To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven;
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted….
A very dear friend is seriously ill, she is talking about bucket lists, and the fact that this may be her last Christmas. Generous, courageous, independent and pragmatic, she is partly responsible for my choosing to live in this beautiful area. Over the last few months she has welcomed her first grand children, put her affairs in order, sold a business and yesterday went with another friend and I to the local cemetery to choose where she will be buried. It is a small country cemetery, the oldest grave dates from the mid 1860’s, and it is full of names of local well known families and identities. Once sadly neglected, it is now well maintained by a cemetery trust plus a band of volunteers, and is a peaceful spot on the edge of the forest. Amid various jokes about facing the sunrise so one’s bones could be warmed, the work required to dig a grave under the big gum trees amidst the tree roots, and the importance of liking one’s neighbours, a decision was made and a quiet corner chosen. Our other friend will buy a plot there too, and I might just do the same.