OldTroubador's blog post - Silent Lucidity, Quiet Tranquility

Disclaimer - These are just some rambling thoughts. Nothing untoward is contemplated. I have withheld no health information from anyone. I just saw something today that triggered a thought, and when I put fingers to keyboard, I just let them ramble.


Did you ever notice just how peaceful a cemetery is? I did today. I was on a little two lane road near Amana, IA and saw a small country cemetery. It was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The grass inside the fence was well tended and a lush green. There was a couple of large trees shading most of the graveyard. A lot of the headstones were a reddish-brown marble; others black, some gray. If there had been room to pull over, and time, I would have stopped and just sat and watched. This place seemed to call to me, inviting me in to share the coolness of the shade, the solitude. It was quiet, tranquil, an oasis in even this green land of peacefulness.
A couple miles up the road was another. In this one, there were two sections - the newer area and an older section filled with old white marble stones. The kind that were just simple markers – straight sides, rounded tops, with just the name, birth date, and date of death inscribed. This cemetery also had the wrought iron fencing, green grass, and overshadowing trees. And it too spoke of peacefulness.
My mother’s side of the family is buried in a cemetery on a hill in northeast Pennsylvania. This one is larger than most of the towns I drove through today in Iowa. But the same gentle tranquility resides there. The plots are laid out on rolling terrain amongst the trees; here it is mainly spruce, maple, oak. The wind sings gently through the needles and leaves. It was here that I used to celebrate Memorial Day as a child, with the bugles playing Taps and the honor guard with flags and rifles to render honors.
If not for the deceased, these places could be small parks. The grass, the trees. Squirrels scurrying around, some on a mission, others just chasing and playing. Rabbits hopping, nibbling on the grass. Songbirds flitting from tree to tree, singing their happy songs. They are places for quiet contemplation. Places we can go to just think, or not to think. Places where we won’t be bothered by the day to day, by the noises of life rushing past. For others, they are places to go and talk with loved ones that have passed before us. Those who feel a need to talk to someone – not that they will get an answer, but to just bare their souls to a loved one whom they confided in previously.
When it was time to bury Rebecca, I made sure that her resting place was one of these kind of places. The funeral home owns the cemetery where she now lays. They offer the internment of children for free. When I talked with the funeral director, he told me where the cemetery was and had no objection to letting me make sure it was the right kind of place for our daughter. It is a very nice resting place for her. The grass, as noted above, is well tended and lushly green. Live oak trees surround this land and are interspersed throughout. There are crepe myrtles lining some of the roads therein and oleanders are planted between the graveyard and US90 – a major thoroughfare. Even with all the traffic, it still seemed quiet when standing there – the stillness broken only by the mockingbirds joyfully trilling their songs and the squirrels chattering at each other. After spending some time there, I went back to the director and told him it would be a fine place for Rebecca to sleep.
It is an idyllic place. A place I have visited often, well, more so before when my job meant I was able to go home every night. I would sit and talk with my daughter about my hopes and fears, I would tell her the family news and how her older sister was doing. I would tell her how sorry I was that life turned out the way it did. Or sometimes, I would just sit quietly with her. I would usually leave a small present. Then, I would stand up, brush the grass off my pants, and get back in my van and drive away. And my soul would be at peace.
This has sort of rambled away from my original intent. But maybe not. The visitors are quiet; so are the residents. The dead listen without judgement – they may not have any answers, but are willing to let one talk things out.
I seem drawn to these places. Or maybe I am just drawn to a quiet place. A place where I can be alone, let my inner self relax. Maybe it is the simple beauty of grass and trees that speaks to me. Maybe it is the voices of those long gone, trying to tell me their stories. Maybe it is all of this, or maybe it is none of these things.
Did you ever notice how peaceful a cemetery is?