Cemeteries!

6 July

So today we went to the Eidsvold cemetery and it was fantastic. This isn’t the first cemetery I’ve been to in Australia because I love old cemeteries everywhere (I took my MA graduation pictures in an old cemetery close to my parents’ house). I feel like I need to write a blog that expresses and explains what cemeteries mean to me.

They express the high cost of living. They are the remnants of stories. They are the potential that was never realized. They are the home of life. They are the monuments of our loves. They model how all life fades while still becoming part of the lives that continue on. They are beautiful. They are life.

When I wander around cemeteries I find myself drawn to those graves that lack names. The ones that are marked by broken stone or generic crosses or some other simple way that lacks specificity. Those are the graves where I feel most connected to the lives that are represented because I wonder more about whose life is marked so simply. Did they know that they would be buried there? Did they know there would be nothing to distinguish them from everyone else? Were there people who were sad they died? Did anybody care? Or were they hated in life to the point that no one bothered to acknowledge their non-existence? What circumstances surrounded their life at the time of their death to make it so they are part of the unnamed dead?

I also wonder what prompts some people to mark graves lavishly? Were the families neglectful of the person whose grave is marked? Did they even want the child that lies in the grave? Do they mark the grave with plastic or carved flowers because they know that they will not come back to visit ever? Do they feel guilty that the person in the grave will never be visited? Do they feel like they have to pretend to care about the person in the ground? Are the flowers for themselves or their need to feel like they care or their need to appear as though they care?

And then I wonder why we have to make the graves look tended at all? Is it because we are afraid of the life that might spring up from the death the stones mark? Why not simply embrace life in all its stages? We in the US tend to keep the grass clipped short, we attempt to discourage life from moving in, we try to keep death contained in its small plot. I think that we do this in an attempt to ignore what we will all face some day – not being alive.

And that terrifies some people, so they try to avoid cemeteries and they look at people who enjoy spending time in them oddly and as though they are breaking some rule. But I think that if we embraced the fact that our lives will one day end and our bodies will be in some place like a cemetery, we might see that the time we have to actually make a difference and leave a longer lasting impression on the world than our brief grave is very short and be more motivated to leave that longer echo of ourselves in the lives of others. We might risk more if we were more accepting of our already brief life, and we might live more if we really accepted the cost.

What I love about the Eidsvold cemetery, and most older cemeteries, is the respect that is shown for the last remnants of the lives marked.  The grass is kept down so that people can walk more easily to the graves they want to spend time at, but not to the point of obsessive suburban gardener. The grass on the edges comes in long, and there are snake and other small creature holes by some of the graves. There is an air of life amongst the death, and it invites the living to come in and commune with the past. And it stands as a living history of the town of Eidsvold, telling a story that no book could completely capture.

Unspeakable Moments

I’ve just come back from a trip 6 hours northwest of Brisbane to a tiny town of about 400 called Eidsvold. I love this town and I’ve been there several times. Each time is filled with moments that I love to share, and this one was no different but most of those moments will have to wait until I’ve finished downloading the pictures.

There are numerous other moments in this trip that are unspeakable. A few because I would prefer to forget them, several because others would prefer to forget them, and different ones that should never have been.

But then there is a category of moments that are unspeakable because the language does not exist to express them truly.

I could recount the details for you and include all the descriptive language that I know and have a utterly factual retelling of the moment, but that would still not capture these unspeakable moments. The language that I have and can share with others does not cover or encompass the truth of these moments because the moments are somehow beyond expression. To the point where the best way for me to share them with any who are reading this blog is to say that I cannot share these moments because to do so would require me to have the ability to trade places with you in that moment. And I would risk losing the moment entirely in giving it to you. So, because I am selfish, but mostly because there are moments that are too precious for me to relinquish, the only way I am willing to share them is by saying that if I could have you experience those moments and retain my own experience I would, because my unspeakable moments in this category are my most valuable possession.

