I got out for a long afternoon of rambling yesterday and, though I went to my favorite park, I went to a part that I seldom go to, and now I have to wonder why. It has everything I love in a park, from good trails to woods to water to a low human presence. I wandered down the trail to a path leading to the water and found a butt-friendly rock to sit on while I watched the sun dance on the water, the fish jumping, and the dragonflies flying about. It was good to let the sun warm me, soaking down into my very soul, hot, bright, and cheerful.
Some months ago, I’d heard about an old cemetery in the park, but it kept slipping my mind to go in search of it until yesterday. A relic of the pioneering days in Iowa, it lies up on a hill that was once part of the stagecoach line running through the county. Only seven graves remain there. What struck me, as it generally does in old cemeteries, was the youth of those buried there–children under five and adults in their 30s or early 40s, with one venerable old woman who lived to be 82. But the rest–so young.
Mr. F and I walked through several cemeteries together, and for me, it was always a somber time of reflection, of gratitude for living well beyond the years I’d have likely had 150 years ago, for a resolve to make more of my days. I don’t know that I’ve done that, but I will keep trying. No matter how many days I have, it won’t be enough. Best to make the most of what I do have, here and now, single or with the one I love by my side.
Make it a great day, all. Make all your days great.