Thursday, October 22, 2009

A Little Bird Told Me

Every day I drove to work over the West Hills into Portland. Each day I drove Barnes Road passing through Finley Cemetery. Acres and acres of graves on both sides of the road. Some days it was a very sad place with new earth turned or perhaps fresh flowers taken from the earth only to adorn another piece of earth in remembrance. Every day across Barnes hardly glancing at the seldom changing scene.

Then one day I was stuck in traffic. There I sat surrounded by the green hills, brass plaques and headstones. Most of the trees are eons old except for this the young tree I discovered that day. There, much to my delight and surprise, hung a little bird house. I realized that someone did not see only markers and lawn but a place that represented life.

I began to look at this quiet cemetery as a place of stories, each life touching that of many, the cycle of continuing life. The little house with its tiny entrance, a little peg outside the front door, somehow gave me a tremendous feeling of peace knowing that someone did not see this as a place of ending but a place of ongoing life.

I still look for that little birdhouse when I drive down Barnes Road. It makes me smile. When all is said and done, there is no end, only stories that continue forever. I know because a little bird told me.

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