When I was visiting my friend earlier this spring, she told me she had just coordinated all the logistics around her and her husband’s gravesite. They had purchased a plot for their final resting place and did I want to drive over to take a look?
Well, it wasn’t the sort of activity we typically imbibe in when we’re together and I was taken aback on several levels. I knew neither of them were ill, so my response wasn’t one of alarm. And I am a person who discusses end of life comfortably – if you’ve read this column recently, you would already know this about me. I realized that, at first, I found it a bit unnerving that she knows the very spot where she will be laid to rest one day and that we were going to take a little meander over to it to take a look. She can, in fact, visit her own gravesite whenever the spirit moves her. It seemed like sort of a big deal for her to be going at it all so casually. Then I paused for a moment and realized that I, too, know exactly where my burial site will be. I’ve known for a really long time, so I’m not sure why I was startled by her announcement.
Many members of my family came to rest at what we now call the Family Plot. It’s where my grandparents were first laid to rest and my parents after them. It expanded to include aunts and cousins – all the people who used to gather for special meals at Nana’s house. It’s on a peaceful hill under a large tree and, although I don’t pay respects there very often anymore, when I do it feels serene.
I always have found graveyards to be incredibly deep feeling places to spend time. They carry a certain splendour for me. At the small town where I used to live, I would ride my bike out to the country cemetery pulling my daughter in the kiddie bike trailer. We would stroll among the flowers and she would be more interested in looking for rocks and bugs. One day I was sitting on a small patch of grass near the entrance, watching her toddle around searching for her next discovery. At one point she wandered over to me and asked what I was doing. I thought about it for a minute and then replied, “Reflecting.” She sniffed the air a bit and said, “But I don’t smell anything.”
Ah, talking about burial sites and death, and then sharing something lighthearted at the same time seems inappropriate somehow. Yet it’s totally appropriate and important from another perspective. We can cry buckets of tears and feel the full loss of someone when they pass on, and we can reflect respectfully at the gravesites that we visit, but we can still feel the wonderful gamut of living. That includes the relief and joy of laughter, thank goodness.
So my friend and I drove down the valley to the little church. It was a small cemetery, set adjacent to the chapel and surrounded by exquisite cherry trees that happened to be in full bloom.
“Oh yes, this will do beautifully,” I told her, and we carried on with our day.