Colin Harrison

Also shown inYouTube video

0:00:30             Bringing in Colin’s coffin
0:15:30             Start of ceremony: ‘Feel It’ – By Colin Harrison, sung by Emma Hannam
0:19:00             Welcome and Eulogy by Sophie Partridge
0:40:40             A short video of Colin filmed by Fanny
0:41:40             Fanny’s words
0:48:00             ‘Noyana’ – Sung by leaders from the Natural Voice Network and friends of Movement of Being
0:59:00             ‘Dear Dad’ by Bridey
1:09:10             A short video message from Leo
1:11:25             ‘Stepdad’ by Amy
1:18:50             ‘Home To My Heart’ – Written and sung by Emily Robyn
1:26:25             Memories of Colin by Rowena Whitehead
1:32:20             ‘Call In Colin’ – Written & sung by Ben Burrows & Pete Scott and backing vocals by Lorna & Ruth
1:43:20             ‘Colin the Teacher’ by Tariq Edwards
1:49:50             ‘Towards an End and a Beginning’ – Poem by Kate Behrens
1:51:30             Words by Harriet Frazer
1:53:20             Short video of Fanny and Colin dancing
1:56:10             Space for Sharing
2:12:30             On The Day I Die – Words by Rumi. Music written & sung by Helen Chadwick
2:15:40             The Committal
2:20:15             Clearing the room
2:24:15             Carrying Colin’s coffin out
2:25:30             ‘May The Road’ – Circle Dance with Amida
2:39:25             A Blessing and Closing Words

When Colin and I first met 27 years ago, we were mildly wary of each other. Who was this new man in Fan’s life, I wanted to know? And he  – who exactly was this old friend of hers checking him out? To Fanny’s relief, we decided we liked each other, but it was a slow burn, culminating in a sound, heartfelt friendship.

I witnessed what an anchor Colin was to Fanny and her children. I saw, I think we all saw, what a remarkable team they made in their marriage and in their work, their love growing ever deeper, how he was as he used to say, ‘the banks to her river.’

Colin lived his life with warmth and presence. He grew up in Zimbabwe, (then Rhodesia) and later in South Africa with a sense of sunshine, happiness, and possibility.

Moira, his sister, remembers how Colin was born and welcomed with great joy by the family after deep grief at the loss of their sister.

Six-month-old baby Christine died following her yellow fever shot. Two years later Colin was impatient to get here and was born in the hospital waiting room!

The family had moved out to Zimbabwe from Manchester. His dad was working as a telephone engineer. Home was Catholic, meat, potato and two veg, with floors so clean you could have eaten off them. His mum would welcome his friends, count their heads, and make them all egg and chips for tea.

A story Colin’s mum used to tell was that when he was small, he would ask for his afternoon biscuit. “and can I have another for my friend?” After a few days of him asking for the extra biscuit, she followed Colin out into the garden and found him feeding it to a cobra.

Colin visited the South African hut villages on the edge of the open bush The villagers would wholeheartedly welcome the white boy into their midst. Here is a snippet of a poem he later wrote: 

“In these visions of my childhood, in these memories of my youth,
Black folk jive to five-pound radios,
Black folk sway to a three note beat
And through these hordes of living black folk
White folk tiptoe half asleep.”

Colin knew already then that he didn’t want to live half asleep. For the rest of his life his intention was to live awake.

He lived generously and on purpose. When Colin decided to do something, he would fully give himself to the project, whether it was his work, recording his music, time with his family, or carving out space to be with Fanny.

I can see him cooking a delicious supper with a glass of wine and music resounding in the kitchen, dancing joyfully and beaming a welcome. He was unafraid to say no, so that when he said yes to anything it was a full yes.

Colin loved to envision projects, and then realise them with an almost ridiculous confidence coupled with great practicality. He himself admitted that he dived into teaching the circle dances almost before he was ready and yet his love, enthusiasm and natural gift for teaching meant he did so with great success. He brought community building to this country from the States, organising a massive event in London from a bender in a field. 

When he was designing and building the cottage extension at Droridge, an impressive labour or love, he was raring to go each morning at 6am

His forthright confidence, essential for getting things started, softened into something humbler after the ongoing transformative work with Adam Bradpiece.

