At the old cemetary


As I told you in the last post that I would, (titled too tired for fun), I drove to the old cemetary just outside the village in the south end of the island where I live. Brought coffee and a packed lunch, and notebook and pen.

I have known for a long time I would go to that place and feel it was special. I drove up to it about a year ago, but didn´t dare stop the car, because it was having starting problems at the time. Finally, Friday, the time was right and I parked my car and entered through this side entrance:


You can already feel it, can´t you? I hope so. Old cemetaries are often such moving and beautiful places. I remember one in Wales when I lived there, shame I don´t remember exactly where it was placed, as I´d like to go back one day. (Was it on Anglesey? If you know of a special cemetary, please let me know).

Anyways. Now we are here.

After entering, I immediately discovered the stone circle with the statue of the mother and her son and daughter. (Or woman and two children).



The inscription is a rhyming poem. (Possibly a song lyric).
Let me give you a translation. Not an authorized or perfectly poetic one.
But so you can understand the content of the message:

In memory of Soenderho Sailors who died at sea OR died in harbours unknown

They set their anchors all around the world
were lain to rest in every zone
One sleeps beneath the snow way up north,
another underneath the southern flower carpet
where the wind whispers between palm tree crowns

On every coast by the open sea
a friend´s anchor place is nice to find
As no one knows where he found his grave,
and no one gave him flowers for his coffin
on homely ground this memory is raised for him

From the main gate one would enter the cemetary like this…


Someone really knew what they were doing when they created this monument. Striking. Awe inducing.
On each stone in the circle, are written names of seafarers who never returned home. The year it happened and their work title on board their ship. So many stones, I think I counted 19. So many names.
So many women and children on this island lost their father and beloved husband to the ocean…



I walked around the grounds, reading inscriptions… grass ancle deep, wild flowers in purple, yellow and white scattered around, growing freely, undisturbed by lawnmowers, ground uneven, all natural…as a resting place for dead ancestors should be, maybe… very soothing to the soul, I felt so peaceful walking around there all alone, discovering stones half hidden in the grass, placed underneath trees…
Pure poetry…

I found this far corner…seemed…set apart…soon realized why…




11.November 1923
Initiated was this church yard, based on the revelation of St.John the Divine 21.11 21.4
and (here) was earthed as the first an Unknown Sailor.

I am the resurrection and the life!






There were three benches at the cemetary. Which was a bit odd, I expected there to be four, one facing each direction so one could always sit with one´s back against the wind. But there were three, and I went to the one that attracted me the strongest:


My view from the bench:


I sat down, poured myself a cup of coffee, took a photo of the view… ate some of the lunch.
Then I opened my notebook and found my little girl in the cottage in the woods, where I left her a while ago. Took a deep breath and brought pen to paper. Immediately came “Elvira was dreaming. She was sitting on a bench in an old cemetary, where the gravestones stood ancle deep in green grass, and there were wild flowers scattered everywhere, in yellow, purple and white…”


She is dreaming, and her mother who has just died, comes and sits next to her and tells her she is fine and happy on the other side, and that she will remain by her daughter´s side and they will meet again…

Elvira then wakes up and just remains lying still, looking up into the ceiling of the little cottage, feeling a new firm warmth within… and then she falls into a deep sleep again.
“She didn´t wake up again until many, many hours later. She could hear birds singing. It was morning.”

It is the perfect next scene. Like I told you in the last post, I was afraid I would be unable to move her forward. Well. She has moved. But not a centimetre physically. She has made a big move spiritually. And she is still lying in the very same spot. So the physical action challenge remains the same. What will happen now?

Will there be a knock on the door?
Will she go out into the woods to find food?
Will she go back to her parents´ house and her strange father?
Will she go to her mother´s funeral?

I have no clue. And I don´t want to have a clue either. I want to sit with the pen and paper and follow the flow. I plan to go back to the cemetary soon and continue the story.

Let me share with you some more images from the beautiful cemetary:







(Mormor. Just mormor. Means Mom´s mom in Scandinavian languages. Mother´s mother. Grandma).


(Love never ceases to exist).


Anton. Just his forename. Who is he? And why the choice of just his forename on the stone?
What also caught me and stopped me in my tracks, was the dates. His date of birth is the same as mine. And his date of death is the same as my motherinlaw´s. So to me Anton comes to symbolize the connection between my life and Ellen´s.
And also the connection between life and death. Which is birth. Entrance into a new, unknown realm. Passing from one dimension into an other. Born into earthly life. And then born back into “death”, our life between lives. Maybe. 🙂

I looked at the clock, it was time to rush back to pick up my son from kindergarten, I had 12 minutes and the drive takes about 10… Last two hours had passed like… unbelievable…

I hurried to the car, and looked back at the graveyard one last time. And had to take one last photo:




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