We went for a walk around a cemetery, nestled at the based of some rather cozy looking mountains - you know, as cozy as a mountain can be. I like to look at the tombstones, and though it sound terribly morbid, I do completely understand ones fascination with the dead. See, growing up, my life had always been about the past. Even now, I hardly ever pick up books written in this century, let alone subscribe to it's mass produced ideologies and conventions; so, when the opportunity arises I tend to enjoy a look back.
Most of the people buried in the cemetery had been there since the 19th century, and reading the tombstones was rather stimulating. What struck me most thoroughly was - I don't presume to know the proper term - the 'grave etiquette,' and how the names on the plaques and monuments became increasingly specific through the last two centuries. On the older graves, they would have family names, or the daughter of Samuel, Brother of Mark, wife of Daniel - it struck me as odd, the lack of autonomy. There were also family plots, family monuments, family catacombs; I wasn't entirely prepared to contemplate the complexity of 'grave naming' on the trip, I had always assumed your name and something nice was put on your tombstone, not a complete family history.
I suppose it makes sense, given the history; but, for me, to be known in death only as the daughter of this man, wife of that guy and sister of whoever seems defeating. Maybe I'm being a tad modern about this (I am, I will, quite over zealously, state the fact that this is my view of the world through new-aged rose coloured glasses), but to be known only by what I was born to and not what I had accomplished seems terribly depressing - not to say that the cemetery wasn't hauntingly beautiful in it's own right.
No comments:
Post a Comment