For a few glorious days each autumn, the world sings with color. I make a point of visiting a large cemetery in a nearby town where ancient towering maples rise above the monuments and tombstones, blessing them with a rain of falling leaves. The maples’ massive boughs wear brilliant orange, scarlet, yellow, burgundy and lime that dance in the breeze and take your breath away with their splendor.
I pause now and the to read the names engraved on the granite markers, the dates that span the lifetimes of those they commemorate, some nine decades, some but a few days. Here’s a mother and father, their sons and daughters, some with their spouses and children, some without. And always I seek out the two near the center of them all that make me smile in their juxtaposition. The first one, a large marker, nearly four feet high, is engraved with the single name, “Jolly.” Behind it, the second one, equal in size, says “Moody.” When I found them, a ray of sunlight bathed Jolly’s marker, there beneath the orange trees, while Moody stood in the shade. Together, they make a poignant statement. And it seems fitting somehow that they’ll stand together until the granite crumbles away with their reflection of life-experiences: Both.
I read a poem this week by Alice Walker, “I Will Keep the Broken Things.” She describes mementos that she keeps on a shelf even though the vase is missing a piece and the woven basket’s side has a jagged hole. Then she goes on to say that she will keep the memory of someone’s laughter even though it is missing now. She thanks the broken things, the pilgrim of sorrow. And she ends by saying “I will keep myself.”
It left me with the same feeling as my stop by the markers at the cemetery. We’re all broken things, and we all have our bits of brightness and laughter as well. And we’re all worth holding in reverence. We all deserve to stand on a shelf of honor. Not because we’re perfect. But because we dare to be, to live, to weather the storms, even with our missing pieces and jagged holes, even when life steals our joy and leaves us standing in darkness.
Something larger and more ancient than us rises above us and spreads its roots through the earth on which we lie. And sometimes we get brief glimpses of its resplendence and feel its love, raining down like leaves on a light autumn breeze, whether we’re jolly or moody.
Be at peace. And whisper to the broken things, as Alice Walker did, “Thank you so much.”
Warmly,
Susan