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An Ode to Sunbathing in the Cemetery (in honour of spooky season)

I came to sunbathe with the corpses. To take communion amid the warmth and rot. To surrender to the sanctity and silence of a sun-soaked séance, suspending myself in the liminal space between here and gone. The dead don’t mind. They were once warm too, with eyes that flickered and drank the sun. I lay my blanket between two headstones—Beloved Mother, and Gone But Not Forgotten—and unbutton my dress like a sacrament. The sun extends its rays and finds me. Finds the soft parts. Finds the grief curled up behind my clavicle like a quivering, soft-bellied prey, and kisses it until it stops twitching.

I offer my body to the Earth. Grass presses against my back like a thousand quiet hands. Bees hum elegies. A crow heckles me from a weepy oak. I raise my sunglasses and wink. I am not here to mourn; I am here to remember. To bronze my skin with the residue of love and loss. To feel something, anything at all---down to the marrow. To remind myself I hold decay in my palm the same way others hold a bouquet of flowers.

Someone—probably in pew or pulpit—would say this is wrong. But I am here, and the sky is here, and my body—this exhausted cathedral—is still breathing. The tombstones don’t flinch. They’ve seen everything. They understand that worship isn’t always on your knees. Sometimes it’s just about remembering your aliveness in the presence of those who are no longer.

In the distance, I spot a freshly dug grave alongside a row of headstones bearing the same family name. I gaze at the forgotten, crumbling markers standing wearily amid others carved from the finest marble. I wonder what their legacies were. Time erases everything. People always forget. I turn my attention towards the solemn monuments still tended to by the shaking hands of grief and love. I think of the bodies slowly dissolving into the Earth beneath the votive offerings and vases of flowers. People never let go. I breathe in the scent of soil, gardenias, and rusted brass—growing slightly resentful that we waste space even in death, and that, for some reason, our loved ones make shrines for us instead of letting us find our way to the next incarnation unburdened.

As for me? All I possess is a beating heart—tender, bloodied, and raw—to leave as a grave offering. Maybe that’s enough, I think. I eat a peach, juices dribbling down my chin. I sweat. I cry just a little. A breeze lifts my hair like fingers that once held me. And for a moment—just a moment—this macabre picnic of skin and sorrow feels like a resurrection.

Life is a beautiful, rotten thing. And I am proof of that. I’m still here. The sun still looks for me. Just ask the departed.

Well, you could… but they probably wouldn’t answer.

For the love of a little hollow

Updated: Apr 16, 2024

Have you ever strayed from the only path you've ever known, only to find more than you could ever hope for? It happened to me once in a dream. I was hopelessly lost in the wilderness. Tired and weary from being held so high on a pedestal, I wandered aimlessly through the forest with nothing but an unheard voice, an unsettled mind, and an unmoored heart. I'd become disillusioned by the modern world: the inauthenticity, the way women are expected to 'have it all', and be it all, how we reach for high expectations while swimming in shallow waters. I was tired of feeling unseen, disoriented amid the undergrowth.

But before I could give up and leave myself at the mercy of the forest, I found myself drawn to an old oak tree. It looked as if the sun hadn't touched it in some time. At its base was an inviting little hollow. I knew then that I had found a sanctuary. It was the safe haven I had unconsciously been searching for, but never thought I would find. I went inside, and magic and wisdom enveloped me. I felt known there; held in a sacred womb-space. It was warm and buzzing. I fed squirrels, and listened as uncaged birds sang peaceful songs in unison. It was something special. I had found my creative muse curled up inside its intimate chamber. I felt loved for all my imperfections. Fuck pedestals, when I was there I was levitating.

I ended up staying there a long time. Longer than I was welcome. I sensed the tree didn't want me around anymore, and when it whispered at me to leave, I just couldn't let the little hollow go. I was being selfish, but deep down, I knew if I walked away, I would never see it again. I was afraid of who I would be without it.

It held a piece of me I feared I would never be able to find; something I could never recreate. And yet, as much as I wanted to stay present and open to the fairytale I'd found, I knew in my heart it was all just a beautiful dream.

Eventually I woke up, ultimately discovering that this is all it will ever be.

It's cringy to admit, but sometimes that silly dream still nags at me. Maybe because I know I'll never have it again. It felt so pure and real. But I still question whether it actually happened to me, or if it was just something illusory.

Somehow, it reverberates all the same.

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