Took a walk randomly through a grave yard today. I’ve avoided them all my life because of superstitious habits and horror movies I grew up with. To my surprise, felt it to be a very spiritual experience, and strangely, felt right at home or with someone familiar like I was with grandparents or old people I’ve known for a very long time.

I walked up and down, and saw small tombstones half sunk into the ground, and saw giant ones twice my size. I stood there and wondered who these people were that one deserved a small stone and the other a large one. Also looked down beneath the stones, down below to where the bones lie and wondered what was left of them. Both once solid, one gone the other here. But even the tombstones had worn out over decades by the faithful wind and rain. The names that were once crisply etched on slabs of marble now barely readable.

I walked over to an old one more than a hundred years old, with no markings visible, and placed a hand on the smooth hard stone. I wondered who they were and what was their life like. Like me they had walked and talked once, and were important to someone. They had a story and now lie alone as a collection of bones severed forever from a universe of thoughts, memories and meaning.

There is something very grounding and humbling about walking amongst the dead. It made me think of my own grave, what would be written on it, and who will come to visit after a year, after ten, after a hundred. I also thought of how many graves no longer mean anything to anyone living

I was wondering why I felt at home here, peaceful and settled. Maybe because there is more truth here than out there. There is stuff here that I understand: bones, stones, and earth. There are no minds here full of gods and unicorns and capitalism and communism and wars and pride and careers and money and Instagram. Just bones and stones that ultimately fade away into the earth…