At the end of a community building seminar in South Africa after Mandela got released, two African Mamas come up to him and told him,

“You are a good man. You have a good heart. But let me tell you, we don’t need any more white men telling us what to do.” As he said later, “I recognised that we needed to be learning from them.”

Colin loved a practical joke. In his youth he was known pour half a bottle of fairy liquid into a fountain or another time he put a shark into a swimming pool. Even in his last weeks, when he was so frail that he could barely walk, he couldn’t resist hiding behind a curtain to surprise Fanny.

Anyone who saw Colin with his children, Tamar, Kenan, Bridey and Leo could see how much he loved and enjoyed them. It became increasingly important to him to nourish his relationships with each one of them. He also grew ever closer with his stepdaughters, Ruth and Amy.

In recent months when he was reflecting on the past, Colin gathered his family and invited them to ask him questions about his life while he recorded himself telling them stories. He knew the value of the legacy he was leaving to the younger generations. Colin had so many good stories and he told them well. I sensed how he appreciated all the different chapters of his life: all the people who had made him who he was; his marriage to Carolyn and their shared love of music and adventure and their children, Tamar and Kenan; his relationship with Anne, and how they travelled, made music, held community gatherings, and dances as well as bringing up their children, Bridey and Leo. Carolyn appreciated Colin’s ability to learn from his mistakes.

Colin so enjoyed seeing more of his sister Moira and his niece, Linda in later years. He was very touched when they returned to Manchester and arranged a headstone for baby Christine.

It was working alongside Fanny in Movement of Being that his qualities really came together, the generous warmth, his practicality, his directness and love of truth, his curiosity and loving presence. He was proud to love and work with the woman he adored. He was fully giving his gift.

The way we live, the qualities we bring forth run through us like a thumbprint, or the rings inside a tree, completely unique and recognisable. Colin lived warmly, generously, and enthusiastically; he lived with love.

As Colin reminds us in the song we heard, everything is passing through. Today, I feel a kind of soft joy and a sense of wonder because I sense a fullness in my heart based on knowing that Colin has not gone anywhere. I feel Colin, not as an entity, but as a felt sense of love, lightness, and beauty suffusing me.  It isn’t as I had imagined feeling someone after they had died.  It is more a kind of obviousness that he hasn’t gone, that all that he was and is, remains. 

Having said that, I have moments when I feel a wild, devastating grief at the loss of his company—his playfulness, his laughter, the warmth of his embrace, the passion we shared. I loved sharing our daily experience of being alive, sharing the work we did, our love for our home – which he was endlessly transforming, improving and expanding – and our shared love of our beautiful, growing family. We bumped up against each other, blamed each other, and – with increasing immediacy – forgave each other as we found compassion for our clumsiness, often ending up finding ourselves and each other quite hilarious!  It felt miraculous to increasingly find that we didn’t need to take anything that happened so personally or so seriously.  Not even the fact that he was, as he called it, on the exit ramp. A couple of weeks before he died we were listening to one of his many playlists – I think it was his ‘Mellow’ playlist on Spotify… then, as it does, Spotify chose a track we hadn’t heard before in which a couple sing a heart rending duet where one of them is dying.  We sat gazing with each other as they sang, tears pouring down our faces and helpless with laughter at the same time.  No need for words.

I know that none of it is fixed. Everything keeps changing and moving through this extraordinary happening of life. Colin danced into my life, sang his way into my life, breathed his way in, argued his way in, and convinced me to marry him despite my reservations… thank God for his determination!  Now, he has, at least in his embodied form, swept out of my life with as much non-negotiability as he swept into it. I am left bewildered and distraught at times and utterly at peace at other times, knowing that this is not some personal tragedy, even though, for parts of me, it feels like that. It is just the movement of life and an extraordinary happening that we are all part of, where we sweep in and out of each other’s lives, as does everything. 

Today, I find myself here with you all, with a huge sense of celebration in my heart because I learned to love in a way that I didn’t think was possible. I learned to walk alongside someone amidst all our inevitable differences and difficulties in a way that felt increasingly graceful, profound, and light-hearted. That is cause for great celebration. 

I accompanied him in his living and dying. I sat with him as he took his last breath, and there was no rupture. In some sense, I have been grieving for a year, and in another sense, I have been drinking in every sweet moment with him. My God, there have been, and there continue to be, a lot of sweet moments. I am somewhat astounded to find that predominantly, I feel at peace with his death. There is no part of me that is arguing. So much gratitude.  For him, for our relationship, and for the immense amount of love and support which we have been surrounded by.  Thank you all SO much for your part in this.

