Tim led a "full life". That's a phrase I've seen often in the last few days, in so many letters from Tim's friends.

A full life. And we were all able to share in parts of that full life - we all helped to make it a full life, and it made ours fuller too.

Some of my fondest memories of sharing Tim's life was during our travels in Peru and Bolivia:

- walking at dawn through low-walled villages of stone in green valleys ;

- running out of money in a remote part of Peru and having an hour to sell enough of our possessions to catch the weekly bus back to civilization ;

- buying a six foot set of pan-pipes for Mark and having to transport it across Peru ;

- owing to a misunderstanding, being chased by a waiter through the streets of La Paz late one night ;

- Tim carrying my rucksack when I had altitude sickness.

 

And life will never be the same again without Tim.

But it won't stop. And Tim wouldn't have wanted it to.

Tim's death should make a difference to us and the way we live our lives. Not for us to try and become like Tim - he was unique. But to be inspired, to be challenged. To live a full life of our own. Not necessarily one with great achievements or adventures, but one inspired by gentleness and love. A life that we would be comfortable and ready to leave at any point, with no regrets.

Tim and I shared a love of beautiful words, particularly poetry. When given the opportunity to speak today at this occasion, one poem immediately came to mind. One that Tim and I discussed only a few weeks ago when he and Mark came to visit us in San Francisco - it meant something special to us. It's a poem that is fitting and true for today... but not for tomorrow:

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My Noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that this would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever be the same.