In Search of Solitude

re-post of scattered thoughts one day

I ran away from home this morning. I had to--to be someplace where there weren't televisions and children and stuff. Backing out of the driveway I switched the radio off, I wasn't ready for noise yet. I didn't know where I could go--not the park, with loud children and tired parents, that's what I was running away from. I found myself at the cemetery.

I parked and started off on the big outer loop of the myriad asphalt drives. I was mostly alone in my walk, the cool breeze doesn't count as company, he mostly left me be. The wind and a couple of acrobatic squirrels and a stuck up butterfly, a person can breathe in company such as that.

Once in a while, I found I had to stop. First, to touch a granite slab. I just wanted to feel the coolness of the rock under my hands. Once, to grab a handful of loose dirt. I wanted to breathe the scent of it in, to feel the grains of it fall through my fingers. I had to stop under the tall pines near the front gate and look up at the blue sky showing through. I closed my eyes and imagined that in 1862 the Union defeated must have walked under these trees on their way to the courthouse as prisoners of war. The trees must have other stories. The oaks, the spruce and the pines; they must have seen many people come and go. I imagine, they’ve mostly seen people come.

I've always liked cemeteries. They are such quiet places. There’s nobody tugging on my sleeve. Nobody crying for attention. I like the solitude. I like to read the stones and guess how people side by side might have lived together side by side. I like to note the iconography. Something about those Victorian hands carved pointing upwards gives me hope. It occurred to me to find a sunny spot and stretch out and take a nap. But, no, that might be hard to explain.

As much as I love cemeteries, I don't want to be buried in one. I never knew that before. I don't mind dying. But I think I've had enough of darkness. Spread my ashes on the wind. Or throw me down in a hollar somewhere and let the buzzards pick my bones clean. But no more darkness, please. I might have to come back and haunt you.

I noticed one large marker that somebody had visited back in the spring. There were hostas and impatiens planted, but the good people must not have had time to get back and tend to the flowers. I pulled the weeds out for them. My good deed for the day.

And when my insides stopped shaking, I got back in the car and drove home. The important part about running away is coming back, I guess. I advocate running away often, you can choose your own haven, of course. I might not want to share mine.

 

Reviews

[...]

. oh ... it's tough for me to find the words to even express how overwhelming your "scattered thoughts" are ... they speak of an acute consciousness ... of time, of space, of place, of context, of humanity, of isolation, of darkness, of life, of revival, of poetry ... your connection with your internal universe is inspiring ... your connection with the external universe is equally inspiring ... your brilliant mind and your brilliant heart glow so beautifully that you could illuminate the air ... i'll never forget this post ... your words will echo in my mind when i need to run away ... and even more importantly ... when i need to return ... thank you for this post, emily ...

[Phibby Venable]

this is a perfect escape, Emily! and i loved the descriptions of nature and the touch and feel
of things. wonderful work. peaceful and beautiful.

[Creepy Swine Guy]

Every time that i think I had found my favorite of your work, I find something new that touches me somewhere new. I could say this is my favorite of your work, but then I'd just find the next bit of brilliantly reflective writing.

"The important part about running away is coming back, ..."

How very wise.

[[untitled]]

I loved this. I liked that the narrator ranaway to a cemetary. That is one place I like to runaway to. I thought this is very good.