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The Hermit
Oct. 23rd, 2005 08:20 pmI have holed up this weekend. I have spoken very little. Short of being a hundred miles from humans, somewhere in South East Alaska, communing with the fish and trees, this is the best way I know how to refuel here in Urban World. Adam is gone. I cancelled 98% of all socializing. I hogged the bed, eschewed responsibility, and wore jammies all the live long day.
On Saturday I walked to the cemetary. About a mile and half away from my apartment is a collection of cemetaries. St. Mary's is the Catholic one, complete with a fountain and blue mosaic Mary. Of course I had to sit and pray for a while. What better place could there be for a Hail Mary or two? It was interesting to see the names, many Italian and Mexican and some Irish. Next door is the Jewish cemetary, tiny by comparison, with German and Polish names, and Hebrew. The third cemetary is massive. Streets and pools and huge buildings. At this one, good solid European Protestant names fill the plots (I found one with my uncommon last name!), with a healthy sprinkling of Korean and Chinese. Spending a couple of hours wandering around these repositories of death felt like the most alive thing I've done in a really long time. It was quiet and green. The trees tall and healthy and resplendant in fall colors. Fresh flowers on graves new and old attest to the connections that still exist between the living and the dead. Families buried together urged me to think of my story, my life narrative that did not begin with me and, if I'm lucky, won't end with me either.
I can't wait to go back next weekend.
On Saturday I walked to the cemetary. About a mile and half away from my apartment is a collection of cemetaries. St. Mary's is the Catholic one, complete with a fountain and blue mosaic Mary. Of course I had to sit and pray for a while. What better place could there be for a Hail Mary or two? It was interesting to see the names, many Italian and Mexican and some Irish. Next door is the Jewish cemetary, tiny by comparison, with German and Polish names, and Hebrew. The third cemetary is massive. Streets and pools and huge buildings. At this one, good solid European Protestant names fill the plots (I found one with my uncommon last name!), with a healthy sprinkling of Korean and Chinese. Spending a couple of hours wandering around these repositories of death felt like the most alive thing I've done in a really long time. It was quiet and green. The trees tall and healthy and resplendant in fall colors. Fresh flowers on graves new and old attest to the connections that still exist between the living and the dead. Families buried together urged me to think of my story, my life narrative that did not begin with me and, if I'm lucky, won't end with me either.
I can't wait to go back next weekend.