Dear Dad, someone very dear to me died recently. Their death has taken my breath away, and left a huge hole in my heart. And all I want to do is tell you about it. To talk to you about how I am feeling; to ask your advice on how to handle it. Because you have always been my sounding board, a font of wisdom, particularly on matters of the heart. You have always been the person I can go to whenever I need a truly superb hug. You have been able to meet me wherever I am, to really listen and hold me in quiet, compassionate love. But I can’t talk to you now because it is you who has died. Well, I guess I can still talk, but there’s no obvious reply.

I want to say thank you Dad, for everything you have given me.

You have given me family. I have such potent, visceral memories of the best of times from my childhood and teenage years, as you and Fanny worked so hard to bring our families together. Dinners at Droridge that lasted long into the night, followed inevitably by dancing around the table whilst clearing up. Sausages on the fire after a sandy day at the beach. Seeing the pyramids of Giza on the back of a camel. These experiences and so many more helped build the incredible family we have today – the federation as you coined it. Thank you for all the work you put into bringing us all together.

You have given me a love of adventure and travel. We had some fantastic adventures together just you and I: canoeing the river Wye. The peace and silence of the river. The splash of paddles moving in sync. The glimmer of sun on water. We could be quiet together, you and I. Companiable silence, broken by occasional musings, deep debates or an exclamation of joy as we pointed out some new beautiful sight.

Road tripping across South Africa when I was 16. Chasing crabs on the beach. Mini golf – with holes you did not want to put your hands into. Going out for dinner on Valentine’s day and ending up helpless with laughter over a lost fork…

You have given me a beautiful picture of what a grandfather can be. You were such an excellent, playful Grandpa. Aaron may have been too young to remember all these clearly, but I certainly recall playing together on the beach, damming the river in the garden, rolling down hills, playing cars – lining them up just like you did as a child – and using the juicer together to make delicious fresh juice, Aaron’s favourite activity any time he was staying with you during the final year.

You taught me so much Dad. As a child, you helped prepare me for the world. Our trips around the world for your circle dancing and community building endeavours taught me a love of adventure, of other cultures and places. Travelling with you in South Africa, and hearing your stories of life there helped me develop very strong values around equality and equity.

You sat with me to do my homework – I vividly remember sitting at the kitchen table together in Droridge Barn whilst you taught me how to do algebra, you writing out the equations with relish, your love of numbers clear as you excitedly passed on your knowledge. You were so clever Dad, and your love of numbers, which you inherited in turn from your father, now lives on now in your Grandson Aaron.

As a teenager, you taught me many skills for becoming an independent woman. Amongst them, how to put up shelves, floor, plaster and paint a room. Together, we built my room when I moved down to Devon after finishing my GCSEs. It was a summer project for the two of us, which introduced me to manual labour and taught me so much about my own capabilities. You taught me to drive a car, and were with me when I received my own devastating diagnosis – of epilepsy. You taught me how to drink whisky, make a white sauce, and enjoy eating mushrooms. You taught me how to put up a tent, write a song, check the oil in my car, sing from the heart.

More recently, you have taught me so much about how to be a good parent. Through long conversations and a compassionate, listening ear, through your invaluable knowledge and advice, and also by reflecting with me about your own parenting. I learnt from you the importance of having fun and being able to play, of sharing your passions and really talking to your kids. But I have hopefully also learnt from your mistakes, as I know you did, and I have seen the power of humility, love and apology to build stronger relationships.

You have left the lesson of how to handle grief, how to grow into a better person following the pain of loss – up to me. Thankfully though, you helped prepare me in many ways. Your music and meditations have been a soothing balm to me particularly in these past few weeks. There’s a track for every mood, and a lesson in so many. Feel it, this too shall pass…

I am humbled by the grace with which you met your cancer. You chose first to fight it, in your own personal way, but when it was clear that it would still be terminal, you embraced the life you had left whilst also choosing to accept dying as the next great adventure, to lean into it. You spoke clearly about how you were not afraid of whatever comes next. In your final months, I watched you tie up loose ends, say goodbye to old friends, and make amends with many other people who have been part of your journey. I saw you eat your way through your bucket list (thanks to chef Leo), and then slowly and gently let go.

