Still Here…
As a child I was partial to the somewhat peculiar notion that all things were conscious to some degree or other. I remember quite vividly wondering what it might be like if one were, say, a wall (actually a particular low red-brick wall somewhere lost in the Lincolnshire fens): slow, solid thoughts, a love of the feel of the earth under the foundations, enjoyment of the pressure of the wind and rain; that sort of thing.
Later, I became enamoured by the idea that when a person died and was buried, their consciousness, their very essence, might slowly leech into the earth and be taken up by the soil and the stone. And, most importantly, if at some point someone were to move said soil or stone, then some of the substance of the deceased would move with it, spreading them out across reality; retaining personality and memories, but mingling with all the other body-less entities inhabiting the elements, objects and even the very fabric of space itself; the whole eventually becoming some sort of planetary or even universal consciousness.
Which brings us to the cross in the picture, originally set in place as a mark of remembrance…
Who is it that this cross remembers?
Whoever the resident of that grave was, their name is lost to the casual visitor now, but perhaps something of them lingers on in the stone?
And perhaps that’s enough to make one tarry a while...
It was for me.
––
St. Enodoc’s chapel in St. Minver parish, Cornwall.
Usual caveats etc.
Still Here…
As a child I was partial to the somewhat peculiar notion that all things were conscious to some degree or other. I remember quite vividly wondering what it might be like if one were, say, a wall (actually a particular low red-brick wall somewhere lost in the Lincolnshire fens): slow, solid thoughts, a love of the feel of the earth under the foundations, enjoyment of the pressure of the wind and rain; that sort of thing.
Later, I became enamoured by the idea that when a person died and was buried, their consciousness, their very essence, might slowly leech into the earth and be taken up by the soil and the stone. And, most importantly, if at some point someone were to move said soil or stone, then some of the substance of the deceased would move with it, spreading them out across reality; retaining personality and memories, but mingling with all the other body-less entities inhabiting the elements, objects and even the very fabric of space itself; the whole eventually becoming some sort of planetary or even universal consciousness.
Which brings us to the cross in the picture, originally set in place as a mark of remembrance…
Who is it that this cross remembers?
Whoever the resident of that grave was, their name is lost to the casual visitor now, but perhaps something of them lingers on in the stone?
And perhaps that’s enough to make one tarry a while...
It was for me.
––
St. Enodoc’s chapel in St. Minver parish, Cornwall.
Usual caveats etc.