It’s been three years since I started practicing as a funeral celebrant.

I actually can’t quite believe it.

If someone had said to me ten years ago that I would be regularly standing up in front of a room full of people and guiding them through a major rite of passage I would have laughed at them.

I realised that aside from the odd mention of a special funeral I’ve worked on, I don’t really write much about my work here. When I examine this it’s because I still feel like a total learner. It’s all seems new to me and there’s a little doubting part of myself that thinks that I don’t have anything useful to say… yet. But I know that this is silly because whenever I tell anyone what I do they always have a tonne of questions for me that I could spend hours and hours talking about with them.

And whilst I still feel like a total newbie in this sector, for most folks funerals, death and dying are relatively unexplored terrains – landscapes that are sometimes feared and certainly ones that people have a lot of questions about.

So, if you’ve ever wondered what on earth a funeral celebrant gets up to please hang around.

I’m gonna be answering the two most common questions I get: 1) What do you actually do? 2) Isn’t it really hard being round all that grief all the time? Plus a weird curveball one that I was recently surprised by: ‘How come you don’t do weddings?’

1. So, what is it that you actually do?

People only really know the bit where I’m at the front of the room leading the ceremony, but there is so much more to it than that. Oh my gosh, so much more.

I visit the family wherever they feel most comfortable, listening to their stories about the person who has died – what they were like, what they loved and what made them a total nightmare at times. And a huge chunk of what I do is deep listening; knowing when to drop in a pertinent question or just let there be silence for a little while.

Sometimes folks have lots of ideas for what they want to happen on the day. Sometimes they don’t have a clue. I gently guide them to make decisions about what they want to weave in and help them to craft a running order for all the different facets of the ceremony.

People often want to say something during the ceremony, but don’t know where to start or are nervous about standing up in front of everyone. I spend time chatting to those people; supporting them to get started, reassuring them that I could step in on the day if they need me to.

When there are conflicts or difficult decisions along the way I’m there to listen, guide and gently find a compromise.

If a family feels uncertain about where to hold the ceremony, I’ll make suggestions. I’ve even accompanied people on venue visits when they’ve been feeling unsure or overwhelmed. Sometimes seeing the space together makes everyone feel more confident on the day. This is especially true for ceremonies where there are going to be a lot of guests and/or it’s an unusual venue.

I might create a ritual (or series of rituals) for the ceremony. Maybe everyone writes a message to the person whilst we listen to a tune they loved and then they each drop this message into the grave at the end. Maybe we invite everyone to bring some greenery from their garden and we all stand round the coffin and each softly lay a stem down. Maybe we all collectively howl like wolves (yes, this has happened) or sing a raucous karaoke version of Queen’s Radio Ga Ga whilst waving our lighters in the air before the coffin is carried out (yep, this one too).

And then I eventually write the script or co-write it with the family. Then I’m there on the day leading or facilitating or something in between.

I increasingly think of it as a form of shapeshifting work. Sometimes a family need me to become a strong force and presence, a visible anchor to hold them and keep the ceremony flowing. Other times I make myself soft and small. I billow in and out of the proceedings, nudging things along quietly whilst the family leads. More often than not, it’s a little bit of both; requiring good judgement about which shape to assume at any one moment.

2. Isn’t it really hard being round all that grief ?

Is it hard? Yeah. Sometimes.

I am absolutely affected by supporting folks who are so starkly face to face with their grief. I’d be lying if I said that it didn’t. And some deaths churn me up more than others. The untimely death of a young person, for example, might sting more than crafting the funeral for someone in their eighties who led a full life.

But it is also wildly beautiful and humbling to walk alongside people at this incredibly tender transition in their lives. There is nothing like getting to witness a community come together to create a ceremony that really means something to them. My heart swells with joy every single time.

And ultimately, I’m there to support the family. It’s not my grief, it’s theirs. My own feelings have to be folded neatly away for the time I am with them so that I can be the presence that they need.

Weirdly, given how much of the work is about holding space for others and being with people at a time of potential shock and crisis, funeral celebrants aren’t expected to have any sort of supervision or regular, formal support for their work. Coming from a background in mental health work where supervision is at the heart of most people’s practice, it came as a bit of shock to not be expected to tend to my work in this way.

I couldn’t do this job without a combination of regular therapy, peer support from a small funeral/death worker crew and even the odd bit of body work like acupuncture or massage after a particularly challenging death. In the past, I’ve also called on the mentorship of a very experienced undertaker who works on the more radical fringes of the sector when I need an extra dose of anarchic wisdom.

When/if you need a funeral celebrant, I warmly encourage you to ask them what systems they have in place to support them through this work. I really think this role requires our commitment to good self care if we’re going to consistently show up baggage-free (or at least baggage light) for families each time.

And the curveball…. 3. ‘So, how come you don’t do weddings?’1

Don’t get me wrong, I totally see how important these moments are, but the landscapes of death, dying and endings are where it’s at for me.2 (If you’ve been hanging around here for a while that will probably be fairly obvious to you, but if you’re new here then hi! *waves wildly* I am a big nerd for the bits of life that we’d rather sweep under the carpet.)

Educating about the menstrual cycle for so may years has shown me how, much like we find it tricky as a culture to talk about menstruation, we can also find it deeply uncomfortable to face up to death. Under Modernity3 – with its relentless focus on productivity, efficiency, order and logic – death is avoided and sanitised; funerals are commodified things to get through as quickly as possible (if we have one at all) and we run a mile from (and deeply pathologise) grief.

For me, this work is an act of resistance against a culture that views these facets of life simply as inconveniences.

When we approach death and grief with time and reverence, they might just transform into loving and wise advisors, reminding us of what truly matters. Death invites us to prioritise life’s deepest values and more often than not those are not going to be in service to grinding productivity or the endless demands of a capitalist system. Instead, they’re often the things that make life rich and meaningful: connection, love and community. When we give ourselves the space to honour death and grief, we allow ourselves to step into the fullness of our humanity, appreciating its beauty and fragility in equal measure. I want that for everyone who needs it.

I want death’s place at the table of life to be fully restored.

Equally, as the cost of living rises, so does the cost of death. And whilst I’m talking about financial costs, I’m also talking about the deeper, human cost of an increasingly unequal world. How we live is often how we die too. We need to have better conversations about what death and dying looks like under late stage capitalism.

Anywayyyyy… three years in and I’m realising that my role maybe isn’t just celebrant, but perhaps some kind of queer end-of-life educator or deathy activist; someone who educates, advocates and challenges the norms around death and dying. A troublemaker? (It’s pretty much what my role has been in every discipline that I’ve worked in, so why stop now?! )

 

Who knows? It’s still early days. But it certainly doesn’t leave me much time (or energy) to think about weddings… so, yeah sorry, I won’t be taking leading your nuptials anytime soon.4 5


Phew, that’s it for these current reflections, folks. Thank you, as ever, for being here and taking the time to read this all.

Lottie xx

1

Oh this one really threw me the other day! Since I started my new instagram account just for my celebrant work I’ve been amazed by the number of people who have got in touch to ask me this.

2

Before we go any further, if I’ve already said I’d do your wedding I am totally still up for it. I’d be honoured to. You know who you are! xx

3

Another way of saying this capitalist, colonial, extractive and neoliberal culture.

4

More fool me because weddings actually pay a good fee… but that’s another story.

5

I know some absolutely banging ones though incase you’re looking for someone: Chloe Green and Tanisha Barrett are both huge babes.