The words spoke through my thoughts
as I walked on the newly made path. They had mulched it, packed it tight, and
though the walking was easier and the way more clear, I did miss the tickling
and scratching of weeds at my legs as I made a path of my own. Newly painted
brown signs were up to mark the way, saying “Trail.” They probably put such
things up to stop people from doing exactly what I always do—dancing amid the
gravestones, following no lines of convention as I plod along, treating this
massive battlefield graveyard as more of an open field than I daresay the
establishment would like me to. Here’s a thing about favorite places: they
often have some special meaning to us, some story or memory behind them that
always draws us back…and mine does, certainly. My favorite place here is a
probably 100 acres of soft , green grass. The area is fenced in by a brick
wall, which is worn, and upon which green mosses grow. Many trees are in this
field, of all different types and constitutions. Honestly, I think each tree of
the fifty or so that are planted here is unique in its species. Amid these trees and amid this grass are many
small, grey headstones. Thousands. They are in neat rows, unlike the trees.
There is a large statue in the middle of the graveyard, black iron on tan
marble. I don’t know who it is, honestly, but it’s a lovely statue. The oak
where I sit is at the back, far from where people dare to venture. After all, a
graveyard starts to look the same after the first few stones…to some people.
This is my favorite side, not only because it is far away from the general
population, but also because it is continually in shade. The forest just over
that lovely brick wall blocks the sun from burning my tender skin.
Why a graveyard? People are
continually perplexed by my adoration of this place. First I will tell you of
my stumbling upon it, and then I will explain why it is indeed the perfect
place to rest one’s mind. It was freshman year at college, two years ago. I had
just gotten back my first calculus exam of the semester, and I had gotten a
grade that was much less than acceptable to me. I was hurt and frustrated; I
thought I knew the material very well, but it was not to be so. In an effort to
clear my mind, I put on a t-shirt and shorts, pulled on my sneakers, and went
for a run. Some people say it clears their head. Honestly, for me, it’s just
very hard to think about anything except trying to get oxygen to my cells when
I’m trucking along, and thus, I am unable to think- and unable to be hard on
myself. I was running along the darling houses that I love so much, with nice,
small gardens and stone-work around door frames. I ran past many homes and then
saw a path that looked like an entrance to a park. I thought I’d take a walk
down this path and see what it held. The road that I walked down was an
extension of an old battle road, where civil war soldiers marched. Along this
stoned pathway were signs with photos and information. As I looked into
soldiers eyes on this pictures, looked into the faces of people who hurt and
grit their teeth and left what they knew for the sake of something they
believed in, I saw what life is. You grow, and you feel, and you seek to make
some small or large impact that is carried on beyond you. These men had lived
and breathed and walked this same path with cares on their heart. They knew not
of me and of the footsteps I would eventually take. They were just breathing,
living, and hoping to make their impact. They had wives, children, hobbies,
pets. Maybe they went dancing on weekends or collected postage stamps. Maybe
they sang or played an instrument or cooked well. Either way, I saw that the
past can make fools of the present. My calculus grade became nothing. It was
put a particle, an insignificant piece, in the fabric of life that is
continually fraying and getting new threads added. I was a woven string that if
you followed its connectors long enough, you might get just back to this
moment, this place, and see a man walking that same road, scared with gun in
hand.
I followed the road to the end and
then climbed a steep, stone set of stairs. My thighs burned with the effort of
the climb, but the top of the hill revealed what could not be seen from the
road below. The fields. Ah, the green acres that stretched before me, the view
of sky and hills, and so much peace where once there were cannons. These men
hurt and grit their teeth and left what they knew, but these men finally got to
rest at the end of it all and feel no more pain. They may have a picture left,
a face on an information plaque. They may just have that grey stone with
initials. They may not even have that. But they had my heart, and they taught
me that life goes on. It’s a huge circle. And the ashes of their bodies became
the nutrients that fed these unique and unruly, beautiful trees, that now give
me shade as I sit and write on a computer, of all things. And I’ll do the same
for someone else someday. This graveyard is a place where death meets life, but
not in such a way that it hurts. Death is remembered for the sanctity of life,
and as I will one day rest to fertilize the flowers before me, maybe I too will
inspire some young child with words in their heart on some strange, advanced
writing device I could never conceive.
The sun burns down from the clear,
blue sky. The humidity is nearly unbearable here. The prickly things of the
earth press into my legs and I sit beneath the shade of my favorite oak,
looking on rolling green hills framed by brick. I need wide, open spaces, and I
get them here. I’ve been back at school for two days now. My life is always
changing, but I hope to say it’s always moving towards something. The grass and
the earth beneath my toes are soft and supple. I feel an aching sadness
approaching, because while this all feels new in some ways, in too many this
school routine feels the same. I liked the freedom of my summer- a whole new
existence that held all the world’s possibilities. I will make what I can of
this. I will use the landscapes of new knew knowledge to paint my inner
thoughts. I will seek fields and flowers and animals as often as I can, walk
and run and read until I feel fulfilled. I will take these good places in my
heart for always and use them to fill the places where the sun doesn’t shine so
bright.
It would probably be of benefit to
expound on my teachers, my classes, but not now. Now I need Dickens and
sunshine. I need the grass beneath my feet. Thoreau said if he didn’t walk at
least 4 hours a day, it was not a good day. How pleasant it would be to dedicate
so much time to merely feeling my body carry me. For now, I will read amidst
the graves, feel the sun and the grass, and write more when it so presses on my
heart.
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