This morning I strolled the green velvet of cemetery lane. Self-guided and alone, I tried to “break on through to the other side.” Climbing this mountain of memories, I explored and enjoyed all that is life. Living! This is a place where incubating ideas are boldly on display. Here is where private thoughts give birth to lives lived and lost. In this place it all becomes clear as crystal.
From this space the Cemetery of Pere-Lachaise in Paris is in full view. It is a place where young and old have gathered for all of eternity. Look closely, listen carefully. Seated near the broken headstone, Honore de Balzac is sipping black, warmed coffee in the wee hours before day breaks. You here him whisper, “Solitude is fine, but you need someone to tell you that solitude is fine.”
Clutching a hand painted silk scarf, Isadora Duncan weeps because she can no longer dance even though her heart hears the music of the wind.
Chatting away to passers by whom do not notice, Marcel Proust cries out: “It is in moments of illness that we are compelled to recognize that we live not alone but chained to a creature of a different kingdom, whole worlds apart, who has no knowledge of us and by whom it is impossible to make ourselves understood: our body.”
Gathered for a picnic beneath the tall willows are Gertrude Stein, Chopin, and Signoret Simone. They stare at the young man with the long, flowing hair. Jim Morrison stands alone. Still dressed in his UCLA cap and gown, no moss grows under Morrison’s feet.