There is something about mourning someone you love while spending your days repairing an old house.

My mother passed away on 15 August. There were the intense weeks that followed, full of family, arrangements, and the final goodbye. And then, when all of that was over, I found myself drawn back to the quiet of Lescure. There was something about being here again, close to nature, that felt right.

I had thought this would be a time to rest and reflect, and slowly find my way back to ordinary days. Instead, I found myself working on the interior walls of what will one day become our library.

THE WORK OF GRIEF

We were joined by our friend Anouschka, who had also recently lost a parent. We demolished, rebuilt and plastered, and in between we talked about our fathers and mothers, memories, missing them, and everything in between. And as if that weren’t enough building, we also made mountains of blackberry jam and tomato sauce.

There was something quietly comforting about being busy together. Here, our grief seemed to find its place among the work, the talking and the time spent outside.

A PLACE FOR MARY

And while the library walls slowly take shape, there is a candle burning in the chapel.

My mother had always had a special relationship with Mary. During the last few months, whenever we tried to talk about treatment and what she wanted at the end, my mother would tell us that Our Lady would come and take her. There was no drama in the way she said it. She seemed simply to know. So I placed a candle and a bouquet of wildflowers in our chapel, beside the head of a little statue of Mary that a guest had found here in the woods last year. A simple altar.

My mother died on the Feast of the Assumption of Mary. I cannot help wondering whether she had received a little help choosing her departure date.

My mother is no longer here, but there are walls to finish and a house to tend to. For now, that is enough. Soon, the house will fill again with people, conversation and the rhythm of a retreat.

Safe travels, Mum.