I walk the cemetery daily. I walk out of my house each morning, often bundled against the still brisk morning air, down past the marsh (or is it a swamp?), past the several pairs of geese on their respective nests out in the water, who holler at me, and then as they begin to swim in my direction, at each other. I imagine they are geese gangs, talking smack, each defending their territory. If I’m lucky, I spot one of the two muskrats that live separately under each end of the bridge, swimming along, sleek and smooth and looking quite content, unbothered by the raucous birds.
When I reach the cemetery entrance, I can walk one of three ways, but all lead uphill. To the left is the curving path along the marsh (or swamp) edge, and to the right is the path parallel to the street that leads past the iron-gated monument that has had one of the crypt doors partway open for as long as I remember. It’s creepy, that darkness gaping out from the slit, and I rarely walk that way for no reason other than it pulls me out of my happy thoughts and makes me guard against thinking of things I’ve no wish to ponder during my lovely morning walk.
I usually take the center path; it’s the steepest but lands me promptly into the cemetery’s midst, with lovely old headstones, beautiful large trees and their gracefully curving limbs and branches, and dirt pathways spidering off in any number of directions. Breathing heavily from the hike upward, my mind shuts off any direction once I “arrive” and I simply follow where my feet lead, never the same route, sometimes against the wind, sometimes toward the sun, often because I’m heading toward something just ahead or across the grounds that catches my eye.
There is a feeling that I have when I camp, or when I am on vacation, that everything feels new, more vibrant, more interesting, more engaging, more alive. Now, during this shut down, I really don’t know when I’ll camp again or visit my places up north. But it’s okay, because that feeling is with me now, here at home. It’s been almost ten years that I have lived down the hill from this cemetery. Never have I spent so much time walking the beautiful grounds or even making it the destination of my walk – very often I have walked through the cemetery to the woods beyond, but these last weeks, my daily trek has become more than just a habit, more than just time away from the screen. It beckons me. I look forward to it just as I do my forays into lovely places when I’m traveling.
One day in my cemetery space, I find I am drawn to the many different walls: some made of rocks, infiltrated by new plants pushing their way through, some crumbling or fallen; some walls start out smooth and raised, but eventually disappear into the earth.
Another day I notice the many large old trees scattered throughout the headstones, their intricate layers of bark, huge branches, some strong and raised up to the sky, some twisted and falling, some splintered and smashed on the ground.
One morning, I am having a hard time with whirling heavy thoughts, and I pause to lay my hands on the smooth inner bark of a dying Oak. Immediately I feel such calm. Just stopping to take a breath, and feel the bark stills my mind, gives me something outside of myself to focus on. It’s enough.
