I pass her flat and feel her slip away again. It’s different each year – the first year I felt her with me so strongly that I knew it was her, not just wishful thinking or memory. The second.. I didn’t feel her presence, but remembered every moment as if I was reliving it. Last year, I just heard laughing, and that lifted the darkness for me again.

This year – there was no way I could have done the bike ride. The roads are too dangerous, and even if I was going to attempt it, my bike is literally frozen into a block of ice, and I doubt it would start. So, I did the same trip in a car. On the way there, I passed a silver audi with the registration SE 03 LTA, and it made me jump. Then I realised her first reaction would have been that she didn’t want her name on an ugly car like that. Driving that route wasn’t the same as riding it, there was no way to feel her with me, and the memories didn’t flood back in the same way. But it did have the advantage that I could play that same song on the CD player, and sing along loudly.

And as always, it lifted the darkness. I’m sad she’s gone, I miss her terribly. I doubt many people ever understood how much I loved her.. But I’m happy that I remember her so clearly that she’s still part of my life. And I won’t, ever, even for a moment, forget her.

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/

(Originally posted on Livejournal and mirrored at: https://calum.dreamwidth.org/181517.html )

One year ago today was the last time I spent (in this world) with my friend Sarah. Tonight, as a way of remembering her, I took my motorbike out for a ride, and rode the same route I did on that night.

When I rode that road a year ago, I knew she didn’t have long to live, and was riding to fetch someone else so they could be with her at the end. I felt very strongly that she slipped onto the pillion of my bike with me, and laughed happily as I raced down the road. It wasn’t till later that I discovered that had been the moment she finally slipped away.

Sarah always shared my love of bikes. No-one else has ridden pillion with me as much as she has – and as soon as she could, she got her own bike. I think it’s the sense of independance, freedom, and adventure we both love. A car just never feels the same.. even a tiny convertible with the roof down still feels like a “cage” – where the bike feels like you are out on the road, flying above the surface, with nothing between you and the world.

Tonight, I’d hoped I’d feel her with me again. It wasn’t quite like that, but she was there. Not the same intense feeling of her presence.. but a faint shade, a memory.. not riding the bike with me, but flying along behind. Diaphanous, laughing.. happy. The last time, I knew she was with me.. This time.. maybe it was memory, or wishful thinking.. or maybe not, but it felt good to share that with her, wherever it came from. I felt a hug before she finally slipped away..

Love you, Sarah.

(Then just to bring me back down to earth with a thump, a car pulled out in front of me on the way home. Cue emergency stop. I didn’t fall, or hit anything, but my neck hurts. Bah!)

Other posts about Sarah:   

For those that didn’t know her, this is what I wrote after she died: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/sarah/

All my posts about Sarah are saved here now: https://www.skirnir.com/seolta/