Sixteen ~ Instantiations

Dear E-----,

       Thank you again for the phone call the other night, dear, I was certainly in need of it. You'd think I had gotten myself completely trashed, from the wreck I was the following day... only it was an emotional hang-over, not a physical one.

       I hope someday I can have the faith in me that you do.

       But I'm fine again now, after you called I wrote for awhile, then had a nice long sleep into late Sunday morning, which helped immensely. I woke to faint sunbeams tracing a path from my window to the wooden floor, no more than a soft shimmer, as thin, gauzy fabric hung in the air.

       Naturally, I fumbled for my camera and tried to rub as much of the drowsy blur from my eyes as I could, so I'd be able to focus the shot.

       I stood by the window for awhile, just looking out past the rich emerald leaves which frame one side of the view, the sky a warm blue beyond, a few clouds stretched just over the horizon. The sunlight tangled itself in a branches and leaves as fingers in a lover's hair, a warm breeze gentle as quiet whispers near sleep.

       A soft Sunday morning easing into a peaceful day, and I decided to follow its lead. After a quick shower and a bit of breakfast, I packed a little lunch and my camera, then took off on my bike for the afternoon.

       Which brings me here, in the older of two cemeteries in the midst of town. Odd, I don't doubt, having a Sunday picnic in a cemetery over a century old, but it's beautiful here. The sun slips through the leaves of aged trees, gently dappling delicate shadows on old stone, stone from which the shadows of time already seep, darkening the surface.

       Here, I don't feel lonely.

       I realize how morbid I must sound, you're probably fearing I'll soon turn goth, but I promise, you needn't worry. It's not so much a fascination with death, but, as usual, history, with lives past.

       I feel like if I sit here long enough, quiet enough, I should hear their voices, catch a faint glimpse, as a faded photograph, of their time... There's such a depth to this place, it feels warm, and wraps my ever-searching heart in something soft and safe.

       Most of the stones here are the thin slabs of Halloween clichés... but these are far from pop culture's gray rectangles of pasteboard. These are so richly detailed, the intricacy time and weather bring, each engraved letter carefully rounded, fine grains of varied tones shading every surface and depression. I don't think I've taken a single wide shot of the area, I'm so entranced by the small things here, the way the light falls on the filigrees of slow decay... and the way life shows itself in death. In a number of the gravestones, peeking out from a crumbled joint or reaching from the cracks of a fallen stone, small plants and flowers grow even in death's lifeless markers.

       Detail and contrast, such are what capture my thoughts. I'm not good at all at clear, concise descriptions, I can't give you a perfect mind's-eye view of this place. I can only grasp at the subtle beauties in the smallest of things, and try to catch at their essence, in a shaky photograph, in faltering words...

       But at least I'm always able to find something interesting to look at, something pretty to rest my mind within.

       I wonder what the root of beauty is? It instantiates itself in different things to everyone - some see it in city lights, some in the glint of an old sword, some in gravestones and some in the sleek lines of abstract sculpture. But does it even describe the same emotion in all who speak the word? A businessman can acknowledge a beautiful sunset, but does it tug at his heart in yearning, or does he simply recognize it conforms to general opinions of beauty, and he ought to take a picture of it?

       The gold of late afternoon tinges the air now, and I should be getting back - I've run out of film anyway.