In Memory of Karin Dixon Wilkins

Last week I cycled through the top field at Ashton Court in the evening. They had left the grass long for the flowers to complete their cycle and the field was lank and rich with life.  Orchids were standing alongside moon daisies; flies and moths hovered above, and the air was full of swallows etching the sky; their peeping calls bouncing back from the silent woods.

How do you buy a wedding ring for a singular person?  For Karin’s ring we trawled the usual sterile chain shops but found only two possibilities; an overly expensive vintage ring in an antique shop or having one made, which we ordered. The resulting ring was perfect and defined Karin accurately – quirky, unique and classy in a way was unique; a sine wave; gold with a twist.  

I lost it at Ashton Court festival in that same top field, after having offered to put it in my wallet for safety.  I must have dropped it in the grass amid the conspicuous rejection of plain living, the wine hidden in kids’ juice bottles, sweet illicit whiffs of cannabis, colours, eclectic images, sounds, tastes.  Those bright colours sat well on her. 

But now, the clatter of people had gone and the predominant sound was the gentle hum of nature. Over the years the field has changed; trees that I remember leaning over the path in the past have since dropped large branches that feed fungi and creatures.  The field has the same shapes, same indents and bulges but now there is a small new path that mountain bikers use to thread along the top. The bottom path that led out of the field is gone, buried under nettles and brambles. Karin’s ring is in the field somewhere, sat against the bedrock, maybe for millennia, maybe for eternity.

Two years ago we stayed in the Alps.  We packed loads of water to counteract the heat, a cold pizza folded in half for food, and a map, and set off jogging up a steep path that was toothed with rocks.  Plenty of walkers stepped aside to let us past – some made encouraging comments in French which only Karin understood; she was good at languages.  In fact she was good at all communication and thrived on contact with others.  I sometimes felt guilty at taking her up into wild places away from people and subjecting her to the physical discomfort of steepness and wind, but she would do these things for me.

After two hours of running we hit a plateau followed by a final climb to a cliff face that offered a startling view of Mont Blanc.  We felt we could reach out and touch it; its implacable face blinding in the sun.  People cluttered the spot and Karin was taken by what they were up to.  One family had a full picnic, complete with a jar of jam and a baguette.  Another man was reading Le Monde; neither seemed appropriate up a mountain but she thought this was excellent – people thumbing their nose at what you are ‘supposed to do’.

As the afternoon came to an end we started running back down the path.  It’s harder running downhill, the gradient burns your thighs and the temptation to speed up is controlled by fear of roots that could trip you up. The high plateau and Mont Blanc were left behind, still there but out of sight. 

That run was when the landscape entered Karin’s soul. We had travelled into the land and gained some understanding of how we fit in the world. The consistent cycle of days, rocks, impermanence, the annual cycle of orchids, the sun setting. We are mortal, even mountains are mortal. The only way to understand the different speeds of change is by sinking gradually into the land, the great breathing of bedrock.  Since that holiday Karin changed dramatically; her terminal diagnosis pushed her into thinking about how she fitted in her life and how her life fitted into time. Karin’s approach to her own mortality has given us a new template, one that understands that in a thousand or a million years none of us will be here; what we have right now is what we have. This is a gift from her to you.

Karin was scared of running up mountains; she hated heights and was cautious of going somewhere that was potentially dangerous.  What leads a person to give in to the desires and interests of their partner, despite being terrified? Only I know how much she struggled up there; I could read the body language as the ascent and descent both brought their challenges. Karin was prepared to face her ghosts head on and her reward was a final two years that were rich and meaningful.

I bought her a new ring.  The jeweller that made the first one still had the original design but despite a couple of attempts just couldn’t recreate it.  We bought their best effort; a lovely ring but not the same.  There is no trace of the original, no photos, nothing.  Except it sits somewhere in that field – it has gone but is still present.