Bolton Street Memorial Park

Between the cyclone in Burma and the earthquake in China, I was feeling rather melancholy earlier this week.

I was in town and had some spare time between appointments so I took a stroll through the Bolton Street Memorial Park. In a strange way this cheered me up. There is something deeply moving about cemeteries; they are places of peace and respect.

Without being too crude about it they are also places of growth, suffused with natural blood and bone. Plants regenerate around graves with verdant abundance. Splashes of colour punctuate the grey stones and the brown earth. One life may come to an end, but life as a whole goes on.

The dead are interred with reverence. There are rituals that attempt to find order amidst the random chaos that is living. There are places the grieving can visit and follow their own protocols to deal with their loss.

As I paused among the headstones, people smiled and spoke to me. I found sympathy and peace. The neat paths in the cemetery are beckoning, leading to new avenues. I felt as though there was reason and rationale in this place. There can be beauty and dignity even in death. It is not all in vain. I was bizarrely rejuvenated.

E nga mate, haere, haere, haere.