One Way

I have a confession to make: I love our local cemetery. 

Maybe part of enjoying life is realizing its inevitable conclusion. I'm aware that my body is daily aging and wearing down, and while it's strong and young now, it won't always be. And while I'm not easy thinking about death, I accept it. 

Perhaps my Lutheran heritage helps with that acceptance. Many of our hymns deal with death and the fleeting nature of life. We have hope for something better, life eternal, but we know what precedes it and we don't flinch away from that stark reality. 

Ergo, I like the cemetery. It's peaceful. I don't know anyone buried there; I'm a recent transplant to the area, but I like to think they wouldn't mind my presence among their headstones and dust.  

And the view? Outstanding. I wouldn't mind being buried on that hill ... If it's morbid to poke around an old cemetery, I'll accept the stigma gratefully. 

Because when I'm there, I am acutely aware that I am alive. My lungs expand and contract with oxygen and my heart beats and fills my veins with blood all the time and I forget it happens. It's miraculous, this business of living, and so improbable. There are, at any given time, a dozen things that could cease my life: Germs and sharp, pointy objects, unbalanced people, falling pianos. We're fragile and so very weak; our survival should be impossible.

Twenty-three years I've been alive. I don't know how many more there will be. But I do know this: They will be vibrant and full. Regardless of what I'm doing, they will be memorable. 

Because — why not? We're all going one way. 

We may as well enjoy the ride.