I miss you Dad, and I will keep on missing you. And not just for the big things. I will miss games of Wordle, Articulate, Banagrams, table tennis, table chess. I will miss sharing morning cups of tea with you in a dainty china cup and mid-morning coffee (anything less than scalding hot will not do) when you come to visit. I will miss sharing book recommendations, exciting new music, pictures of bizarre moustaches. I will miss your smile, your laugh, the gleam in your eye, your gentle voice. But I know, as you said to me, that you live on in the heart of everyone who loved you. And looking around this room, I can say with certainty Dad, that you will live on for many years to come.

Life was just the three of us in our little bungalow Fanny, Ruthy/Lua and me. Then in enters Colin, bags of shopping from Lidl in hand—chocolate biscuits, Viennetta ice cream, s’mores. He comes with his bad jokes, and Mum and Ruthy look at him like he’s crazy. I laugh to make him feel better even though I don’t find it funny.

He arrives with rules. We have to wear seatbelts now on long car journeys instead of the whole back turned into a luxurious bed! We have to help with the dishes Heaven forbid!  But he also brings fun, music, and stories—so many stories. He opens my eyes and ears to a wider world, he brings his love and kindness.

He has 4 children that become brothers and sisters. Two worlds meet. Friendships, arguments, family games of articulate gone wrong, dance parties, family holidays.

He commits to teaching me maths—bless him. One hour a day leading up to my GCSE exams. I would drag my heels, throw tantrums, complain, until one day he said, in a very Colin manner:

“Amy, do you think I want to teach you maths? I actually don’t give a shit if you pass your GCSEs. Do you think this is how I choose to spend my time? I will, because I love you. But only if you sign my contract.”

At which point, he leaves and goes upstairs. Half an hour later, down he comes, contract in hand. I sign immediately, and from then on, I go willingly to my lessons.

He also brings me a red button that says PANIC on it—so whenever I startfreaking out about my lessons, I can just press the button. I walked away with a grade C in maths, which, for me, was a massive achievement.

I was about ten when I stormed into the house, a handful of gravel clenched in my fist. I threw it on the floor and shouted at Colin, “I hate you! I want to break something!”

Colin’s response? “Right, come on, come with me.”

He strode outside, grabbed a pile of old plates, a hammer, and some goggles, and told me to smash them up. By the time I was done, I’d completely forgotten my anger. We both stood there, laughing.

As Colin and Fanny got deeper into working with Adam, they would spend ages at the kitchen table, gazing at one another while we were desperately trying to tell them very important information—like who fancied who at school. It was infuriating. Or how they’d be meditating upstairs in the morning and ask us to turn down the loud hip-hop, to which I remember saying:

“Isn’t that what meditation is about? Being okay with what is?”

But slowly, over the years, I began to see the gift of their work. I saw that through the hard times and the good, Fanny and Colin’s love seemed to grow deeper and stronger. They challenged one another, infuriated each other, respected each other, and loved each other. I lost count of the amount of times I heard him say how their love just seemed to get deeper and better as the years passed.

Colin allowed me to participate in some of his retreats. I was blown away by his capacity to conduct the space, to bring the hard truth and yet simultaneously carry the transmission of love, and deep presence. 

I’m so grateful to Colin—for all our different relationships. From stepfather to maths tutor, to spiritual guide, to antagonist (not sure how grateful I am for that one), to friend, and to grandfather for my son.

He was often busy with work, but when he was with his grandchildren, he was really with them—playing for hours, meeting them with full-hearted love. He would help Mani fix his wheelbarrow, show him tools and let him play with them. I think Colin met mani in a way no one else could- they spoke the same language – tools, fixing things, building things and solving technical issues.

His life was so profoundly rich and full. He lived well and loved well.

And I’m so deeply grateful to have journeyed some of it with him.

Colin was a friend with such a love of life and a twinkle in his heart. I’m going to talk about his pivotal role in the early days of the Natural Voice Network in the late 90’s.

