For as long as I can remember, I have been intrigued, drawn if you will, to a place that I don’t often share. It’s a destination few seek out. It brings sadness to many, including myself. Yet I continue to find it a place that brings solace and peace. This place has been a part of peoples lives since the beginning of time. It’s a place filled with our history.
I found myself as a child meandering down twisted paths reading name after name and imagining the story behind. Imagining the laughter behind. Imagining the circumstance that put the name on that stone. Who was that girl? Why was she here for such a short visit? Who visits her and leaves flowers after all this time? Who misses her? Their stories seemed to rise up and demand to be heard. I found it so poignant, this monument to a person.
I’ve since been to many of these places. Whenever I am visiting somewhere on whatever journey I may be on, I find myself compelled to stop and meander down those twisted paths. The air hangs low, filled with love and anguish and remembrance. The stones could be lined up in neat rows, rising up out of the ground as a testament to life, or crumbling and worn down by the elements of nature and time. No matter their configuration, they have a story. I like to think that listening helps the air rise a bit and fill with peace.
I visit many stones tied to my own heart now. Too many. But I find comfort when there, knowing that someone might by chance, take a meandering walk down their path and stop for a moment to listen.