Yesterday we made it up to Alton cemetery for the first time since we got home.--"Made it" because we're still suffering the after-effects of the gastroenteritis we got on the return journey.
Alton cemetery is where Catherine is laid to rest. It is a small, historic village set up in the hills of Staffordshire, surrounded by beautiful countryside and perhaps just 1 mile from the more famous Alton-- the Alton Towers Theme Park and Resort that gets over 2.7 million visitors a year.
That's a busy and oftentimes noisy spot, but "our" Alton isn't. Save for a stream of traffic going to the Towers during the summer, our Alton is a quiet village with 2 or 3 shops, a couple of pubs, and several historic churches, the remains of a castle, and a Catholic youth retreat.
Actually it's rather a coincidence that Catherine, like Pax, is buried so close to a Catholic enclave, although hers is a municipal cemetery.
But there the similarities end. This is a very quiet village. I've walked through it many times and rarely encountered more than a handful of people on any one occasion. And being winter, it’s even quieter now.
The cemetery is a kite shape. It’s a lawn cemetery, surrounded immediately by mature, bird-filled trees, and then by fields and countryside that stretches into the distance. In spring it is a blaze of colour, but at the moment the deciduous trees are bare and the grass has the deep winter tinge.
As I stood in the cemetery yesterday, it was almost silent. The air was chilly--actually very cold, perhaps 2 or 3 degrees--at least that's what it felt like. I haven't begun to adjust back to "normal" weather...
There's a small brick building where presumably the lawnmower and grave-digging tools are kept, and a large barrel that collects rainwater for visitors to put into their flower vases. My children's vases were full--the recent snows and rain had seen to that.
At Pax’s resting place, we were never alone. There were people from the church, then the local people watching us from the apartments or from the top of the high surrounding walks. There was peripheral noise all the time.
Not so at Catherine’s plot. Almost total silence, but for the wind and a few birds. The only visible observer was a large, fat pigeon that was perched on top of the brick building at the other end of the cemetery which is probably at least three-quarters empty even of graves.
At that moment, looking at the peaceful contrast, I kind of wished I could have brought Pax's remains back, but then again, not. (Not possible even if I had wanted to.)
Pax lies in the midst of vibrant human life, Catherine lies in the midst of nature. I wish with all of my heart that neither one were lying anywhere, and I still don't understand how come both of my children predeceased me. But they have. I cannot change that back, as painful as it is.
The best I can do now is honour and preserve their memories, and try to make something meaningful of my life. To search daily for the peace of faith, whether in the quietness--as Catherine’s cemetery--or the bustle of life--as in Pax's.
(PS. Didn't do the "exchange of soil" yet. Waiting for a sunnier and less freezing cold day.
Alton cemetery is where Catherine is laid to rest. It is a small, historic village set up in the hills of Staffordshire, surrounded by beautiful countryside and perhaps just 1 mile from the more famous Alton-- the Alton Towers Theme Park and Resort that gets over 2.7 million visitors a year.
That's a busy and oftentimes noisy spot, but "our" Alton isn't. Save for a stream of traffic going to the Towers during the summer, our Alton is a quiet village with 2 or 3 shops, a couple of pubs, and several historic churches, the remains of a castle, and a Catholic youth retreat.
Actually it's rather a coincidence that Catherine, like Pax, is buried so close to a Catholic enclave, although hers is a municipal cemetery.
But there the similarities end. This is a very quiet village. I've walked through it many times and rarely encountered more than a handful of people on any one occasion. And being winter, it’s even quieter now.
The cemetery is a kite shape. It’s a lawn cemetery, surrounded immediately by mature, bird-filled trees, and then by fields and countryside that stretches into the distance. In spring it is a blaze of colour, but at the moment the deciduous trees are bare and the grass has the deep winter tinge.
As I stood in the cemetery yesterday, it was almost silent. The air was chilly--actually very cold, perhaps 2 or 3 degrees--at least that's what it felt like. I haven't begun to adjust back to "normal" weather...
There's a small brick building where presumably the lawnmower and grave-digging tools are kept, and a large barrel that collects rainwater for visitors to put into their flower vases. My children's vases were full--the recent snows and rain had seen to that.
At Pax’s resting place, we were never alone. There were people from the church, then the local people watching us from the apartments or from the top of the high surrounding walks. There was peripheral noise all the time.
Not so at Catherine’s plot. Almost total silence, but for the wind and a few birds. The only visible observer was a large, fat pigeon that was perched on top of the brick building at the other end of the cemetery which is probably at least three-quarters empty even of graves.
At that moment, looking at the peaceful contrast, I kind of wished I could have brought Pax's remains back, but then again, not. (Not possible even if I had wanted to.)
Pax lies in the midst of vibrant human life, Catherine lies in the midst of nature. I wish with all of my heart that neither one were lying anywhere, and I still don't understand how come both of my children predeceased me. But they have. I cannot change that back, as painful as it is.
The best I can do now is honour and preserve their memories, and try to make something meaningful of my life. To search daily for the peace of faith, whether in the quietness--as Catherine’s cemetery--or the bustle of life--as in Pax's.
(PS. Didn't do the "exchange of soil" yet. Waiting for a sunnier and less freezing cold day.
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