Monday Morning Musings:
“None of it was real; nothing was real. Everything was real; inconceivably real, infinitely dear. These and all things started as nothing, latent within a vast energy-broth, but then we named them, and loved them, and, in this way, brought them forth. And now must lose them. I send this out to you, dear friends, before I go, in this instantaneous thought-burst, from a place where time slows and then stops and we may live forever in a single instant. Goodbye goodbye good—”
—George Saunders, Lincoln in the Bardo
“I met you on a midway at a fair last year. . .”
Joni Mitchell, “That Song about the Midway” (1969)
Ancient cycle of souls
between rocks and rivers
Laurel Hill Cemetery, view of the Schuylkill River
walk sweetly
(some say)
follow us in spirit form,
(perhaps)
happy
rising with the moon
blooming with the stars
living in harmony with the cosmos
watching flowers blossom
year after year
the willow weeps for them
amidst angels and urns
obelisks and hands pointing to the sky
and here we are, alive
walking amongst them
hearts and bones
flesh and blood
a family outing
the young women–and us
no longer young—
(except in our dreams)
a groundhog warms itself on a gravestone
then disappears
a moment come and gone
nothing is real
everything is real
there are ghosts all around us
We drink wine
enjoy a picnic dinner
the singer plays her guitar strings
sings about the midway
slowing down
birds take flight in a dramatic sky
(in a moment there, then gone)
wearing wings, they looked so grand
hanging upon the face of night
soon scented with petrichor
we move to shelter
as the rain pounds down
drink some more
discover that caramel corn flavored with Old Bay seasoning
may be the snack we didn’t know we craved,
my daughter and I talk of haircuts, then Shelley and Keats
Grecian urns and time
passing fast and slow—
stopping midway, going down
everything is real
the moments paused in my mind, infinitely dear
we watch a movie, sweet and tender
about a widowed Hasidic man
we feel sorry him,
he only wants to regain custody of his son,
though he seems to sabotage himself at times
we all know someone like him
yet still, we root for him
it doesn’t matter that they are Hasidic
speaking in Yiddish
nor that it is a patriarchal culture
where the main function of women
is to have children and take care of the home
they could be any father and son
the boy finds a video of his mother
he replays it
a moment from the past
but life goes on, the rabbi says
and we learn to go on, too
We discuss the movie over coffee
agree the boy is incredibly cute
(like a Maurice Sendak illustration, I say)
we walk and talk
through old city streets
past graves
our shadows—
real, not real
fly over graves of Revolutionary War soldiers–
everything starting as nothing
then named and loved,
all the fathers and sons,
the mothers and daughters,
lingering in hearts and minds
remembered
till they are forgotten
midway in time
the cycle begins again
ancient souls float between rocks and rivers
pause
they linger in your mind
you may almost see them
feel them
drifting in the breeze
We walked through Laurel Hill Cemetery, founded in 1836, and intended from the beginning to be a recreation site, as well as a burial place. We saw the movie, Menashe. Trailer here.
We walked through the yard of St. Peter’s in Old City Philadelphia. A brief history here.
Beautiful walks and thoughts and poetry. Your musings feel/read like a song this week. ♪♫
Old Bay seasoning on caramel corn. The idea must have originated in Maryland. 😉
They put Old Bay seasoning on everything down here. I’m serious. Everything. It’s produced in the Chesapeake Bay area of Maryland and this region’s claim to fame.
Thanks so much, Robin!
I know Old Bay seasoning comes from the Chesapeake Bay area, but I forgot to look up who makes this caramel corn. It probably is a Maryland company. It was SO good! 🙂
Nothing and everything ephemeral and transient yet etched in the beauty of your musical and musing words Merril – 😊 thank you.
What a lovely comment! Thank you, Susan!
I might never get this phrase out of my head: “intended from the beginning to be a recreation site, as well as a burial place.” Well, I suppose it makes sense since you can’t have life without death and vice versa. Why not have life brimming around a cemetery? I do love your poetic musings.
Thank you so much, Marie! I’m glad you enjoyed it.
There was actually a 19th century rural cemetery movement in the U.S. I believe Mount Auburn in Cambridge, MA. was the first. (It’s beautiful!). Then Laurel Hill was next. Families used to go there, visit their loved ones, perhaps, have a picnic, contemplate nature. . .
As the rain pounds down, drink some more…
Certainly — what better thing is there to do when it rains? Lol. The dark side of me loves the thought of the living mingling with spirits from the past. Even nature with the weeping willows got involved, as well. Loved this!! 👻
Thanks so much, Rose! I’m glad you liked it. 🙂
Have you read Lincoln in the Bardo? The spirits don’t know they’re dead. . .
I haven’t read it, but it sounds cool! I’ll check it out. Thanks Merril. 😊
🙂
Beautifully expressed reflections. I trust the little boy didn’t look like a Wild Thing 🙂
Thank you, Derrick. Hahaha, no.
The past and present mingle, sometimes more visibly than others. I live half a block from a large cemetery, so the spirits are always around I think! As usual, a wonderful evocation of your days. (K)
Thanks so much, Kerfe. Even if there are not literal “ghosts,” there are ghosts of memory.
The cemetery has hills and depth. I like your details of groundhog, moon, stars, cosmos and flowers. Natural wonders, adding cosmos could be a type of flower. . .
Your daughter, her husband, your husband and you make a wonderful set of doubles. I like the sound of this movie.
I liked the repetition of “midway” in different places with variation of meaning and place.
The brick courtyard which looks like zigzag (youngest daughter calls it “chevron” pattern) makes me cheerful at this space between buildings which could become filled with many family members and friends.
I’m traveling back in time until I see my last (or first) like. . .
Enjoyed this.
Some of my memories have been reduced to scenes from an urn – like single frames, sharp enough in detail but with fewer surrounding frames as time passes.
Thank you, Ken. I think we definitely see things differently as we get older. I understand what you mean about the single frames.