Look, the trees are turning their own bodies into pillars of light, are giving off the rich fragrance of cinnamon and fulfillment, the long tapers of cattails are bursting and floating away over the blue shoulders of the ponds, and every pond, no matter what its name is, is nameless now. Every year everything I have ever learned in my lifetime leads back to this: the fires and the black river of loss whose other side is salvation, whose meaning none of us will ever know. To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go. Mary Oliver In Blackwater Woods

I’ve been lost in attempting to write this eulogy for tom to share with you for several days. I seem to have been immobilised by the weight of trying to do Tom and all of you justice todays and being stuck in a refusal to accept his loss. Unfortunately there is no deal to cut or bargain to make to stop the pain we are all feeling. And yet it is so very important for us to come together to share in his final right of passage, to reflect on his life in an authentic and meaningful way, to provide comfort and support to each other. He talked at length about his funeral before he died, he didn’t want a long service, he was worried about you being bored; adding a rider, don’t make it too short though! He wanted something personal but not too personal! No circle dancing at the wake, make sure there’s alcohol. Poetry? I was allowed to choose that, only not that poem, too emotive. The list of directions went on for several weeks, at the end of the day you can’t refuse a dying man’s wishes, so I listened I took notes, finally it got a bit much, I was struggling to accept him dying, I didn’t want to deal with it and losing patience, I said I’m not sure why you’re being so prescriptive, its not like you’ll be there, stop worrying we’ll make sure to give you a good send off. Now it’s come to it, I’m not sure I’m really up to the job, But As Brian Patten said in his poem; And Nothing is Ever as you want it to be, ‘But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be’. In the process of writing I realised how very hard it is to try to encapsulate someone’s essence, especially someone as multifaceted as Tom, he lived a life of many parts, sometimes interconnected sometimes not, his inner world was often hidden from view or only revealed in fragments along the way. He would of likely found my struggle to write this somewhat curious and probably of been secretly pleased, he never seemed to fully accept how much people deeply cared for him, it seemed to come as a surprise, sometimes a welcome one and sometimes not so much, especially if it involved too much commitment. I tried to tell him once how much he mattered to me and he concluded it was very possibly a symptom of mental illness, he reassured me that I would likely come to my senses eventually. He would have been curious about why I’ve been lost for words and may well of said ‘we’ll that’s a first’. Anyway he wouldn’t approve of my long winded narrative, so let’s see where we get too, glad he won’t be able to critique me. I have always been entertained by the family stories about Tom, they always seemed to be the funniest and most poignant. I recall Judy telling me how as an infant he didn’t seem to want to walk preferred shuffling about to getting on his feet, this apparently went on for some months until he arrived at quaker camp, anyone whose been to quaker camp will appreciate that its not always the most hospitable environment, and so there was tom on a gorse ridden field which of course propelled him to his feet and he made finally he made a dash for it. I loved to hear Di’s memory of Lilli and her pushing him up to Rodborough common in his pram, anyone whose done this walk will appreciate the sisterly devotion this would have required, he would often fondly recall how his sisters were like little mothers to him. Perhaps these walks were the genesis of his love of the valleys and commons of stroud and later the moors and dales of Yorkshire, one love affair that continued for all his life. When I think of him I often picture him on one of his walks, like a character from a Hardy or Bronte novel, he was most at peace in nature and most delighted if he saw a Curlew or a nuthatch. I often laughed at Wil’s account of how Tom as a small boy could turn over the Monopoly board in a fit of rage when it looked like Wil might win or some wrestling match with Andy gone wrong with Tom landing the last and low blow, of him breaking the windows of the old Rectory with a stray cricket ball or football. Even as a child he seemed to be his own man. I admired such disregard for the constraints of ‘proper behaviour’. I’ve always wondered about tom’s misdemeanours, all quickly forgiven, they seemed like family glue, bringing everyone together often to laugh.This playing by his own rules whatever the cost endured throughout his life. Tom always seems to have had a natural curiosity, always trying to understand himself, others and the world around him, something I really appreciated about him. He enjoyed new ideas, and relayed his discoveries with such enthusiasm that you were often you were drawn along with him. He was an intellectual builder as happy talking about football as art (excluding Damien Hirst), a tricky bit of pointing as much as politics, and the family gossip as much history or psychology. He was well read and when in the mood generous in finding out what your thoughts were about something that had inspired him. When in a positive mood a conversation with Tom felt nourishing, warm and vibrant. He was open minded often ready to examine new perspectives, to challenge old ones and really listen to what someone had to say. This ability to be intersubjective, to be influenced by those around him was likely the reason he was able to connect meaningfully with so many different people, often Tom evoked strong feelings in people, they felt ‘seen’, he had the ability to make one feel special, cherished and perhaps accounted for his popularity with women. His friendships were important to him and he’d often recount a great night he spent at the pub with Jackie, or a great walk he’d had with Terry and Rowan, an entertaining conversation with Antonia. Even if forgot to reply to texts for several months or not at all. He enjoyed episodes, seasons, moments or moments in time with people, feast or famine, and then without explanation may disappear for long periods of time, only later to meet someone again and pick up where he had left off. He occupied a dual life between Stroud and Yorkshire with a sprinkling of lane end. I think this suited him to belong and yet ultimately only to himself. His gift of connection along with the ability to be in the moment was never as present as when he was with children and I think this likely explains the very close bond he had with his nieces and nephews their friends, as well as the children of his friends. He held them all in high regard, delighted by their news and progress. Unincumbered by parental responsibility I think he was free to be fully present with them. His most enduring and meaningful relationships have likely been with them. He liked to break the rules being known to give out the kids first cigarettes, first taste of alcohol, first pen knives. He held all of you in mind and our nearly daily conversations over the period of his illness were often about you and your cousins, he never forgot Josh or kiera, or Ali’s children either. He was always concerned about your struggles as much as your successes. He was for me co-witness, co pilot and co-conspirator. Tom played an extremely important role in our family life, he has been alongside us for many joys, holidays and celebrations as well as our losses and disasters. I am unsure how life will be now he can no longer share in it, I am lucky enough to have my wonderful children and partner so we will find a way. In starting to write this the sun shone through the window and I admired the beauty of it realising that together every surface in this room he installed or fixed, and as I thought of it I realised that is true of most rooms in the house, he is woven into the fabric of our home and our family. While they’ll be no more calls to fix a radiator or paint a hallway, he is forever with us.

These are the words of James Showers, celebrant at Tom’s funeral. The life of man (woman) is as the grass. He (she) flourishes like a flower of the field. But when the wind goes over it, its place shall know it no more: earth to earth, ashes to ashes - and dust to dust. Let me Go: Into the freedom of wind and sunshine we let you go. Into the dance of the stars and the planets we let you go. Into the wind's breath and the hands of the star maker we let you go. We love you; we miss you, we let you go with our dancing, our mischief, our boldness, our singing, our loving. Thank you for giving us your life!