Learning to Sail the Earthly Ship
Walks, Cemeteries, and Putting Down Roots
At 4:30PM I set out on a walk. I don’t have much time before sunset, but I tell myself that I must walk more, even though my heeled boots aren’t the best for walking. Bundled up in a giant orange wool coat and one of my rust-colored crocheted scarves, I make my way through the streets, unsure of my destination. These are not my usual walking routes, the twisting quiet streets where I live. Instead, I am in the center of town, and unsure where some of these streets lead. But from my vantage point as I set off, I see the hilltop cemetery sprawling out in the cold rays of the wintery January sunset. Looking at the tombstones peeking from behind the rows of houses, I suddenly determine the destination for my walk: the hilltop cemetery.
As I walk, I reflect that I have fully embraced being the sort of person who wears a bright orange coat and lingers among tombstones at sunset. At some point this past year I finally began to realize that in spite of the fabricated person I imagine I am in my mind, I truly am just a book reading, tea drinking, crocheting in public places kind of woman who wears a lot of orange and talks to strangers. 2023 was the year that saw me drive up to a police man who was parked at the end of street just to tell him how beautiful the sunset was. Did he think I was a crazy person? Maybe. But when all was said and done, it ended up being a highlight of the year. Apparently, that’s the person I’ve become.
I’m not sure if there are multiple entrances to the cemetery, so it takes me a few twists and turns before I locate the street with the gate. As I walk, a few cars drive by. If I was walking in my usual neighborhood, or in the country near my parent’s house, I would wave at the driver of each passing car. But here in town for some reason the thought doesn’t cross my mind until it is too late. Do I feel less friendly here in town? Or perhaps more cautious? Or simply forgetful of others as I get lost in my thoughts?
After the cars pass, I see the mailman making his rounds on foot. It warms my heart to see him walk brisky up the steps to a house to deliver the mail. Now is my time to redeem myself, I think, hoping that he glances my way so I can wave. He does, and we exchange a greeting. Success! I turn the street corner and see two men working on a parked truck in front of a house. Though they are directly in my way, instead of going around them, I walk past, exchanging a greeting with both of them.
I finally round the last corner and see the open gates of the cemetery. But just beyond them is a prominent sign noting that they close promptly at 5:00PM. That leaves me about twenty minutes, which stresses me out a bit. Images of me hearing the gates clang shut, running towards them in vain, and then my hands grasping the cold metal bars flash through my mind. I glance at the fence and imagine attempting to climb over it, orange wool coat, scarf, and all! However, even as these horrors flash through my mind, I step forward, eagerly and determinedly climbing the steps towards the top of the hill.
The sun casts a warm gaze upon the cold tombstones. They surround me, row upon row. I am deep in history, sorrow, death, and finality, and yet my heart is light. The sunshine and invigorating walk have awakened my mind and fill me with gratitude. Everything around me seems cast in the gentle glow of God’s love.
The mountains in the distance surround me, and prompt me to ponder once again this place where I’ve chosen to live. This place I’ve moved to, away from my childhood home. I haven’t put down roots where I was planted when I was born, but instead walk here, among these graves, embracing a soil old to the fallen, but new to me.
“Teach me how to put down roots,” I whisper.
Am I speaking to God, the mountains, or the deceased? Maybe all three at once.
I reflect that the deceased about me seem most aptly suited to teaching us about roots. They are firmly planted in the earth, a patch of it belonging to them alone. Whether they fully knew the land in their lifetime or not, these people’s mortal remains are now nestled deep in its roots. They have become inextricably intertwined with the soil. Pondering this as I walk, I consider that perhaps I should come here each day and learn how to put down roots from such skilled teachers.
But as I turn to leave, hastening down the hill to the (thankfully) still open gates, my thoughts shift. What is being “rooted” all about? We romanticize rootedness and traditions of the past, wishing that we could all live in little tight knit villages with multiple generations, and lasting community-wide relationships. But what is ultimately the goodness that results from these places of nourishment? The benefit of these places of deep-rooted connection is that its members experience internal flourishing and spiritual growth which prepares them to put down eternal roots in the Heavenly home.
The land and family-based communities that we so often romanticize only succeed when they produce strong souls with simple hope for the warmth that comes from the Everlasting Hearth. These tombstones I walk among teach me not to put my roots firmly in this particular land for its own sake, but to put my roots in the Lord. Though roots are important, I may wander in the wilderness and still have faith in the Lord.
As St. Thérèse famously reminded herself, “The world is thy ship, not thy home.” We must cherish the land, build communities, and put down roots, but somehow, we must thread the needle of doing so in a seafaring way. For one day, even these rooted bodies in the cemetery will be uprooted and called home.
We must remember that our destination does not stop at the place we will rest in the soil beneath our feet. For the desire we have to put down roots and remain with the land goes deeper than that. It is the yearning in our hearts for the Eternal Garden, where we are meant to dwell forever. Each handful of soil we grasp is this life gently beckons us to board the ship and courageously sail onward, towards the Final Shore.
Teach me how to put down roots.
Perhaps visiting the cemetery can teach me how to put down roots after all.
There is a far, far kingdom
There at the end of the sea
Where they know my name
And until that far, far kingdom
Calls me home
Oh, my soul, I will wait1
This was such a lovely reflection! I find myself often torn on what it means to be rooted. On the one hand, I see the beauty, value and necessity for traditions and communal life. There is another sense in which I see how quickly such things can become idolatrous. Where tradition refuses to flex with the demands of what it means to love people in a changing world. Or other instances where people are so immeshed within a way of life that they subsequently become closed off to those who do not easily fit in with uniformity. And how do we reconcile being rooted when God could at any time call us to pick up and go? What if the conditions of our environment change beyond our control, and the fragile ecosystem that we are rooted in suddenly evaporates?
The takeaway for me, which you have reflected powerfully here, is that Christ is the firm foundation which we root ourselves into. We can withstand the fluidity of location, community, tradition, even cultural norms with grace and compassion if we are ultimately rooted in Christ's eternal love.
Thanks for this post. Very insightful! I felt like I followed along for your walk!
Thank you, Rachel, for taking me along on your walk. While my walks tend to be at sunrise, more than sunset, I also seem to hear echoes of conversations with Wendell Berry or William Blake or C. S. Lewis or T. S. Eliot running through my mind.