So I am about to begin my daily ‘allotted’ exercise in our covid 19 pre-apocalypse world in the nearby nature reserve. It’s spring and the weather is perfect, not too cold or too hot and everything is bursting into bloom. I have been so excited to exert myself now that I have the time and I have finally recovered from IT band syndrome. This frustrating condition caused me great pain to run any longer than 20 minutes for almost 6 months. Finally, I had the freedom to run like the inner wild beast that my soul so desperately wanted to manifest, feeling myself sweat, feeling powerful, strong, capable… someone who can defy their own limitations.
Yet, the wonderful once private paradise of the nature reserve is now filled with families, runners, dogs, cyclist etc, all trying to also get their covid 19 allotted exercise. My secret special place is spoiled! If I am not almost getting run over by children recklessly barrelling down pedestrian-only paths, I am dodging irresponsibly neglected dog turds or dogs themselves nearly tripping me over. No longer can I pretend I am thousands of miles away from any civilization, in my own magical forest world, ha, no… there is a human around every corner to painfully remind me I am still trapped in the middle of suburbia.
My last few attempts to go running have all been like this. The scornful looks tossed my way when I haven’t ‘social distanced’ myself enough on the narrow walking trails when it is nearly impossible to not pass side by side is even more annoying.
So this morning I knew I had to do something different. I needed to go to my most secret and sacred spot. The one place I was sure that I could be outside somewhere green and lovely without the hoards invading. The cemetery. Ahhh, my gothic safe place. I always found solace hanging out with the memories of souls long since past as opposed to the breathing ones. As I reach the cemetery gates, I smile with relief. I was not disappointed. I am the only weirdo who wanted to be there.
Most people find hanging out with dead people morbid. I just find it peaceful. And it is the place that illustrates most profoundly the subject that has obsessed my mind more than any other, the subject that has influenced every single action in my life; the idea of ‘being forgotten.’
When I am in cemeteries, I am surrounded by forgotten stories. I look at the crumbling headstones of people that don’t even have any living relatives left. No one tends their graves. No one remembers their passions, their hopes, their dreams, how they lived, their impact in the world around them… just ordinary people who never made a written record of their lives. Now, forgotten and left to crumble.
On this jog, I even found a memorial stone of a mass grave of over 200 people’s remains, essentially a big pit full of bones. The space was definitely not big enough for all of them to have been individually laid out, I can only assume they were piled on top of each other. The memorial said how they were removed from a local ancient church and then placed here. I did know the church it mentioned, the cemetery space is now taken up by a new building extension.
I know it’s important to make the church relevant and more useful to the living, but I couldn’t help feeling sad for those bones tossed in the ground. For without someone investing a memory of meaning, that was all they were; bones. Just forgotten bones.
I guess this brings me to my own life, and my own obsession to try to live this life as meaningful as possible so I will never end up being ‘forgotten bones.’ Most people do this by having children, but even children grow and generations pass so ultimately you still become forgotten.
I have these old photographs of my distant relatives from the early 1900’s. I don’t even know most of their names but I look at the album from time to time as I will be the last to ever remember them. It’s my nod of gratitude for their role in my own existence and my own continuing story.
My distant relative’s own nearly forgotten story reminds me of why I am so obsessed with history and the humans that made an everlasting impact and are not forgotten. Their stories passed down even thousands of years from their deaths, reaching out to future generations. Their stories either give us a role model of how to live life or how not to live life, but either way, they still impact others far beyond their own lifetimes.
I suppose I want to be part of this cycle. Not in the ego way, as much as it feels good to be important and remembered, but more such that my life made an impact that can go beyond just my own lifetime.
I always feel sad yet incredibly fascinated about forgotten stories of different people throughout time and history. I feel sad about being forgotten about my own potential to be forgotten in time and history, though once I am dead, that sadness will mean nothing. But, perhaps its the sadness of that thought which shapes how I live now.
That is why I am so fascinated by this idea of forgotten stories. Being there, in the cemetery with all the different lives beneath my feet, brings this truth home to me in a powerful way. It’s poetic, beautifully sad, but it drives me on, to keep trying until I do become those bones… hopefully not the forgotten ones and hopefully remembered for the reasons that my life was meant to be fulfilled by.
This virus will bring new death into my life…. while I live and breathe, I want to also make their stories remembered and important. This is the world we live in now. Our stories become more important than ever. Death is not a new thing in my life, I am well trained for tragedy. I am the master of sculpting tragedy into beauty. I will use every sadness for good. This is my goal. I am committed to it because I am writing it now. Instead of just forgetting and making my thoughts forgotten bones while I am actually still alive. That is the true tragedy. I am writing. And soon the images will come.