Weekly Musings 096

Welcome to this edition of Weekly Musings, where each week I share some thoughts about what's caught my interest in the last seven days.

When I first sent out this musing, the new year was just a few days old. As usual, little if anything, seemed different. What a difference a few weeks made. Turmoil. Uncertainty. I wanted to give 2021 some time before making a final judgement, but I'm not hopeful.

Over the 2020 holidays, I (for once) followed my own advice and disconnected for a while. So much so, that I didn't publish a musing last week. One of the ways in which I took a step or two back sparked the idea for essay you're about to read.

With that out of the way, let's get to this week's musing.

On Walking Amongst the Monuments

A couple of hundred metres from where I live is a massive cemetery, one that dates back to the late 1800s and which rolls and sprawls over ... well, I'm not sure how many hectares. Its size and contours make that cemetery a near perfect place to go for long walks — whether for exercise or to clear one's head.

Whenever I stroll through the cemetery, I steal the occasional glance at the tombstones and monuments and plaques that I'm walking by. Not out of morbid fascination, but out of curiosity. Curiosity about how people are remembered by those who they leave behind.

The memorials that dot the cemetery range in size from plaques that are about the dimensions of a large, hardcover book set on its side to elaborate tombstones and family crypts. Some are simple. Some are showy. There's one tombstone, beautifully designed and carved and polished, that's nothing short of a work of art.

Some graves are better cared for than others. In older portions of the cemetery, the monuments are blackened by the passing of the decades and exposure to the elements over those decades. Some are worn, faded, and pitted; others have been cracked and broken by the ravages caused by time's passage. Long grass and weeds creep up to try to obscure the memorial stones.

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