In grief, as in dog walking, one must ask:  ”Is putting the poop in a plastic bag & tossing it really the wisest way to deal with it?”

During the April school break, I took my three children on one of our spontaneous, ill-planned, overnight “adventures.” This time, we headed up the coast. Along the way, we enjoyed some snooping around in antique shops, consumed the requisite fried seafood and ice cream treats…and then we did what every American family does to end the day on a happy vacation note.  We zipped into a weathered, old cemetery for a quick bit of fun.

The fact that a widow and her three children choose (of our own volition) to hang out at cemeteries while on a vacation jaunt may shock some.  But that’s because they don’t know.  They don’t understand.  It’s not depressing. It’s comforting. And it has nothing to do with religion.  It has to do with a sense of connectedness. Not just to the husband I lost and the father they lost….but connectedness to the rest of humanity.

Some people use cemeteries as alternatives to “parks”…public places to walk their dogs or take their morning jog. Personally, I have never understood the appeal of a cemetery for those activities…but maybe that’s because I don’t receive calls from nasty neighbors, complaining about Rover’s poop in their petunia beds. Also…I dislike jogging with a passion. Any activity that results in that look of pain on someone’s face just cannot be good for you.

Most people drive by cemeteries and turn their head to gaze at the strip mall across the street rather than be reminded of our ultimate date with destiny.

Not us.   We are DEALING WITH THE POOP

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Since Drew’s death, I have visited many cemeteries. In different towns. Different states. Even different countries. At first, with my journal in tow. More recently, with my camera.  Photographing beautifully aged stones, covered with lichens and moss. Reading the names of those remembered and perhaps long forgotten.  Doing dazzling mathematical calculations…subtracting and adding dates, years, facts and figures… perhaps coming to the realization that the woman buried there was my age when her husband died, as well.   Over a century ago.  Comfort.  Connection.

My children used to be a bit puzzled by  my elevated obsession…I mean curiosity… with graveyards.  Now, however, they seem to be just as drawn to them for many of the same reasons I am.  The beauty.  The wisdom. The details.  The way nature reclaims even formidable things like chunks of granite and marble.

Another hot angel.

We see things differently then most people.  My children see things differently than most children.  They have had no choice but to DEAL WITH THE POOP.

They know the reality of those stones. Of those cemeteries. And they aren’t afraid.  They have already lived through great tragedy in their little lives. And it has given them gifts that cannot be purchased in any store or left under any Christmas tree. Gifts too big to be contained in any box.   They are so large, in fact, that we usually can’t see them until we travel down the road a good number of miles and are able to view them from a distance.That is the point we are finally beginning to reach.  Six years down the road.

Enormous tragedy brings with it enormous grief.  Thankfully the gifts we ultimately receive also lie in direct proportion.

The fact that I can spend hours strolling through old cemeteries with my children as part of a “vacation” and find beauty and meaning in the details we see there is a blessing.  The fact that we find twisted humor in the dog poop sign is a blessing beyond measure.  The fact that I am amassing an enviable collection of seductive cemetery angel photos is priceless.  And something Drew would be supporting me on, 100%.  Trust me.

We have already DEALT WITH THE POOP.  We will continue to  deal with it and use it as compost as we rebuild our life.

Putting it in a plastic bag and throwing it in with the trash is not really effective in the long run, people.  Your sign does not intimidate us!