More Than Stone

As I walk thru the woods, I pass two places that look as though they were once the foundations for structures of some kind. In one, there still stands the remains of an old chimney. 20 yards further into the woods stand the remains of a small building made of stone. There is no roof or door, but one small window with bars. What could it have been? It doesn’t seem large enough to house any large animals but why the bars? Questions about the history of this place run through my mind. Was it an old homestead? Who lived and worked here? When were these buildings erected? I have always been fascinated by history. Not wars, politics, or lands conquered and won. But by gravestones, structures and other inanimate objects. The lives that were lived and lost amongst them. By the possibilities of what that stone, wood or iron could tell me

Living in the United States, my perspective has been somewhat limited. Old in the US is 200 years past. On a recent trip to Scotland, I saw buildings and gravesites that were 600, 800, 1000 years old. It mystified that I could touch a stone that had been touched by someone 1000 years ago. How many people thru the centuries had placed their hand on the precise spot my hand was resting? How many people stood amongst that stone living their lives?

Life is fragile. The hands that placed those stones are nothing more than dust. Their hearts stopped beating. Within days, their flesh began to decay. Given enough time, even their skeletons turned to dust. Yet, the stone stands. It would be an incredibly cruel cosmic joke if there were nothing after death. To be born, struggle thru life making friends and building family. Loving fiercely. Crying, laughing and sometimes hating. For what? To leave some meaningless relic behind for future generations to stumble upon? How do people live with that belief? Yes, there are people that have had a tremendous impact on history. But what of me? What of most people I know? No one will know my name in 100 years. None will know what made me happy or sad. That I was not a morning person. That my sense of humor had an edge to it. Who will know all of my quirks that make me who I am?

I refuse to believe that we live our lives, loving so deeply, with such a breadth of emotion and awareness only to leave behind a building, a gravestone, or an eating utensil for others to only contemplate in 500 years. There is too much beauty in each life for it to amount to nothing. We are more than rotting flesh and decaying bone. To believe that, is to believe that we are nothing more than a leaf that buds, grows, dies and falls to the ground rotting. Leaving nothing behind other than perhaps the nutrients for another leaf to grow. Yes beautiful in it’s time, but ultimately meaningless. Merely the conduit for another inconsequential cycle. To believe that there is no heaven or hell, nothing after death, is to imply that we have less staying power than the inanimate, heartless stone that we move about.