The Way of Mount Feake Cemetery

Mount Feake Cemetery is a peaceful place to walk and be with myself. Atop a riding mower a groundskeeper smiled, nodding his head slightly as gentlemen from another era tipped the brims of their hats. Constant bird sounds and activity mark vibrant lives of flight at Mt. Feake, providing dimension to the stillness. Monuments don’t move and names remain the same. Loved ones visit graves for solace and remembrance. Unmovable slabs of fine stone reassure solid impermanence.

Twigs formed a finely spun ball in the lush green grass. Looking more closely I saw a weave too loose to have ever become a viable nest. Never quite fully developed, this mass lacked sophisticated crafting woven to cradle its center. Just then, my own foot startled me back with a silent and tiny thud; the tap of a small winged thing fallen yet still perfectly formed. I’d collect an abandoned nest from the grass, but what to do with a dead bird?

I have called myself an artist from time to time, almost on a dare to me. I have decorated wooden boxes with pretty accent papers on the outside, and glued magazine landscape photos inside the box centers. There lay idealized images crafted just right to fit the box of choice. Poised miniature thrift shop vases adorned my miniature altars with fresh flowers. Nests, like collage art, and life too, combine disparate elements layered or pulled apart. Nature adds dimension and we work deeply or not. It is interesting to view appropriated surface images and just notice.

Why do cardinal calls sound the same year after year when these are not the same birds? Do bits of white clouds pull apart as cotton in the June sky yet continue to look alike? What persistent powers do tiny yellow buttercups possess in order to manage to push their way up and around masses of weeds? How is it that the wind sounds the same when it blows through different trees? Why does the faint “tee hoo” sung by a bird in the breeze transport me to the embrace of my mother’s apron in our back yard, long gone?

Identity is a borrowed image. From fragments of life comes the chance to rearrange what stays with us. We can choose to hang in there and flow with the kind of change that will help us to creatively develop and balance ourselves, more completely crafted. Nature’s way is the way.