Holding my breath..

When the kids were little, they would hold their breath every time we drove past a cemetery. I’m still not 100% sure what that was all about, but to be honest, I held my breath a few times too …you know, just in case.

And then we started visiting “the South.”

Strolling through historic cemeteries and gazing upon generations buried together in family plots was reorienting, reassuring and deeply moving. One couldn’t help but imagine all the stories.. the beginnings, the endings, the joy, the sadness, the hardship, the triumphs, the names, the wars, the love. These cemeteries are not forgotten, they are tended and treasured and bloom with rainbows of color each spring. The one we visited in Charleston was dotted with peach trees heavy laden with fruit!

If I were a ghost hanging out around my marble marker, I’d love being part of so much life in these vibrant, sacred gardens…

not that I believe in ghosts.

In fact, I don’t ever hold my breath anymore, I breathe it all in – deeply.

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