I walked through this graveyard alone. My friends sat together in our rental car parked further down the Spit. Their radio droned faintly in the distance. As I walked I stepped over puddles, through puddles. I extended my arms, let my palms grace the tops of the green rising out of the mud.
One can find an abandoned tugboat, resting on several large rocks, rocks that the owner slid under the hull so that the boat wouldn't sink into the mud. A final adjustment before he turned and walked away from it forever.
Over the years, rust crept up the boat, onto the hull that once splashed through the icy waves, pulled slowly into the dock. The earth came up to meet the hull; the earth grew all around.
How beautiful it is that the earth pins a green bow on what we leave behind. Our earth is ever-accepting, ever-forgiving.
There once was a time when you were useful. You were reliable. Trusted. You did the work and we counted on you. You were at the front of our parade.
But things break. Things stop working. Things disappoint, they fail, they cease to meet our expectations.
We turn them in. We sign the slip. We hand them over to someone else. The disappointment...the disappointment. It is too much to bear.
This is what we plant, the energy we offer to the earth. The earth nods, accepts our gifts and, beaming, brings us bouquets of purple delight.
Perhaps what looks like abandonment may just be an act of letting go, of handing what we can no longer care for to something we can always trust, always count on to support what we're leaving behind. To support us. To support and embrace the web of connections we've built around all of it.
We walk through our graveyards. We must touch the the bows on what we've left behind. We must smell the sweetness, the everlasting beauty in the bouquets the earth places at our feet.