Help us to be the always hopeful
Gardeners of the spirit
Who know that without darkness
Nothing comes to birth
As without light
Nothing flowers.
Bear the roots in mind.
--May Sarton
Vines almost trip me. Running wild, out of control, they grow into the pathways and around the bases of many of the headstones. The garden keepers have pulled them off the church walls, but they have let these stray elements be. Lush flowers I can’t name fill the air with the sweetness of soon-to-be-honey, their colors startling against the gray of the stones. Branches reach across the barriers between beds and tumble into each other. Fertile. Rich. Full. Not to be contained. This is no English style garden, with tight little rows and manicured hedges. The churchyard next door, belonging to another denomination, seems sterile by comparison.
This is the churchyard of my new church, the Unitarian church on Archdale Street, and I’ve just moved here. I love this old graveyard, one of the oldest in Charleston, one of the oldest in the country. I walk the paths behind my running daughter as we wait for the service to begin. The sound of church bells stops me, ringing loud in the stillness. They seem almost an insult to the quiet of the place where dead lie. I look up at the headstone right in front of me.
Caroline Howard Gilman.
I can’t breathe. Caroline Howard Gilman. She’s here.
