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Writer's pictureAudrey Tokarz

Glimpses of Beauty and Pain in a Cemetery

The Protestant Cemetery was beautiful in a somber way, a strange sort of peaceful sadness. I felt a bit out of place at first, when I was following a procession of classmates on a sort of scavenger hunt for specific graves, but I was quickly able to embrace the particular ethos of this special place.

Even though I was in a place commemorating the death of so many people, the vivaciousness of the breeze, the beauty of the integrated flora, and the pervasion of so many reminders of the love shared between two people which was unfettered by the constraints of our condition of mortality.

I always cherish the opportunity to witness expressions of genuine love between two people as I make way through my day-to-day life; it’s like seeing a glimpse of God, and it is instrumental in redirecting my focus from the trivial to the life and integrity of human beings, both individually and in a community. It reminds me of the wonder of this insanely complicated world as I am able to catch a glimpse beyond the surface of these forms which constantly clutter public transportation, or restrict my freedom of movement on the sidewalk, to see a snapshot of the soul I am encountering, perhaps only once in my life, and opens my eyes to the beautiful and insane complexity and scope of the world we share.

One of the graves that struck me the most was Keats’ grave. The marker was a manifestation of what I understand as the most desolate state possible for a human being. I believe that each person, as made in the image and likeness of God, has their own gifts and talents and that, while none of us is perfect, we must recognize this basis of goodness within ourselves in order to be able to accept God’s gift of Grace. The inability of someone to recognize that they have worth is to me the epitome of despair, and to strip someone down to that low-point is simply evil. I, unfortunately, have a friend who suffers from an inability to see his worth and relies upon others to supply him with his self-image, which, for many reasons, has been incredibly difficult for me.

The post-mortem addendums to Keats’ epitaph seem to make the situation even more depressing. He was obviously surrounded by people who loved him, but he chose to listen to the hateful comments of his critics, who knew so little about him, over the words of those who knew him as he truly was as a whole human being.

This is, for the most part, why I resent self-deprecation so much, because it’s a serious struggle for some people to recognize their worth, and the cultural trend of making light of it desensitizes people to the gravity this issue.

Walking through this little oasis from the bustle of metropolitan and tourist Rome was really freeing and almost relaxing. I could let my mind and body wander within its encircling walls.

 

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