I first met him at Kinnersley Castle in Herefordshire 30 years ago at a weekend gathering of singers and singing leaders to celebrate the birthday of Frankie Armstrong, the pioneer of natural voice work.
All weekend we shared songs and a highlight was singing South African songs which Colin had collected with Anne Monger on circle dance teaching trips to South Africa in the late 80’s. I remember Colin’s smile, warmth and ease, and how the energy and joy soared as we danced and sang these songs so rich in harmony and rhythm . Colin’s book ‘Songs of South Africa’ with the music transcribed by Nickomo was an important resource to many singing leaders in the early years of the network .

Lots of us at those early weekends had a sense that we’d found our singing tribe and we carried on meeting every year,( and we have carried on every year since then ) Our numbers grew and at the end of each weekend singing we’d get into small groups and talk about the idea creating a network of singing leaders; we would make notes from our discussions, somebody would collate those notes and send them round the UK for comments and as far as I know, they never made it round the whole mailing list. (This of course was pre-Internet and email – we might have been quicker sending them by pigeon post !)

Colin came to the Kinnersley weekends every year and he was such an important catalyst in developing and initiating and developing the Natural Voice Network. He had a track record as a mover and shaker, having been a guiding light and practical visionary in developing the UK Circle Dance movement and drum, dance and singing camps in the 80’s.
He turned his focus to being a member of the team who got the Natural Voice Network going. He saw what needed to be done and did it with enthusiasm, warmth, energy, good humour and clarity .
Once we decided on setting up the Natural Voice Network, (after about four years of thinking about it), we needed a membership system to launch us: Colin sorted it.
We decided a website was a good idea: Colin designed the first one.
We needed money: Colin initiated a Festival of Song in Hackney in 2000 which raised over £2000 , enough to pay for our first part time administrator.

Colin was very clear that his strength was in setting things up and then moving on; he was a Moving Being…. In the early 2000’s, he left us to it and moved on into the arena of movement and presence with Fanny, which was sad for us in the NVN, but wonderful for the many, many people whose lives have been transformed by Colin and Fanny’s Movement of Being work.

Colin left such a legacy and has an important place in the history of the NVN which currently supports over 700 singing leader members in the UK and beyond and has supported and inspired thousands of people to find their voices and sing in community.

So, dear Colin thank you for your friendship, warmth and welcome. Thank you for your energy and skills that gave wings to the Natural Voice Network and everything you turned your heart towards. We loved singing with you. Thank you for sharing the twinkle in your heart.

Colin: teaching living; living teaching

As a lifelong student, I’ve had many, many teachers. Some good, some bad, some so-so and some amazing. What most of them had in common was a tendency to dispense their wisdom from on high, from behind a mask or from behind a veil of mystery. That’s ok. It doesn’t take much imagination to understand why that’s probably easier for everyone concerned.

But the problem with that kind of teaching is that, after a while, you can become conditioned to thinking that mastery must look like perfection, perched on a pedestal. All neat and tidy. Pristine and aloof. And you start to think that surely this is what you’re practising to become.
Colin wasn’t that kind of teacher. He was a much rarer breed. He had the courage and the humility and the strength required to share his full humanity with his students. His vulnerability. His fallibility. His accountability. His perfect imperfection.

He led from the front. He was down in trenches with the enlisted troops. He was up to his armpits in the backed up toilet bowl!

The message you got was that here is where the work is done, right here in the hot mess of a garbage fire that you call your life… and Colin was right there with you.

That’s the kind of friend that you really need. That’s the kind of teacher I needed when I first met Colin. I’d spent nearly forty years building a wall between me and the world, a wall of resentment and distrust and I’d rarely met anyone in a position of authority who hadn’t disappointed me, who hadn’t handed me a few more bricks to add to my wall.

Colin didn’t knock the wall down. That was never his job but by god, he made a dent in it! Not by force, though he could be fierce when he needed to be! No, he wore it down with his unflagging, persistent, stubborn, borderline sadistic, loving compassion!

And when the first crack appeared, when the first rays of light shone through, I looked out through the crack and there was Colin. Smiling. Saying, ‘Hey, glad you could join us. Welcome!”

I can think of no gift more precious than this.
Colin gave so generously to me and to so many others.
So thank you Colin, for setting such an amazing example.
The world is so much better for having had you in it.

I appreciated Colin so deeply. I think he did know that.

Fanny amazes me.

She astounds me.

Fanny meeting Colin was transformative.

She became alive again in a wonderful new way.

They have both taught me so much over this last year.

Thank you, is all I can say