Cemetery Wisdom

While I am not particularly comfortable with the dying, I get along okay with the dead.  I grew up across the street from Covington Memorial Gardens (“Gardens” being a nice euphemism, kind of like “passed away” for died), and spent my childhood climbing on monuments, kissing statues, visiting geese at the pond, and running the mile loop of cracked pavement.  Once, I was sure I saw a guy wearing monk’s robes in the adjacent woods where the cement vaults were stored.

It seems I can’t stay away from burial grounds, as we now live within a mile of two cemeteries.  Within one block, right across from the high school, is St. Mary’s, where the graves are laid out in orderly fashion with mostly gray headstones, some considerably weathered, others shiny, grief newly etched in painstaking lettering.  Flags sprout up in the veterans’ section for Memorial Day and July 4^th.  There is a sense of order and dignity in the luscious green lawn and uniformly shaped markers. 

The second cemetery, Juniper Hill, is about half a mile down our street the other way.  There is a short drive to a wrought iron gate surrounded by a 19^th century stone wall.  The grounds feel, and are, historical.  Stately. But then you see that many of the gravestones are haphazardly strewn about, like boulders in a field.  Large tree roots from junipers and weeping birches compete with markers for space, wood shifting stone. 

When we first moved to Bristol, I was appalled at the condition of the gravestones, many of which were listing sideways, sinking into marshy ground, or crumbling.  Some stone caskets are above ground, and curiosity warred with fear as I investigated inch-wide cracks across the top.  No rotting wood or powdery remains revealed themselves.  I am not sure whether I was more disappointed or relieved.    

This weekend, though, as I walked through the burial ground, alone except for the teenage couple in skinny jeans and punk hair (his was red, hers was green), I appreciated the symmetry of the place.  Instead of graves laid out in solemn rows on flat land as if a farmer or accountant had arranged them, the place felt organic, and—irony aside--alive.  The dogwoods glowed with bright white flowers even on this cloudy April afternoon.  Bouquets of daffodils, tulips, and hyacinth cheered up some gravestones, and shoots of lilies and hostas promised new life for others. 

I came here to visit the magnolias and mourn the weeping birch who lost its best feature in the February blizzard—a long, well-muscled arm of a branch reaching horizontally across the ground.  The branch had been sliced into stacks of fireplace logs next to the caretaker’s home.  I once heard him say this was his favorite tree. 

I wandered among the graves, pausing at some of the inscriptions.  My favorite was for Susanne Robbins DeWolf, 1930-1983.  A sturdy stone bench had been erected in her honor, with the following words:

AN INQUIRING HEART

COURAGE TO WILL AND

SPIRIT TO LOVE

This seemed like the perfect place to pause.  The birds got louder as I got quieter, and the beauty of the place sank in as I contemplated the many souls around me.  The small graves with initials only, the impressive bench on which I sat, the large monuments dedicated to the important people of Bristol, including various Colts (related to Samuel Colt, who invented the Colt .45), DeWolfs (a seafaring family, some of whose wealth came from the triangle trade) and Bradfords (a Rhode Island governor  is in that lineage).  The beauty of this place, though, is not in the shape of the monuments or names and dates faded into stone, but in the allowing of nature and the dead to co-exist with a minimum of interference. 

Does this make Juniper Hill spooky?  Lonely?  Quiet?  Yes, yes, and yes.  But maybe death is a little spooky, lonely, and quiet, for the person being mourned and for the mourners.  I have become reconciled to what I originally saw as carelessness and disrespect for the dead here, the allowing of stone markers to melt into the earth.  Now I see the process of nature unfolding and cracking the human sense of permanence.  If we have what Susanne brought to the world, “an inquiring heart, courage to will, and spirit to love,” then we do not need even a fine stone bench to memorialize our lives and our passing.  It is enough to have lived. 

Heartbreak Hill

We had just arrived home after a glorious day watching the Boston Marathon when I received two texts from a friend who lives in Virginia.  At 3:17 p.m., she wrote, “CNN is saying stay away from garbage cans…” and then “Text or call when you can!”  At first I was going to reply with something cheeky like, “I rarely paw around in garbage” but then thought somebody may have stolen her phone number, similar to what has happened to other friends’ email accounts.  I went upstairs to send a message via Facebook, when Nels told me what he had just found out:  somebody had bombed the finish line, and they thought there might be more bombs stashed in garbage cans.

The initial shock that always comes with this kind of news—Columbine, Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newtown—was exacerbated by the pure exhilaration that came with having been there just a few hours before.  We stood in the cool spring late morning sun, surrounded by thousands of others bearing witness to the monumental effort it takes to complete 26.2 miles.  We all cheered the wheelchairs, the elites, and then the first waves of runners from the vantage point of Heartbreak Hill, a few miles from the finish.  We also cheered the military personnel walking in long lines in their desert fatigues with large backpacks, symbolizing the context of this race as part of Patriots’ Day, a celebration of “the shot heard ‘round the world” at the battles of Lexington and Concord, the scene of our country’s birth. 

There was a huge security presence: spotters on bicycles, riding along with the runners, looking into the crowd.  Police on motorcycles, moving along the edges of the course, keeping spectators out of the street so runners would have a clear path.  Riding immediately before the elite groups of women and men, there were black vans full of men holding large guns.  At the time, in the sunshine, with the bright colors of runners’ singlets and spectators’ spring jackets, it felt like overkill.  “Who would want to hurt runners?  Runners are harmless,” I said to my friends.

Now I get it.

The Boston Marathon, as my brother Joe put it, is a sacred event.  It is not only revered by runners, but is symbolic of the hard work and sacrifice that led to this country’s founding, commemorated by the race taking place on Patriots’ Day.  The beauty and strength of the individual human body, running, opens into the collective beauty and strength of the running community.  Nels pointed out that the finish line is a place where runners are at their most vulnerable—physically and emotionally spent, tired, hungry, thirsty, sweaty, looking for their loved ones, often with no key, no phone, and dependent on the kindness and organization of the race directors and volunteers.  Bombing the finish line of a marathon is a kick to someone who is down.  Bombing the finish line of the Boston Marathon is a gauntlet thrown down.

How can we, as individuals and collectively, work for a sense of peace and healing at this moment and beyond?  I was heartbroken yesterday, and still am, at the loss of life and the multitude of physical injuries.  I was angry, and still am, that now this race, and every large race, will have to redouble their already incredible efforts to secure the participants and the public. 

At the same time, though, let’s not allow our sadness and anger to overwhelm our awe at what was accomplished yesterday.  Let us applaud the efforts of the winners, Lelisa Desisa of Ethiopia, and Rita Jeptoo of Kenya, and their fine competitors, including our very own Shalane Flanagan, Kara Goucher, and Jason Hartmann, all of whom finished in the top ten. In addition, the 20+ thousand runners who trained for this event, putting in hours of running, deserve accolades.  The race organizers should also be recognized for putting together an enormous event attended by thousands.

Of course we want justice, but not at the expense of healing.  Healing comes from positive action.  Runners, wherever they are on the spectrum of recreational to hard-core, can keep the spirit of the Boston Marathon, and the sacrifices of the victims, through renewed dedication to the sport.  Non-runners can act with fierce determination in their chosen activities, physical or not.  Healing comes from the knowledge that we are constantly working to be our best selves, and understanding that others are doing the same.   Poet William Stafford offers these lines to carry us forward:

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world

Than the breathing respect that you carry

Wherever you go right now?