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Hello everyone. I’m Simon, the youngest of Gabrielle’s four children.
Gabrielle taught us (her children) to speak, she taught us to read. She surrounded us with books. What an extraordinary gift! In some way these few words I’m speaking really only exist because of her, because of that care. I hope that each of you might recognise at least a part of her spirit in what I will say.
We all lead normal lives in unique ways and we also live with profound contradictions. Looking back I can imagine the pull of contradictions for Gabrielle between the craziness and noise of a big home with four young children; and her desire for silence and privacy. Mum used to keep a tin of chocolate for cooking far from reach. I remember opening the tin one day, and it was empty … bar a note written by Gabrielle that said, “I know how many pieces are left.” I liked this about Gabrielle — she was organised and prepared — but I suspect that her calling, as she said to “live a contemplative life within marriage” was stretched to the limit in such absurd moments, and in other more serious ones.
Gabrielle was also enormous fun, and had a wicked sense of humour. The other day she wanted to write an out of office responder for her email that said, “Gone to paradise”. She was also an extraordinary host and cook, and I remember she and Dad had boisterously fabulous dinner parties. Once she cooked for 72 people, and the purple room in our house at Victoria St — a place for conversations with friends — was legendary. These are all small things really, but together they remind me of how she liked to take care, and to care for others. So much of her life was in the service of care: as a nurse, for us as children, and in how she devoted and committed herself to her loving relationship with Ian Graham Ellis … Dad. Their marriage was full of fun, laughter, heartache and difficulty — words that more or less describe people busy with loving each other.
Many of you will know of Gabrielle’s love for the writing and work of the Trappist monk Thomas Merton. She first read him as a 16 year old, and thought of him as a “spiritual mentor gifted to her by the Holy Spirit.” For me, initially, Merton was just the name nailed somewhere close to the front door of the house Gabrielle was living in. But I came to learn just how much she was drawn to Merton’s interfaith thinking and practice; as someone who might help guide her through the contradictions of her spiritual life.
I’m reminded of the idea that each of us actually has two lives. The first one … and then the one we have when we realise we only have one life. I believe Gabrielle understood this idea from a young age. Just three weeks ago, when I asked her if she was afraid, she said: “No, my entire life has been leading up to this moment”.
On the 14th of September 2000 Gabrielle was confirmed as a modern Benedictine anchorite. She was committed to a contemplative life and in sharing that life with others. But she did not want to take any vows that would conflict with the marriage vows she had made in 1960. Gabrielle was able — like in so much of her life — to find the middle way. To say, “yes and” rather than “yes but”. There was tension there, but tension — like friction — produces energy. In the early days of mobile phones, I remember the predictive text feature changing the word “mum” to “nun” and she and I laughed at this technological jump-cut between her worlds.
Recently a friend was talking to me about receiving and giving care. She described these acts as serious. When I asked her why they are serious, she said, “Because they are forever”. When we give and receive care, we are indelibly marked. If Gabrielle had a superpower it was to love and care even during the most testing of circumstances. And perhaps this is the gift for which I will remember her most. That even during her terribly rapid decline these last weeks, Gabrielle unflinchingly and unfailingly kept loving and caring. That each of us got to witness her meeting her death with eyes wide open, and arms outstretched. She found a way to show how each of us might — if given the opportunity — meet our ends with dignity, with grace, and while falling awake with lucid eyes. This is a kindness you have gifted us all Gabrielle. The kindness of your life and the kindness and beauty of your death.
On the Monday before she died when I arrived at the hospice Mum opened her eyes and said, “Hello my darling dancing boy”. I did a small dance for her, and she did one in response with her arms and her fiercely determined eyes. It was the briefest and smallest of duets. A strange flurry of movement amidst the stillness and the silence. Gabrielle knew how to dance but perhaps you knew that of her already.
There’s a book by Jon Kabat-Zinn called “Wherever You Go, There You Are.” Gabrielle and I spoke of it the day I got out of MIQ. As I cried she kept insisting that she would always be beside me; that she wouldn’t be gone. I like to imagine that in her death wherever Gabrielle has gone, there she is. Or maybe, here she is. With us here. Beside us here. So wherever you go Gabrielle, you are here. And now. Although I sincerely hope you’ve currently taken a break from the here and now to chew Thomas Merton’s ear off. Or perhaps, more likely, you are both sitting together in silence over slices of homemade Sachertorte.
The day after Gabrielle died, I received an email from Trish who wrote so delicately, “You can call on her anytime, and she will watch out for you. She is only a breath away.” For all Gabrielle’s sensitivity, vulnerability, gentility, intelligence, capacity to forgive, humour, beauty and quick temper (sustained, as she said, by pride), she understood and embodied this idea: that we are only one breath away.
I like to imagine I’ve uttered these words in her name but perhaps also of her name. And Gabrielle had many names: Gabrielle, Gaye, Mum, Ma, Mother, Gran, and perhaps my favourite of all, in a flurry of alliteration, Great-grandmama Gabrielle. Just last Wednesday, early, the day before Gabrielle died, Zoe was speaking from the UK down the phone towards Gabrielle, wielding her words with all the innocence and sparkling clarity of a five year old. She said, “I love you great grandmama Gabrielle.”
Mum would often say, “love is all that matters”. She loved this poem by St John of the Cross:
From now on I am always at His door.
I gave away my heart and my fortune
I have no flock to shepherd any more,
And there’s no other work in my future,
My only occupation is love
Nothing else.
If people ask for me
Tell them I’m off on an adventure.
I’m lost on purpose
To be found by Love.
Perhaps we might now all just pause in silence for half a minute and quietly remember the names of the people who have loved us. I think Gabrielle would like that.
[30 seconds]
Gabrielle kept loving right until the end. She never stopped looking after us even under duress or pain. This filled me with awe. I hope or perhaps trust that each of us will feel and remember that care always. What a gift indeed Gabrielle Anne Eastwood Ellis, this gift of how you died. We will miss you terribly, but you are indeed still with us … just one breath away.
One more thing. When I left our family home I was 14, and Mum made me promise I would go to church every Sunday. Perhaps this apology comes a little late but I’m sorry about that one Mum.