Every evening, no matter what is happening, my friend Sara takes a bath. She soaks in a tub of hot water with luscious bubbles. Then she rubs cream all over her skin, spritzes herself with her favorite scent and wraps herself in a satin robe.
I've known her for almost twenty five years, and she's never missed a night.
A daily self-care ritual like this is something I admire. I've never found my way to do something every day. But after I moved to a new neighborhood in 2023, I went to Dunkin' Donuts weekly to get a cup of coffee and a bagel and drove over to the Monongahela Cemetery to sit in the silence. The recent physical challenges have kept me from doing this for many reasons.
Today I had to run a few errands and decided today was the day to get back in the habit. Now I'm sitting on top of a hill, looking out over the neighborhoods and the river below, sipping my coffee.
It is a perfect spring day. The sun shines through the few clouds hanging out in the perfect blue sky and cool air gently blows through the car. Birds chirp, conversing about important matters, while the flags planted next to gravestones flap in the breeze. Easter baskets with inflatable bunnies and plastic tulips are sprinkled throughout, signs that those buried below were cared about and are remembered.
Hundreds of trees are mid bloom, craggy branches sporting buds in various stages and fully realized leaves in multiple shades of green rustle in the soft wind. I wonder if it hurts when the pods crack open and the tiny leaves burst through.
Every once in a while, the echo of the traffic in the distance creeps up the hill to remind me that I'm not alone. But mostly it is silent. And still.
Some think it's odd that I seek sanctuary in a cemetery. But here is where I escape all of my concerns. The hundred moving parts that accompany the party I'm throwing for my mother's birthday. The lists upon lists of things that need to get done before that day. Apprehension about not having heard from my boss for over a week and what that means for my bank account.
Then there are two of my plays I am producing in a few weeks. A lot of things to be done there, many of which I have no control over because I have consciously turned it over to the director and the actors. (There is info at the end of this essay if you would like tickets to either the live performance or the recording).
Then there's the physical pain. The possibility of another surgery to repair a tear in a rotator cuff if physical therapy doesn't help. The humility that accompanies needing help. The strategizing everything to make things easier and the discomfort that comes from anticipated pain.
I can forget all of it when I'm here, surrounded by those who've released their struggles and suffering. Here there are no arguments about politics. No falling down the rabbit hole about the absurdities of the world today. No road rage. No incompetence born from hating a job. No emotional battlefields.
Everyone gets along here because nobody has a voice.
And there's the rub. Once you've left this plane, you have no voice. Spending time here reminds me of that, and pushes me to use mine even when I am afraid or feel like no one's listening.
Now that the coffee's gone, I'm going to sit in the silence for a little longer.
Until next time,
___________________________
I hope you will consider joining us May 10th for a staged reading of the next two one-act plays from the full-length work Choices at The Ohringer Gallery in Braddock. Tickets are also available for the recorded replay the next day. All proceeds go to the cast and crew. More info and links to purchase tickets HERE.