Australian Sport

I counted up the time I’ve spent in Australia over the last few years and it comes to roughly 4 1/2 months. Which makes me someone who is very familiar with, but no where near an expert on, Australian culture. But I wouldn’t have to be an expert to get that Australians love sports.

In the four trips that I have made here I have been to 2 Australian Rules Football games (GO LIONS!) and 1 Rugby game. I’ve seen several State of Origin games on TV here (GO MAROONS!) and watched part of a cricket match, part of a soccer game, and a tiny bit of Wimbledon this year. Rugby is generally on TVs here if the interaction is informal, and if it isn’t Rugby it’s some other sport. Most every kid plays on some organized sports team, and everyone knows how to play some sort of football (Rugby or Aussie Rules) and that’s the pick-up game that happens in nearly any venue.

This might be why there are parks on nearly every corner.

I knew before this trip here that a part of Australian identity is found in their sports. What I learned this trip is a little of the history of the sporting venues around Brisbane.

I was told by one of the guys here, whose family comes from the islands of the coast to the north called the Torres Strait Islands, that most of the sports venues were gathering places from before the time the British moved to the land. These were places of great importance for various reasons, either because the location had abundant water or because it held spiritual meaning or it provided the right type of meeting area. One of the locations has gained importance because it marks the site of one of the slaughters of the indigenous people in the area. He explained what each location had meant and what sport is played on the land now.

And along with the sadness I feel with any story of one culture attempting to erase another and write over what was perceived as wrong or bad, I saw that the locations were still set aside as gathering places. The palimpsest in these areas is easier to see through because the purpose remains despite the tragedy and sorrow that has occurred – these are places that bring people together. Because little else in Australian culture brings people together like their sports – even people who go for opposing sides come together in generally friendly rivalry (though occasionally more serious) for the love of the game.

Getting to really understand some of the sports here has been one of my favorite aspects of the trip this time around. And I think that it has been one of the best ways that I’ve been able to get to know people and connect with them, because Australian sports is where we come together.

Time

Time is a very funny construct. It’s ubiquitous to the point of non-acknowledgemet. Everyone knows that there are 24 hours in a day and that they are made up of 60 minutes and that there are 60 seconds in each minute and that 365 of those 24 hour sets makes up 1 year.

Unless you’re off Earth.

But since most people will never leave the planet, that doesn’t really count. But what’s crazy about time is that wherever I am feels like the time should be the same for everyone. Or at least the same day.

But it isn’t. Because time is crazy and, like most commonly accepted standards, is rather shoddily constructed. Time is not the same everywhere. It isn’t even always the same day everywhere.

I never fully appreciated the crappiness of time until this trip to Australia. I’ve never been so easily connected to family and friends at home, so I have never had to really keep time in 2 places. I’ve always simply switched to the time standard where I am and not thought about home time. But this time I’m conscious of the fact that the people I am chatting with as I am finishing off my day are getting ready to start theirs. And I’m talking they’re waking up for work as I’m over-due for sleep.

And that I can manage. What really trips me up is the fact that they are getting up for the day that I have just finished. The time difference from Brisbane to Orange County, CA is 17 hours difference, with Brisbane ahead. It’s a mind trip because I’ve talked to friends who are sending out invitations to events that in terms of days would have happened the day before.

Like my friend invited me to an art opening. The event happened on a Friday night and they sent out a text not long before it started their time. I received it when they sent it, and my time in Brisbane was Saturday afternoon. I couldn’t go, not only because I was in another country, but mostly because I would have had to travel back in time, and I haven’t quite mastered that yet. Maybe after I get flying down I can tackle time travel. Or start a quest for a blue police box.

I wish I could manage time travel because I would be able to participate in so much more around the world. I’d be even happier if I could get my mind to understand this time thing better. But since time is rather wibbly-wobbly, I guess I’ll just have to learn to count correctly and invest in Tylenol for the headaches…