Christmas at the Cemetery
Christmas Day. The sun is perfectly placed in the center of the sky, warming my face and hands, just as I'd expect on a California Christmas. I spent the early morning at Chuck's Donuts, eating my first ever pistachio flavored one, and spending time in the company of my oldest friends. My neighbors Dean and Jerry who are in their 70s and 80s. Bob and Vivian, too. I'm not sure of their age, but in the same ballpark, I'd guess. Too much sugar. Just enough friendship and love. Grateful, lucky, and in the holiday spirit.
Now, a few hours later, I've made my way to The Union Cemetery: a beautiful, historic graveyard with thoughtfully designed headstones, none being replicas of the others. A larger, gray one to my right reads "Mother & Father" and is etched with the image of a fern. Close to it, an arched, narrow headstone no longer carries the name of its owner: the writing whittled away from years of wind and rain, now just as decayed as the body beneath it. Across from this cemetery subsection is "Elizabeth Philpott," who passed in 1874, now represented by a petite black headstone with bold, white lettering. "Born in England," it says. I wonder what took place in the years between her European birth and American burial. At least one boat ride I'd suspect. Dozens of headstones are peppered throughout the grounds here, sporadically placed as if they were dropped from above and left to be in the places they landed.
The land between the headstones is covered in crunchy, brown leaves that are the bed for several desolate rose bushes. One pink rose holds strong on a bush with deep green leaves and speckles of light from the sunshine. I see a string of a spider web that catches the light too, but if I move my eyes just slightly, the angle from the sun is switched and the web is no longer seen. This living rose and spider's home atop the remains of a person that's long since passed. Hmm.
Woodside Road at my left is a steady rhythm of cars driving both East and West - perhaps on their way to Christmas dinner celebrations, or heading out for a 24 hour donut. Sitting here on this black graveyard bench, the cars seem to be moving quite fast. These people need to get somewhere today, and yet they are all destined to end up here, or somewhere like it. Me too!
I contemplate this duality. I've been appreciating the idea of "stillness," constantly seeming to be in motion, mentally and physically, like the cars racing to and from their Christmas festivities. I move myself. The world, too, moves around me. Only in short moments do I feel a break from the constant motion. With a breath in.. two.. three.. four, and a focused awareness on my body, I feel the sought after calm and quiet. Moments later, I'm buzzing about again and the buzzing beside me continues strong.
Here at the graveyard, I'm surrounded by the ultimate stillness I'm destined for. Soon, I'll be wherever Elizabeth Phillpot is, and will leave behind only the questioning and bewilderment of an existence that once was. I wonder, will that union of body and spirit with the Earth below come with the stillness I yearn for? And will everyone else feel it too? Will "being" be the baseline when everyone is at their destination? And then, will I permanently embrace the warmth of the sun, like the fern etched into the gravestone nearby?
With a breath in.. two.. three.. four, I feel the sun and its comforting touch right now. I'm reminded of where I am, and wonder instead if the destination is here, wherever I am, always? If Chuck's Donuts, this cemetery, my home, are not predecessors, but equal to my future residence below ground? If there's a stillness that lives inside me, now, that I can access as certainly as I will the death I'll one day face? If the graveyard isn't a destination at all, but a place for continued practice and yearning?
I walk home to my leftover donut: grateful, lucky, and in the holiday spirit.
