A Hemlock It Is

Allgemein

restingplace

I chose Nadine’s final resting place this morning. They just opened a new section for tree graves at the Waldfriedhof so there were many options. All of the new places are very close to the entry, the hall and one of the main ways.

I opted for the coziest nook available. Easily accessible and unpretentious, just like her character was. She will be buried at the foot of a hemlock (tsuga), an evergreen that grows in Germany and America either. It’s the tree on the left side in the picture. With a caliber of half a meter it can be hugged like her.

Conor Oberst, an American songwriter whose music Nadine and I both loved, just released a new album whrere he mentions a tree burial. I went to see his intimate solo performance a few weeks ago but he didn’t play the song. Maybe that’s been better for me, because it’s second verse gives me a sad but clear prospect of my future:

Her bathrobe hangs on the bedroom door
Though she’s been dead for a year or more
He buried her by the sycamore
So that he could keep her close
It broke his heart and it made him old
Tries to rebuild but it just erodes
Some people say that’s the way it goes
But he don’t feel that way

2 thoughts on “A Hemlock It Is”

  1. Lieber Jens, ein wunderschöner Platz, den Du da so sorgfältig und liebevoll gewählt hast. Sind das nicht sogar Sträucher die im Sommer schön blühen? Rhododendron? Mir gefällt der Gedanke beschützter, entspannter Ruhe dort – verbunden mit der Natur, eins sein mit ihr. Darin aufzugehen. Eingebettet.

  2. Hemlock — what a lovely choice. Its quiet beauty and association with contemplation and endurance make it especially appropriate. I hope we get to visit her there if / when we are ever back in Stuttgart. In the meantime, here is a poem that your photo called to mind.
    — Kieko

    “Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray”
    FREDERICK GODDARD TUCKERMAN
    from Sonnets, First Series, VI

    Dank fens of cedar; hemlock-branches gray
    With trees and trail of mosses, wringing-wet;
    Beds of the black pitchpine in dead leaves set
    Whose wasted red has wasted to white away;
    Remnants of rain and droppings of decay, —
    Why hold ye so my heart, nor dimly let
    Through your deep leaves the light of yesterday,
    The faded glimmer of a sunshine set?
    Is it that in your darkness, shut from strife,
    The bread of tears becomes the bread of life?
    Far from the roar of day, beneath your boughs
    Fresh griefs beat tranquilly, and loves and vows
    Grow green in your gray shadows, dearer far
    Even than all lovely lights and roses are?

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