"I love that if the ranger sees you picking blackberries in this park, she won't be angry -- she'll join in," Laurel's friend Eliza mused as she led us through the wooded, blossoming quiet last evening in London's East End. "We found enough last week to make a quart of jam." And I just thought this was an overgrown cemetery.
A mass grave for WWII bombing victims on our left awaits patiently for spring tulips and daffodils to adorn its sides. Eliza shares that she'll cook with the wild garlic and herbs found on these 33 peaceful acres. She suspects local volunteers plant many of the perennials and edibles, while others catalog the tombstones, some aimlessly careening from the ground with age.
On this English layover day in transit from San Diego to Jerusalem, I find this heaving, resigned blanket of graves surprisingly uplifting. Death sowing life is always a heartening Easter-themed reminder, of course. But these aren't just pretty flowers -- this is a wildly productive community garden! Its fertility is startling.
I'm also comforted by the respect and care afforded this final resting place for so many for so long; while my faith offers hope for life beyond this fragile place and time, it's nice to know that those who come after, even strangers, may care enough to tease out something about me from a cemetery's timeless anonymity.
