I love to visit cemeteries. Here in Salzburg the oldest Catholic one is called Petersfriedhof. It's uber elegant and atmospheric, allegedly the von Trapp family hid behind their ornate, black wrought iron gates. Allegedly.
On Christmas Eve, after visiting familiar destinations like Cafe Bazar and Cafe Tomaselli with mio marito I wandered back into the cemetery, alone, mid afternoon.
I find them particularly interesting in Paris, Northern Italy, Germany and Prague, peaceful and solemn; a refuge to contemplate life and its cycles.
The Italians adorn their headstones with pictures of family members, the French express their respect with statues and effects, the Germans and Austrians boast pristine arrangements atop the grave with fir branches, candles and pansies (they represent thought), lovingly tended to with miniature Christmas trees this time of year.
As I walk along the various paths I think of the unbearably incomplete cycles of some along with the happiness and sadness of those lived longer than most. Imagination and curiosity play a small role but the majority of time is spent meditating within the peaceful confines of crowded pieces of land.
I stop and lean against my umbrella and watch two sisters prepare their parents grave.
The one sister noticed me standing several feet away and smiled and expressed some frustration with the tree as she tried to wedge it securely into the ground.
I helped her then retained my space apart, once again leaning against my umbrella. One sister didn't speak English but the other open to conversation, speaking English and Italian, appearing almost grateful to have another distraction.
She had a lot of energy and gently fired a few questions and opinions my way. I was more than content to hear her perspective. She told me her daughter didn't like the purple ornaments on their tree at home so she incorporated them with the candles and then replaced one lovely hand made creation for another at the foot of the grace. She took the old one and looked for another less tended grave, and put it there, happy with its overall effect.
Europeans are often curious about what Americans think about Obama. I had little to say, then she inquired about the tea party, suggesting they were a bit crazy. Then she said, "Ze vimen are pretty but zer ugly, yah?" I laughed at her concise description of Michele Bachmann and Sarah Palin.
I listened as she chatted away, busily picking her ornaments out of the bag. When I told her how much I enjoyed the European style of cemetery she asked about my parents, then asked if they had a grave...my beloved Muv was cremated so I just smiled quietly.
She went back to work. It took several attempts to light the main candle that hung from the headstone, isolated in a small, black ventilated holder, finally, success but she quickly gave up trying to light the various candles attached to the tree, "too windy...". A soft wind, cold but mild, the environs were nice.
She said I should come back at 5:30, inticing me, suggesting the loveliest music would come out of the side of the mountain...she said I could stand there, perhaps next to their grave, insisting it was worth the visit.
She was engaging and chatty and when finished she walked over and shook my hand, said something kind, we stood there comfortably, we smiled and then she left.
I came back as I wasn't to meet mio marito until later for Christmas eve dinner.
The place was packed so I slowly made my way to her parents grave and stood there along with the locals, some tourists. The red candle had remained lit which made me smile. There were clusters of family members flocked about their individal trees and the majority that didn't have family had candles and sites that had been lit and tended to earlier in the day.
I can't tell you how surreal it felt, almost pitch black, each miniature tree lit with about a dozen candles. If the gentle wind blew out the candle it was quickly re-lit with an auto lighter.
Most everyone remained perfectly silent wishing to hear the horns, the softest sound of music as it hushed its way out of the small windows along the mountain. Just one verse, slowly, lingering, a well known Christmas tune, then perhaps a second verse, such a small sound that loomed so large.
There was as much silence as there was horn, sometimes you'd hear people hum along, it was a time to pause and remember, it was so comforting.
Oh Tannenbaum, then a a couple of other recognizable tunes. Just two verses of Silent Night, spaced far apart, distant, meditative...then, after Silent Night, it was over. The large bells took over, clanging boldly, beautifully, filling the entire space.
Everyone emptied out of the cemetery quickly and quietly, at peace.
The following day I visited the churches nearby, to pray for those I've lost, to think of Muv, to medidate, and remain blissfully ignorant of everything else...
