The Journey Inward

I love to walk through cemeteries,
Searching for the oldest headstone,
Noting children and centenarians,
Guessing at origins of family names.

I find these spaces beautiful,
Not morbid or scary or depressing.
I am contemplative on these walks,
Curious, Considering, Conscious.

During yesterday's walk in my local cemetery,
A large cross made from rough finished stone caught my attention,
And I stopped to admire it, photograph it,
Then moved on.

Down a road to the left, there was another,
Smoother and shorter,
I took its picture, too,
And a focus took shape for the remainder of my walk.

I took in each cross, 
Its size, material, placement, accessories,
Not noting the name or years of life,
Just the symbol.

I wondered why it was chosen,
Why this and not a headstone,
Were they devout believers,
Were they looking for redemption?

My thoughts turned to my own beliefs,
As I have stopped attending the church of my youth,
Of my parenting young children days,
For so many reasons.

On this hot, humid, sunny afternoon,
The sole living soul in this space,
I felt a presence, quiet and calm,
Nudging me just a bit to further consciousness.

Did I have a revelation?  A vision?
I did not.  But I felt a question forming,
And I felt the desire to explore its answer,
To engage with my Higher Power, and feel her presence.



Photos:  Prospect Hill Cemetery.  8.5.24 by LA