Memento mori (Latin: "remember (that you have)
to die")
the
medieval Latin theory and practice of reflection on mortality, especially as a
means of considering the vanity of earthly life and the transient nature of all
earthly goods and pursuits.
Daddy and Auntie Eileen’s first child, Malcolm Alexander Punnett, took
his exit from this world on Saturday morning somewhere around 8 o’clock. (July 04, 1941 – February 20, 2016).
Malcolm was an exceptional being – in his independent thinking and lifestyle,
his razor intellect, his deep and innate humility, the breadth of his talents
and interests, and especially in the gentleness, peace and genuine love that
characterised him.
My earliest
memories of Malcolm are of a handsome, vigorous, carefree jock. He went to school in St Vincent, then in St
Lucia, and after to Cirencester College in England. He played cricket, football and tennis; drank,
hunted, and partied. He loved Elvis and
Willie Nelson and Johnny Cash, knew all the words, and was the worst singer in
a family of bad singers. He never took
himself seriously, was never unkind or ungenerous, and asked little of the
world.
He married
the lovely Geraldine Salmon who came to St Vincent from England with her
parents when her father took a job as district doctor. They had two children: Rocky on February 05,
1966 and Rachel on February 19, 1968. On November 04 1986, Michelle Zenique
was born to Malcolm and Sharon.
As I remember
it, during an extended stay in the UK in the mid 70s, Malcolm pursued an
interest in Eastern religions and philosophies, and subsequently moved into
another way of life. His marriage to
Geraldine ended, although I believe their fondness for each other endured.
Malcolm built a marvelous hut in the
mountains at Copay Marrow, complete with generator and bathtub. Years later he built a less elaborate hut at
Queensbury, and his last domicile was in the ‘skyscraper’ (pictured in the previous post) in the grounds of Rachael’s home, site of Malcolm and Geraldine’s
original homestead.
Our brother
contained multitudes. He was happy alone
in the mountains, and happy interacting with a broad spectrum of people –
young, old, rich, poor, educated or not, his sympathetic manner drew people to
him and he embraced them with keen interest and little judgement. For many
years he alternately caroused and retreated. His philosophies grew more
esoteric and eluded many of us, but his essential beauty and grace kept us
close. He wanted little, lacked any possessiveness
or acquisitiveness, and kept things as simple as possible. I think he managed to do what so few of us
ever do, he lived his life in harmony with his beliefs and inclinations, and he
was beloved on the earth. Malcolm’s
legend will outlive us all.
A world
without Malcolm is a less bright world to contemplate, especially for his
children whom he loved beyond measure.
But our memory of him will be joyful.
Bless up!
In peace and
love.
Lisbie x
 |
| Malcolm, with Rocky, Rachael, Zen |
"When one’s dead, then one’s dead. This squirrel will become earth all in
his time. And later on still there’ll grow trees from him, with new squirrels
skipping about in them. Do you think that’s so very sad?"
Too-ticky, from the Moomin series by Tove Jansson
I read in this excerpt from the School of Life that Chinese culture is
reverent towards the yinshi (recluse), someone who chooses to leave behind the busy political and commercial world and live more simply, usually up the side of a mountain – in a hut. The tradition begins in the 4th century AD, when a high-ranking government official named Tao Yuanming surrendered his position at court and moved to the countryside to farm the land, make wine, and write. In his poem, ‘On Drinking Wine’, he recounts the riches that poverty have brought him:
Plucking chrysanthemums from the eastern hedge
I gaze into the distance at the southern mountain.
The mountain air is refreshing at sunset
As the flocking birds are returning home.
In such things we find true meaning,
But when I try to explain, I can’t find the words.
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep."
Prospero's soliloquy from The Tempest
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